Archive of Our Own ^beta

The officially licensed All American Girls Baseball League trading cards come out the second year of the league.

Lupe’s just happy to be back, after a full break of wondering if the league would even return. Also, if they’d want her back, after all the grief she caused last season (which, unfortunately, has branded her a bit of a difficult woman. Beverly had to fight for Lupe’s return, and Lupe is thankful.)

After last season, she and Jess spent about a month in New York, blowing their salaries and ducking into all kinds of queer speakeasies, feeling like part of something for once instead of the exception. It’s the farthest Lupe has ever been from home, but she’d never felt safer, she’d never felt more seen. Whether that was the environment, or Jess beside, Lupe doesn’t know.

Okay, scratch that. She does know. Spending a month with Jess, holed up in some studio apartment where the heat was faulty at best, bumping hips in the morning as the two puttered around their small kitchen, toes peeking out of socks that had seen better days as they sat next to each other on the only couch in the room, not speaking, just existing together… it felt like a slice of heaven.

Jess eventually went back to Moosejaw. Had to help her family with the farm, still recovering from the Dust Bowl. And Lupe drifted, stayed in New York with a cross dresser in a room above a strip club. Then with a salt-and-pepper dyke who made the best coffee Lupe has ever tasted. Then by herself, and those nights were far too cold, far too lonely, especially with Jess still somewhere in her memory.

They reunite around the same time as everyone else, when women are clomping up and down the wooden stairs, claiming beds with their rucksacks before Beverly can pin the actual room designations onto the notice board.

“Jess,” Lupe says, and maybe her voice gives it all away, holding a whispiness to it that can only be adoration. But it’s just, well, she missed her.

“Hermano,” Jess grins, big teeth and all. Her eyes skim over Lupe’s face. She looks pale, but not unhealthy. Her shirtsleeves are rolled up, revealing toned arms from a — hopefully — successful harvest. Lupe is going to ask. They’ll have all season to catch up. She’s going in hopeful, ready to spend as much time as she can with the person she likes most in the world.

“Lupe!” Esti skids around the corner. Her lavender skirt billows as she moves, landing with a soft oof against Lupe’s chest, her skinny arms around Lupe’s neck.

Lupe hugs her back. She’s missed the kid, more than anyone else on the team besides Jess, she thinks. And maybe the same amount as Jess, but just in a different way. Lupe squeezes her eyes shut, mumbles a greeting in their shared tongue, and opens her eyes to see Jess watching them both curiously.

Lupe clears her throat. Moves away. “So… Room situations?”

“Same as last year for us vets,” Jess says, raising her hand in a mock salute. She frowns, and it’s almost a pout, “Which means you guys are gonna have all the fun without me.”

“Come over anytime,” Lupe says without thinking.

Esti nods, overeager, “A sleepover!”

Beverly enters the room then, and she’s got a small cardboard box in her hand. It looks like a cigarette carton, save for the color that’s an obvious peach-and-red. “Before you all go out, as I’m sure you’re likely to do–” she eyes Greta, who pretends not to notice, “The league is rolling these out this season. Trading cards for each team. This is a prototype that we are allowed to keep. I thought you girls might want to look at them.”

It’s a race for the box. Greta, the tallest, grabs it first, holds it over her head, and leads everyone to the kitchen table like little ducklings.

She takes the cards out of the box and lines them up.

It’s… Well, Lupe doesn’t know what to make of it.

There are thirty cards, one for each player and a few special editions that will (apparently) have fewer printings. They’re going to be sold with special packets of Wrigley gum, is what the box says. Jess is reading it aloud to everyone, but only Lupe is really listening.

Everyone finds their card. Most players take it, holding it like it’s the fucking holy grail or something. Maybelle sticks hers in her bra. Carson puts hers in her coat pocket, a sweet, proud smile on her face.

Lupe takes hers. It’s a black-and-white close up of her pitching. Her leg is lifted and even without color, she can see the determination on her own face. And just beneath the picture, in sensationalized font, it says Lupe García, #7, Pitcher.

Holy fuck. She turns it around, and her own stats from last season are staring back at her. And they’re good stats too, especially after she and Shaw worked their shit out. The card says she’s one of the best batters in the league on top of being a great pitcher and that’s… Lupe shivers with nerves. With excitement.

“Jess,” Maybelle tugs on her shirt, “Don’t you want to look at yours?”

Jess frowns at the one card left on the table. “Nah. I don’t really like knowing there’s pictures of me that people can just have. Better to burn it or something.”

Esti gasps. She snatches the card up for herself, “I will keep it safe until you feel better.”

Jess snorts. “Okay, kid.”

