Hard Choices
Bay hadn’t planned on going out. She was wearing her “leave me alone” hoodie (complete with one mysterious bleach stain), leggings that had seen better years, and shoes that might have technically been slippers.
She just needed oat milk. That’s it. A quick, quiet, deeply introverted mission to the local co-op.
And then—bam.
There was Jane. In the produce section. In jeans and a soft gray T-shirt and a messy ponytail, holding an avocado like she was auditioning for a queer cooking show called Domestic and Dangerous.
Bay froze, clutching her oat milk like a life preserver.
Jane spotted her and lit up. “Hey!”
Bay’s brain: Run.
Bay’s mouth: “Oh hi hello yes fruits!”
Jane laughed. “That’s a sentence.”
“I meant—fruit. You. No—fruit that you are holding. You’re holding fruit.”
“Technically a large berry,” Jane said, gently placing the avocado in her basket. “Want to walk with me?”
Bay blinked. “Like... walk walk?”
“Yeah. It’s nice out. You look like you need air.”
She did. But she didn’t know if she needed Jane-shaped air.
Still, her feet moved anyway.
They ended up strolling through the park next to the co-op, sipping iced drinks and talking about nothing and everything. Jane kicked off her shoes and walked barefoot in the grass. Bay trailed behind, resisting the urge to narrate her gay spiral out loud.
Jane suddenly turned to her. “You ever think about how different life was, like, five years ago?”
Bay snorted. “Five years ago I didn’t even know how to properly flirt with women. I thought ‘gay panic’ was just a meme. Now I live there.”
Jane smiled, a little sad. “You’ve changed a lot. In a good way.”
Bay shrugged, looking at the grass. “I’m still figuring it out.”
“You’re allowed,” Jane said, and gently bumped her shoulder. “I’m still figuring it out, too.”
It was the way she said it—soft, sincere, like she wasn’t just talking about queer identity or career stuff. Like she was talking about Bay. About them.
Bay swallowed hard. “You always this emotionally available outside the office?”
Jane grinned. “Only when I’m barefoot.”
Bay stared at her—completely, utterly unprepared for this version of Jane. Casual. Warm. Dangerous.
And then Jane did something that short-circuited Bay’s entire nervous system.
She reached over and tucked Bay’s hair behind her ear.
Just like Kylee used to.
Just like Bay had dreamed someone would, when she felt like she deserved it.
Bay forgot how to breathe.
Jane’s voice was barely above a whisper. “You okay?”
Bay laughed softly, trying to play it off. “I think I need to lie down. On the grass. Forever.”
Jane smiled and lay down beside her.
Bay blinked at the sky. “Okay, well. This is happening.”
Jane: “It’s nice. Isn’t it?”
It was. And terrifying. And perfect. And not what Bay had prepared for when she left the house in a hoodie and half-functioning shoes.
She was in so much trouble.