So there it is: Jess’ card, sat right beside Lupe’s on her nightstand. Esti passed it to Lupe as soon as they both turned in for the night, and Lupe isn’t sure if she wants to thank the girl or rip her own hair out, because she shouldn’t want Jess’ card. And they shouldn’t look so perfect next to each other, her pitching and Jess catching a ball mid air, her cleats not touching the ground, her skirt lifted so that Lupe can see the shorts she knows aren’t gray or black at all, but a bright cherry red.

She thinks of all the fussing Jess did when it came to the skirts. All the dirt she kicked up, like a skittish horse. Lupe hadn’t even thought to fight it — what if they kicked her out for being too difficult?

Still, Lupe really admires the tenacity Jess has. With all the other hardships in her life, Lupe finds it easier to just not put up a fight when it comes to the girly vs boyish debate the news is constantly having in regards to the league. Lupe will compromise her comfort for the comfort of others. Sure. She’s done that for all of her life.

But Jess? She doesn’t budge for anyone. Stubborn as an old mule.

Lupe has only seen her wear skirts when she genuinely needs to be saving back her money, like the one week last year that her youngest brother, back in Moosejaw, turned thirteen. Lupe remembers Jess wearing a skirt she borrowed from Terry without complaint, just so she could mail a few bucks to her brother back home. Smiled as she wrote the note; Lupe remembers the cigarette between her slightly bucked teeth. She remembers sitting with a homesick Jess on the porch.

(“First birthday I’m not there,” Jess mumbles around her cigarette. She seals the addressed envelope and sets it beside her. “Feels weird.”

“Is this your first time away from home?”

Jess blinks. The porch light casts shadows where there usually aren’t any — like beneath Jess’ lashes, and in the crook of her jaw. It makes everything about her softer, less angled. “Guess so. Wasn’t scared to leave, though.”

“‘Course you weren’t,” Lupe assures her. She’s had this theory for awhile now — that Jess is just like her. It shows up confidently in pockets like these, when it’s just the two of them, when Jess postures to Lupe like a butch might in some hidden bar. The age-old which one of us is tougher debate. And usually Lupe loves the challenge, but she finds that with Jess she doesn’t mind just sitting back and letting her show off. Something inside of Lupe doesn’t feel like fighting it. Some part of her even likes it, a little bit.

If she’s delusional enough, Lupe can imagine Jess is posturing to impress her personally. She likes the flash of pride Jess gets in her eyes. Maybe it’s because when it’s just the two of them, Lupe feels like she’s safe. Safer than she is with Doug and the rest of the team. That has to mean something.

Whatever it is, Lupe wants to keep it. She wants to hold onto it. “How many brothers do you have?”

Jess taps some ash off of her cigarette. “Six. I’m the middle kid. Also the only girl,” she starts to count on her fingers, “Jeremiah, Mark, Tim, Jessie (that’s me), Abel, Seth, and Matty.”

“Wow,” Lupe tries to imagine what Jess’ brothers look like. Probably scrawny like their sister, all long limbs and bony elbows. They’re probably similar the way blond, white families seem to be: golden hair, blue eyes, pale, freckly skin that’s splotchy red a lot of the time. “Is it weird to be the only girl?”

Jess tilts her chin towards Lupe, passes her a devil-may-care smirk. Her blue eyes look luminescent under the porch light. “I’m hardly a girl,” she says, still smiling.

Lupe just stares. Oh. To be so cocksure, to announce it like it’s something to be proud of. Like it’s something to be shared. But that’s just who Jess is, isn’t it? She’s loud and proud and authentic. She never says anything she doesn’t mean.

“Oh,” Lupe wets her mouth, trying not to seem too excited. She was right. Her and Jess are the same. “I mean, me too.”

Jess’ eyes widen just a second before they flick across Lupe’s face. Down, and then up again. Her smirk softens into something sweeter, “Thought so.”)

After the first paycheck of the league, a few of the women go out shopping.

Esti pulls Lupe to more than a few dress shops, which is uncomfortable for many reasons, and most of that being that the shopkeepers seem almost desperate to put her in their dresses. One of the shopkeepers says as much, “A Rockford Peach wearing my dress will have all of America at my door,” but she’s otherwise kind, and her eyes sparkle when she looks at Lupe, so Lupe does her best to seem like she’s interested.

It helps that Esti is so excited, happy to try on dress after dress and let the shopkeepers dote on her.

They go to an antique shop next. And Esti looks at all the jewelry in the glass cases. The shopkeeper, an old man, eyes them both suspiciously, and Lupe resists the urge to roll her eyes. She keeps close to Esti, making sure the shopkeeper sees that she’s not scared of a damn thing.

“Look, Lupe!” Esti points to a silver heart shaped locket in the case. “Like yours!”

Lupe reaches subconsciously for the tarnished locket beneath her shirt. She wonders when Esti noticed it, because she thought she hid it well; thought only her Guadalupe medallion was visible.

Then again, she thought she’d hid it well before, too.

(“What’s this?” The locket had escaped her shirt, after messing around with someone in The Office’s bathroom. She’d unbuttoned and buttoned herself back up. She’d made her way back to her and Jess’ table with a satisfied smile on her face and a hidden hickey on her bicep.

She and Jess have been spending every free night sneaking out to The Office. It’s been nice, just to sit with Jess, unafraid of the rest of the team and how they feel about her. She’s even been able to open up to Jess about Esti, about how frustrating she is sometimes. Jess is nice because she listens and she doesn’t make Lupe feel like she’s crazy, or a total bitch, or even irrational. She’s the only person on the team who seems to care about what Lupe has to say. It’s strange. But in a good way.

Jess is staring at something on her chest. She reaches out, no tact, and her fingers bump against the plane of Lupe’s chest. “A locket?”

“What?” Lupe glances down and freezes. “Shit. Uh, yeah.”

“Why so cagey, brother?” Jess looks confused, her brows bunched together. She looks almost… sad? Betrayed? Lupe can’t tell. Maybe she’s projecting.

“Sorry,” she says. “It’s just personal.”

“What, you think I’m just gonna force it open?” And Lupe can see that Jess does look hurt. “I get it, man. I just didn’t know you had a sweetheart back home. You’re always… going out with me.”

Lupe takes a sip of her beer. She’s a little drunk, she’s a little delirious from the orgasm she just got in the bathroom, she’s a little startled at the way she can read all the emotions across Jess’ face. She’s definitely upset about something. Maybe because she thinks Lupe lied to her. Or maybe because she thinks Lupe is running around on some nice girl back home. Which obviously isn’t true.

“It’s not a woman,” Lupe says. “It’s…” She sighs, pulls her locket over her head and hands it over to Jess. “You might think differently of me. I might not be… I might not be your brother anymore.”

Jess gives her another strange look; this one less decipherable. She uses her fingers — Lupe looks at her bitten-down nails and picked-at cuticles — to pry the rusted thing open.

There’s a picture of a baby inside.

“It’s the only picture of her that I have,” Lupe says before she loses her nerve. Might as well tell her everything, right? “My parents took her from me, gave her to a couple at the church. I was too young; I couldn’t fight for her. But on my sixteenth birthday, the parents mailed me this locket with her picture in it. It’s the only thing they’ve ever sent me. A peace offering of some sort, I guess.”

Jess stares at the baby. Lupe can’t read her face anymore. It unnerves her. “She’s yours?”

“Yes,” Lupe whispers. She scratches her chest. Without the weight of the locket she feels vulnerable, almost naked. “So… you know…”

Jess glances around the bar. For once, no one is bothering them, pestering them about the league and the players and the possible queerness throughout. It’s just the two of them. Jess raises a brow at Lupe. The oil lamp flame reflects in her blue eyes, “I know what?”

Lupe feels shame churn in her stomach. “That I’ve been with a man.” >I didn’t have a choice, she thinks of saying. Well, I had a choice but I chose wrongly. No, actually, I consciously had sex with him because he told me it would fix me after finding out my secret. I did it. I chose it. It’s the bed I made and I’ll lie in it forever.

“Why the fuck would I care about that?” Jess asks. Her voice is less grainy than usual — there’s a softness there. A sudden, welcome softness.

Lupe curls in on herself. She reaches for Jess’ hands and closes the locket. It’s hard to open it anymore. She prefers it closed. “Some people do.”

“I don’t,” Jess says. She dips her head down so that Lupe is forced to meet her eyes, “You understand? I don’t. No one should.”

Lupe feels that the burning fire within her wants to lash out, argue back, insist that Jess should care. That she should question Lupe’s right to be in this bar. That she should question Lupe’s right to be a good person who makes good decisions, who–

“You were younger than Esti,” Jess whispers. She sounds horrified. She traces the engraving on Lupe’s heart. Small swirls and patterns. Parts are rusted in the indents. “You wouldn’t judge Esti for something like this, would you?”

Lupe tries to imagine anyone taking advantage of Esti, and it breaks her heart. For some reason she remembers herself as older. >I knew what I was getting into. Esti wouldn’t. We’re not the same. “No,” she mumbles.

“So don’t judge yourself, please,” Jess says. She lays the chain over Lupe’s head, watches the heart pendant fall back to the hollow of Lupe’s chest.

“It’s a secret,” Lupe tucks the locket underneath her shirt. “All of it.”

“Even so, you should tell Esti,” Jess says. “It’d help her understand why it’s… difficult for you.”

Lupe promises Jess she’ll think about it.)

“Are you going to get it?” Lupe asks.

Esti is happy to hand over her cash to the man — after a bit of haggling, courtesy of Lupe — and she asks Lupe to clasp the necklace for her. “I can’t wait to show Jess.”

“She’ll love it,” Lupe assures her.

Another box of trading cards comes in a quarter of the way through the second season. It’s another box of prototypes, these are second editions that would come out later, if the first editions sold well. Most of these are batting pictures. Lupe is pretty proud of her form.

Esti asks for hers and Jess’ cards. Jess gives hers away willingly again, and Lupe hands hers over a bit reluctantly, because she sort of wants to keep hers.

She doesn’t think about it for a few days.

Until she walks into her and Esti’s room to find Esti struggling with a pair of sewing scissors. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Esti mumbles. She’s pouting, so clearly something is happening, even if she’s embarrassed to say.

Lupe sits on the bed with her and finally sees what else Esti has laid before her: the two cards she took, and her locket. “Are you trying to put them in?”

“Sí.”

“Why?”

Esti rolls her eyes. “I showed Jess my locket. She said I have to put important people in it.”

“Don’t you want to wait to get a picture of your parents or–”

“No,” Esti says simply. “Now leave me alone.”

“Fine.” Lupe doesn’t have much to complain about, so she climbs into her bed and tucks herself in, sitting up just slightly so she can watch Esti work under the lamplight glow.

The sewing scissors are the only pair in the house. Lupe remembers because it’s the same pair she used to cut her own picture out of the newspaper last year.

(Maybelle wins the card game. She packs up her chips and stands, tells Esti she’ll be listening to a radio show if she wants to listen in. So Esti follows her into the house, but not without a frustrated look towards Lupe.

“What’s that about?” Jess mumbles. Her voice is muffled because of the cigarette hanging between her teeth. Lupe wonders if she even likes smoking them or if she just likes chewing on them. Waste of money, if so. She could just get a toothpick.

“What?”

“You and Esti,” Jess frowns. She deals the cards again. Just her and Lupe this time. “Just because you’re speaking Spanish doesn’t mean I can’t tell that you’re arguing.”

“She won’t mind her own business,” Lupe says, “and she’s worried about my arm.”

Jess looks at her, unimpressed. Blankly, she states, “What’s wrong with that?”

“Um, because I have it under control?” Lupe feels fear like fire rushing through her veins. Pounding in her ears. If people think she can’t nurse an injury, if people think she can’t grin and bear it, she’ll be sent back to Mexico as quickly as she got here. And she doesn’t fucking want that. She’s made it this far. She’s the closest to freedom she’s ever been.

“Dove’s a piece of shit,” Jess says. She has a growl to her voice that startles Lupe. “Remember the tryouts? The way you pitched? God… I think I thought about your fastball for weeks. Couldn’t wait to bat with you. And then, first day of practice, you’re told to use his stupid forkball? The one that didn’t even work when he was in the league? It’s shit. It’s like he’s sabotaging you on purpose. Probably saw you at the tryouts and got jealous. He fucking wishes he could pitch like you.”

Lupe is… at a loss for words. No one’s given her this perspective. She’s got Dove in her ear and Carson in her ear and Greta in her ear, all berating her for different reasons. But Jess is— well it seems like Jess is defending her. Praising her, almost. But that’s– There’s no way that’s what’s happening right now.

“Esti isn’t stupid,” Jess continues. “She sees it too. She doesn’t like it. She wants you to be part of the team.”

“Yeah, well…” Really, what can Lupe say to that? Should she bring up the fact that everyone in the team obviously goes somewhere without her, including Jess? That if anyone is making her not part of the team, it’s them? That Dove may be tough but at least he seems to care about Lupe’s future? Jess doesn’t seem to think so, but Jess doesn’t get it.

Lupe has to play. If she can’t play, she’s not useful to anyone, and then they’ll kick her out, and then she’ll be on her own, because she ran away from her parents and there’s no way they want to see her face again.

Even if she’s sending them an article that stars her… They’ll probably send it back like the last one: a return stamp and an unopened envelope.

Lupe frowns at her hand. “I fold.”

“You can’t fold in a two-player game,” Jess says.

“Why not?”

“And you can’t change the subject in a two-player conversation,” Jess smarts. Smoke billows around her. She’s the only other player who smokes the same packs as Lupe. That menthol smell… it’s theirs. Even in the bar, she’s only ever smelt it on herself and Jess. The girls they get with don’t seem to get it on them. It’s like the smell was made specifically for them; it’s theirs alone.

“I’m not changing the subject,” Lupe argues weakly.

“I miss playing with you,” Jess says. “I know we go out together, and we talk here at the house, but when we’re out on the field, it’s like you’re a million miles away. It’s like you’re not even there. I miss you.”

Lupe wishes she had better words to say. She wishes she could trust her teammates. But some of them won’t even look her in the eye. She’s scared that she’ll never be part of it. That she’ll never be accepted. That it’ll be home all over again, and school all over again, and America all over again, just place after place where she doesn’t belong. Which would prove once and for all that it’s not the places that are the problem, it’s just Lupe.

Her nerve pinches. The pain makes her stiffen, but she tries to ride out the flare, tries not to feel every slash inside of her, like sewing scissors to every tendon and sinew. “Fuck,” she whimpers. Hot tears build up behind her eyes and she looks away. She doesn’t want to give Jess reasons to give up on her. If Jess is the last one who cares, Lupe doesn’t want to be weak. Esti is already frustrated with her. Jess, by the look of her frown and pinched brows, is frustrated with her too.

“I’m trying,” she says. Her voice is pitiful, watery and far too obvious against the still, quiet night. “Jess, you have to trust that I’m trying.”

Jess grinds the butt of her cigarette into the table. “I read your newspaper article.”

Lupe sniffs. “Now who’s changing the subject?”

“Just take the olive branch,” Jess gripes.

Lupe is thankful for her. She takes the olive branch, holds on for dear life, “Pretty shit, huh? I’m not even from Texas. Doug just made that up.”

“Why?”

“They don’t want girls from Mexico,” Lupe mumbles. She wishes she had a smoke. It’s embarrassing to point out this kind of stuff to people. Jess would never have to worry about someone trying to change her very upbringing just so she’d be more palatable to customers. Her blond hair and blue eyes make her practically royalty, here and everywhere else. She wouldn’t get it.

Jess is still frowning, but she doesn’t say anything. She takes their cards and starts to shuffle them.

Lupe thinks Jess might be getting ready to leave. Like maybe Lupe said too much, like maybe she complained too much. She knows not to talk about it.

Then, “What were the softball leagues like in Mexico?” Jess asks. She pockets the cards completely, clasps her hands together, and leans over the table, like she genuinely wants to know.

Lupe feels nervous under her gaze. “We were pretty good, actually,” she says. “Both men and women on our team. It was just a local thing. Nothing crazy. Nothing official. I’m not even sure how the League scout found me.”

“Half of my team was just me and my brothers,” Jess says. “In a field behind the mennonite church.”

“Are you mennonite?”

“Nah,” Jess smirks at Lupe, “I like pants too much.”

Lupe smiles back.)

It takes awhile to find another bar. The Office moved states, Lupe knows from word of mouth. Eventually an outfielder from the Comets gives Carson an address of a new place, and she passes it along to Lupe.

It’s a dyke bar. Lupe and Jess walk in as seasoned players, but they’ve been out of practice for a while. The anxiety is fresh.

Lupe glances at the groups of women. Tall, elegant femmes in their best dresses. Lanky, shy butches with boots that clunk on the hollow dance floor. Short, sporty dykes in pants and pressed blouses. Fat, confident studs with leather belts around their waists. A myriad of women in between. A few look their way.

Jess clears her throat, “Should we get beers first?”

“Yes,” Lupe follows her to the bar.

It’s… weird. It’s not like their first time at the bar. Their first time, and every time after that, Jess and Lupe have gotten with women. That was always the goal: to be around queers, to have sex with queers, to feel safe enough to do so.

They’d sit together, but ultimately end up apart.

For some reason, this time, neither of them get up from the table. Neither of them so much as look at another woman.

What are we doing? Lupe wants to ask. Is she going crazy? Has it always been like this?

(“You sure this is the place?” Lupe follows Jess into a small, fluorescently lighted office. There’s a balding man sitting behind a desk.

He glances up at them. “Here to file your taxes?”

Jess snorts. “Inconspicuous question for—” she checks her watch— “quarter t’ midnight.”

The man blushes pink. “Friends of Dorothy, then?”

“Yeah,” Jess says.

“Who the fuck is Dorothy?” Lupe whispers.

“Just come on,” Jess grabs Lupe’s hand.

And. It’s. Well.

It’s unexpected, that’s all. Lupe lets Jess lead her, like a lost fucking sheep, into the fold that is the hidden gay bar in the middle of Rockford. Which sure is… something… to walk in hand in hand, because they’re ultimately here to pick up women, and Lupe wonders why Jess isn’t thinking about the way this might look.

Jess leading her in, Jess pulling out a chair for her, Jess going to the bar to get drinks, Jess coming back to light Lupe’s cigarette for her.

It looks like Jess is staking her claim on Lupe.

Lupe should tell her to knock it off. She’s good at that. Sometimes she’ll be flirting with a woman and the woman will get territorial when they’re all just supposed to be having fun. Lupe has never shied away from clearing up a situation. She’s always left herself notably open for anyone and everyone to take a piece of.

This is who she is. Her ability to flow like water, to please women when they ask, to walk away when they decline. To leave herself open but not vulnerable, to have sex but never make love, to be a warm body but not a beating heart. It works for everyone, because no one actually wants to keep Lupe around in the morning. And that’s fine, it makes everything easier, and probably safer, and Lupe knows not to go wanting impossible things. She’s not stupid.

It’s just…

She’s usually the one who opens the doors, and pulls out the chairs, and orders the drinks. She’s usually the one who leads the conversation and makes excuses for fleeting touches and charms women into keeping her around for an hour or two. She borrows time like an old library book, ruminates over the minutes, traces her fingers down the fraying spine. She takes whatever she can get, and when she has to give it back — the time — it’s not long before she returns to borrow more.

That’s what she’s used to. That’s the dynamic she has with women. Fleeting and impersonal and a little sacrificial, but less in a martyr kind of way and more in a I-have-nothing-else-to-offer way. A desperate attempt to hold on to a connection. It’s expected of her, so she does it, that kind of thing. It’s not bad or awful or even unwanted, it’s just… expected.

But here’s Jess, doing all of those things for Lupe, like it’s easy, like Lupe is some kind of girl, the kind that needs to be courted and treated with tough but capable hands, the kind that–

God, what is she thinking? It’s just natural, probably. This is the way Jess treats everyone. Not just Lupe. Lupe is not an exception. She’s never an exception. Obviously. Fuck.

A woman comes up to their table and starts to chat Jess up. After a few minutes, another woman introduces herself to Lupe.

They both walk home with goofy smiles on their faces.

When they get back to the house, Jess holds the door open for Lupe.)

Jess is next to her, arm around her shoulder, and Lupe feels on top of the world.

This is better than a femme feeling up her arm muscles or kissing her neck. This is solid. This is different. This is Jess’ laugh right up against her ear. This is Jess squeezing her shoulder whenever she says something funny, so Lupe tries to be a comedian for the night.

She’s making a total fool of herself, grasping at topics to hold them here. They’re borrowing time again, always watching the clock, because they’ll need to get home before it seems suspicious. They’ll have to break out of this bubble soon. Lupe’s holding on as tight as she can.

“You’re tense,” Jess says. Her arm rests on the line of Lupe’s shoulders. “Stop worrying.”

“Sorry,” Lupe tries to loosen her muscles. “Sorry, this is just–”

“What did you do when I left New York?” Jess asks abruptly. Blurts it, actually, like she’s been waiting for a chance to ask.

Lupe frowns, trying to remember. Because mostly she just missed Jess, wondered how she was doing, and mourned the fact that she didn’t have a number to call. Mostly, she waited around to see if the League would start back up again, to see if she’d see Jess again. Mostly, she saved money for a train ticket, just in case the League disappeared. Just in case she needed to go find Jess herself.

How can she say that? How can she tell Jess that New York was nothing without her? That Lupe is a miserable shell when Jess leaves? That all the best parts of Lupe are connected to all the best parts of Jess; that they only come out when they’re together. That New York in all its splendor is fucking boring without her best friend?

She picks at the corner of her beer bottle’s label. “The truth?”

Jess blinks. Her eyelashes are light blonde. She looks so pretty sometimes. Not that she’d ever let Lupe say that. Lupe holds the sentiment in her heart, and has a hard time looking away. Jess nods. Her voice is low, pleading, when she answers. “Please, Lu.”

Nothing to lose. They’re on borrowed time anyway. “I missed you. The city is boring as shit without your stupid commentary.” And your arm linked through mine. And the way we could giggle well into the night. And the way you shouted at those men that one time when they called us cruel things. And the way you held me a little tighter after that whenever you hugged me goodbye, like there was something to miss. Like I was something to miss. Like I belonged with you and you belonged with me.

Jess stares. They’re too close. Jess smells like menthol and the mint she chewed on the way over.

Lupe wonders if the world would end if they kissed. Just once. Just to see if they’d fit.

Part of her knows they would. The rest of her is too afraid to confirm.

Lupe holds the trading card in her hands.

Jess’ visage is looking back at her. The black and white grain doesn’t capture the wispy blond hairs that usually fall out of her braid during the games, or the bright twinkle she gets in her baby blues once the game really gets going.

Lupe sighs. She might be the most pathetic person to have ever existed.

Because what she’s about to do is not only weird, but it’s just plain ridiculous. No adult in their right mind would think that this is a normal choice of action.

Still, Lupe takes the sewing scissors. Carefully, she cuts a heart around Jess’ head. She takes off her locket, fits the heart into the empty side.

And. Well, it’s embarrassing how much Lupe likes it. Jess in her heart. Jess close to her. Jess safe, and loved, and right in the palm of her hand.

Muy patética.

Lupe hides what remains of the card in her nightstand, along with the scissors, and heads down the stairs for dinner.

Everyone is eating in the dining room or filling their plates in the kitchen. Lupe fills hers quietly, and is pleased to see that Jess has held a seat for her, her long, freckled arm draped over the back of it. She doesn’t move it when Lupe sits down. She just curls it in to accommodate.

Lupe feels the brush of Jess’ fingers on her shoulder. It’s hard to eat like this. It’s hard to be touched by Jess and not melt into herself. She wants to hold her own. She wants to be tough, and stoic, and chill, but it’s hard.

Maybelle is telling some kind of story. She mentions New York, and then points her fork at Jess and Lupe. “You guys were in the city too, weren’t ya? I only went for a week. What was it like to live there?”

Jess answers, calm and not at all honest, makes up some small, unimportant story about an alley cat they nursed back to health (absolutely did not happen), a fighting couple that lived above them (incredibly false), and a landlord that Lupe punched for trying to overcharge them rent (okay, that one is sort of true. Except it wasn’t a landlord and Lupe took just as well as she gave.)

(“What the fuck was that?” Jess stares at Lupe.

Lupe touches her lip. It’s wet, and there’s blood on her fingers when she pulls back. The world smells like copper, like metal, like the kitchen after she rinses the silverware under too-hot water. “I don’t know.”

“You just… wailed on him.” Jess doesn’t look upset, which is good. But she doesn’t look happy, either. Her eyes are trailing across Lupe’s face, her mouth agape and eyes wide, “Why?”

Lupe shrugs. She doesn’t want to talk about it. She’s pretty sure Jess didn’t even hear the words he said. Ugh. Jess probably thinks she’s a monster or something. But God, could she even say it? How could she tell Jess what the man said? What if Jess agreed with him?

She wipes her face with the back of her hand. It burns. She winces.

“Get in the bathroom,” Jess says, “I’ll clean you up.”

Lupe walks into their shared washroom like a dog with its tail between its legs. She’s ready for a scolding. For as intimidating as Jess is, she’s not an instigator. She’s not even — really — a fighter, unless she absolutely has to be. She’s scrappy, but she keeps her hands to herself most of the time. It seems the only time she’s ever fought was last year when Lupe tackled Carson to the ground. Lupe doesn’t even know why Jess put herself in the mix, but she remembers Jess’ black eye, and the frown on her face.

She’s probably so disappointed in Lupe.

Lupe sits on the lip of the claw foot tub. The bathroom pipes are exposed, the walls are brick, the mirror has a crack in the corner.

Jess walks in with a first aid kit. They’ve never used it before — bought it just because they could, and because it reminded them of Shirley. She takes out an alcohol wipe, says, “Don’t be a baby,” and presses it to Lupe’s lip.

Lupe flinches at the sting. Jess cups the back of her head and holds her still.

For some probably fucked up reason, Lupe is turned on by the way Jess is holding her. Not exactly gentle, but steady, which is its own sort of gentleness, Lupe supposes.

“Breathe,” Jess chuckles low. She pulls off the wipe and grabs another one. She cleans up where the blood has smeared — Lupe’s chin and a bit of her cheek. Then she takes Lupe hand and begins to scrub there too — Lupe’s knuckles and in between her fingers. She’s slow with it, when Lupe knows she could be fast. She could be brash and uncaring but she’s Jess, so she’s gentle and kind and it all feels so intimate that Lupe wants to cry about it, she thinks.

“Can't believe he hit you back,” She says. She’s wiping dried blood out from under Lupe’s nails. “Seriously, what did he say to you?”

Lupe tries to memorize the feeling of Jess’ touch. Just in case she takes it away forever. “He called us fag dykes,” she says.

Jess looks nonplussed. “So? We get called dykes all the time.”

Lupe blinks. Her throat burns with words she can’t say. “Fag dykes,” she presses, “Like the idea– like us together– as if it’s a sin on top of a sin– like we’re not just fags or just dykes. We’re both. And– and– he said it like it was something awful. Like the idea–”

Like you and me are something awful. Like it’s so obvious to the rest of the world that we could never be together. That two butches aren’t supposed to look at each other like this. Like I look at you. And what if you realize that I am a fag dyke? That I want you in the same way I want those femmes in the bars? Maybe I want you in a different way. Maybe I want you in a way I’ve never wanted anyone before.

“García,” Jess mumbles. She pinches Lupe’s chin, tilts her head up so that they have to meet each other’s eyes, “You’re too soft.”

“‘M not,” Lupe says. Her face burns. Her chest aches. She wants to wrap her arms around Jess and never let her go.

“Don’t worry about what some asshole says. Who cares?”

>I do. I care. Because he’s right. Because he’s right and I want you. I want you, I want you, I want–

“Just cause someone says something doesn’t make it real,” Jess whispers.

But that’s just it, isn’t it? Lupe wants it to be real so badly. Of course Jess doesn’t. Of course they’re brothers and nothing more. Of course Lupe is too soft.

Jess packs up the first aid kit. And a week later, she packs her bags.)

Lupe isn’t even paying attention when it happens.

She’s sitting on the sofa, watching Jess try to mend her uniform after a pretty unfortunate tear in her skirt. She’s got a bolt of fabric Beverly keeps in the house specifically for mending uniforms — it’s the same exact peach color. Jess is using a pocket knife to try and saw a square of fabric off.

They’ve got an away game tomorrow. Jess has procrastinated this and stubbornly, has refused to ask for help, so now she’s struggling, and Lupe is watching, wondering if Jess will put her pride away and just ask.

The fabric tears. Jess curses. “Lupe,” she sighs, “Can you help me?”

Lupe chuckles, “Thirty full minutes, Hermano. Could be a record.”

“Shut up.”

“Go get the sewing scissors,” Lupe orders, laughing. She takes the bolt of fabric from Jess and sets it in her lap while Jess bounds up the stairs.

She hears Jess call down, “Where the hell are they?”

“My nightstand!” Lupe yells back. And then. It takes two seconds for her to remember what else is in her nightstand. “Wait!”

The bolt of fabric rolls off of her lap as she stands. She takes the stairs two at a time, “Wait, Jess, don’t open–”

Jess is standing beside Lupe’s bed, holding her own trading card. The heart shape cut out of it is so incriminating that it might as well be Lupe’s own organ, beating and bleeding on the floorboards.

This is shame, she thinks. This is fear. This is when it all comes to a head, when Jess realizes that that man in New York was right, and Lupe is just a–

Jess furrows her brows. “Lupe? You okay?”

Lupe nods. It feels jerky, like her head is disconnected from her neck. “It’s not– It’s not what it looks like.”

Jess sighs. She drops the mutilated card onto Lupe’s bed. She walks over, steady and purposeful, “Well, can I see it?”

Lupe doesn’t answer. She thinks about stepping back, except nothing could make her step away from a Jess who is so willing to get close to her. Even if she’s bracing for a fight.

Jess reaches out. Her fingertips spark against Lupe’s collarbone. She takes the chain, pulls the locket from beneath Lupe’s shirt. She’s so close that Lupe can feel every warm breath she takes. She can see the soft blond hairs on Jess’ chin. She can see the freckle on her neck. Her heart aches with want.

Jess opens the locket. Her breath hitches. “It’s me,” she says, sounding awestruck.

Lupe’s own breath shudders on its way up her throat. She wants to be brave. She wants to be loved. “It’s always been you.”

Jess moves forward. Her hands don’t move, still clutching the open locket, but her lips–

She kisses Lupe, and it’s so gentle. It’s nothing like the punch at the bar, it’s nothing rough or harsh or mean the way the glares and the shoves and the muttered insults can be.

This is warm, this is heaven, this is the soft underbelly that Lupe has been trying to find this whole time. Jess hums, moves her hand to cup the back of Lupe’s neck, draws her closer, and Lupe wonders if Jess has ever wanted to kiss her before, maybe during a card game or maybe in their bathroom or maybe in front of everyone at the bar.

“I thought you didn’t want me,” Jess says, her eyes watery when Lupe checks.

“What?” Lupe is quick to comfort her, using her thumbs to wipe the tears away. God, she wishes she didn’t have so many callouses. She wishes she could be a soft place for Jess to land. “Why would you think that?”

“In New York,” Jess says, “You told me you weren’t interested. Remember? You punched that guy for insinuating that we were together.”

“You think that’s why I punched him?” Lupe moves back. She keeps her hands on Jess’ face, “Jess, no, I punched him to shut him up. I did it because I was scared you would hear, and you wouldn’t want me. I thought I might scare you away.”

“You don’t scare me,” Jess says seriously. “I wanted to take you to Moosejaw with me. I didn’t want to leave.”

“I wanted to go with you,” Lupe closes her eyes when Jess leans over to give her forehead a kiss. She wants this moment fossilized in stone. Two fagdykes, gentle and warm and loved. Circa 1944. “I was too scared to ask.”

“Come with me after this season, then,” Jess says. “We won’t make the mistake again. You can stay in my room.”

“Okay,” Lupe whispers. “I want that.”

Jess traces Lupe’s open heart. The tarnished brass is turning green. She needs to clean it soon. “You know, Esti is gonna be so pissed if she finds out she’s not in here.”

Lupe laughs.