Gemma's POV

WITH THE bop of my hip, I flick my paintbrush against the white canvas in front of me. I went to an art supply store, and picked up a few things. Now, I'm moving my paintbrush to the beat of the music in my ears, while something very abstract appears in front of me.

Veronica's been busy with paperwork, while stressing about someone who made a reservation for four rooms for tonight, and now wants a refund. It's all a part of business, but now she has four empty rooms that could have been filled already.

Veronica taps my shoulder, and pulls an earbud from my ear, "is this my headphone?"

"Yeah, you mind?"

Veronica kisses my lips, and pulls the other side out of my ear, "yes, because I need them," she unplugs the cord from my phone, and swings the headphones around her neck, "I'll be cleaning upstairs in case you need me."

I watch her walk away. That woman has a sexy walk. I look at my unfinished creation, and decide to continue without any music. I'll just sing in my head.

By the time, my hands are going numb, and I'm in dire need to pee, I've got a weird looking painting in front of me. I place the brush down, stretch my arms, and head to the bathroom to relieve myself.

After, I walk into the kitchen to get myself something to drink. You know, replenishing what I discarded. The doorbell rings, and usually no one uses it, so it's either a new guest, or some stranger looking for directions.

I decide to answer the door, since Veronica's upstairs, "Gemma, hey," Jack's standing in front of me with his mother beside him. What are they doing here? "Can we come in?"

I'd like to refuse. But I can't bring myself to be rude, "sure," I let them walk in. And I lead them into the living room. That's what you do, right? Take someone to the living room to talk? "I'll get you two something to drink."

I head into the kitchen to find a bottle of wine. I need something to take the edge off. Jack follows me, "Gemma, I need to ask you a favor, "his voice is low, as though he doesn't want anyone else but me to hear him.

"Um, depends on what it is," I say.

"I know that my mom has put you through a lot, and..." he sighs, "she's not the easiest person to deal with."

"Yeah?" I pour myself a glass of wine, while listening to him.

"But she's just emotionally retarded," Jack mutters, "she feels guilty, and I think it would be good if you two could forgive each other."

"That's what you two came here for? Forgiveness?" I huff out a breath. God, save me.

"More like letting go of the shitty stuff, and maybe being friends?" He has a nervous look on his face. I'd be nervous too, coming here and telling me that I should forgive someone who has time and time again given me reason to never talk to them again.

"I can't be friends with her. We have nothing in common. I was only her friend back then, because..." it almost slips out of my mouth so easily.

"I know about you two. She finally told me."

"You know?" I raise a brow, "whatever, I don't care what you know. I don't want to be a part of your problems, Jack."

"I'm not asking you to," he places the palm of his hand against his forehead and sighs, "you two have been holding onto the past for long enough. It's time to—"

"Dude," I lift my hand and walk into the living room, towards Sabrina, "what have you told him?" I ask her, so that I can respond without having to hold anything back.

I have no problems with being the one to end up telling Jack the truth about us. But I'm also not a malicious person.

Sabrina says, "everything. He knows everything. Gemma, I just want to apologize..."

"Okay, so I can be very clear about what I'm going to say. I forgave you a long time ago, Sabrina. I mean I still kinda resent you. There's no changing that. But all that stuff from years ago, don't worry about it. Now, if you're here to try to win Veronica over, you've got another thing coming."

"I'm not here for that. I know that you and her are together. I want to apologize for hurting you again, on purpose," she mumbles the last part.

"Why though? Why are you apologizing?" I sit down across from her, "you're not dying are you? Is this like a ten step program or something? Where you have to make amends?"

Sabrina cracks a smile, "something like that. I'm trying to be a better person—a person who deserves to be loved."

"I don't love you, if that's what you're trying to ask."

"Oh, I know. You've made that clear numerous times. I'm asking for your forgiveness so that we can both move on with our lives."

I sigh. Veronica walks into the room, and looks at Jack then at Sabrina, "oh, hey," she then looks at me, "is everything okay?"

I nod, "yeah. Sabrina's trying to make amends. Can you find it in your heart to forgive her?"

Veronica looks confused, "are you being sarcastic or—"

Sabrina says, "I'm trying to apologize to Gemma about all the things that I've done to hurt her."

"Oh," Veronica lets out a deep breath, "that has nothing to do with me then. I'll be anywhere but here."

I reach for Veronica's hand, "wait," I say, "as uncomfortable as this is, I can't hate you for sleeping with Veronica," I tell Sabrina, "as much as I want to. It was consensual sex, and as much as it makes my skin crawl, I can let that go."

"You had sex with her?" Jack asks his mom. He seems shocked. Well, I guess that he didn't know everything.

"I can explain," Sabrina says.

"Wow, yeah I'd kinda hate you too," Jack laughs.

"It was before Gemma and Veronica started dating. Clearly, it was a mistake that we never have to speak of again."

"Fine by me," I say. Veronica glares at me—the I don't want to be here glare.

"I really am sorry, Gemma. I hope you can forgive me someday," Sabrina stands and looks at Jack, "let's go."

Jack says, "and if you two have any single friends, my mom's bisexual," he mentions as they walk to the door.

"Jack!" Sabrina scolds him. Wow, she really told him the truth it seems. She probably left out the details, but I'm surprised, to say the least. Maybe she can change and be a better person. I'd need to see it to believe it. She's always been a good person. I can't deny that. But for her to be a good girlfriend... well, that might be a whole other story. I would subscribe to that channel.

Veronica's POV

WATCHING GEMMA stand beside Gerald in front of the grille isn't a disaster like I planned in my head. They seem to be getting along. God, if she can get him to give me even better cuts of meat... that's wrong of me to hope for. I swear I can be a narcissist.

This house seems to have everything, yet nothing within it. I take a walk around the halls, finding either cluttered rooms or empty spaces where something should be. This is definitely a house, but not a home. I bump into Audrey, as I walk down the stairs. She seems taken aback—lost in reminiscing.

"Hey, has this place always felt this empty?" I ask.

Audrey looks at me, taken out of her thoughts, "huh? You said something?"

I smile politely. There must be so many memories here for her. This is the house that Gemma grew up in. Gemma has told me about the little adventures of her and her best friend. The eyeliner phase is one of my favorite stories—where they were obsessed with looking like a punk rock band.

"Does the house feel empty, or is it just me?" I repeat.

Audrey answers, "no one lives here. And I saw some cobwebs over there," she points.

"That's not what I mean. Nevermind," I shake my head.

"I get what you're saying. Empty," Audrey pops her lips, "I'd spend nights here just to get away from my overbearing parents. Then I'd be more than happy to go home the next day. Being here reminded me of what I had waiting for me at home... what Gemma never had, not since her parents died. And she can't even remember that time."

I sit on a stair, and Audrey comes beside me, "she really wants the real deal, doesn't she?" I ask.

"If you mean having a family, yes. It's all she's wanted, ever," Audrey leans forward with her hands clasped, "Gemma's the most emotional person, but she can be very closed off. If she opens up to you, really opens up to you, it means that you better be willing to be the real deal, or you should let her go."

"I don't think I'm good enough for—"

"Don't say that. I've seen the way she looks at you. If no one else thinks so, Gemma does."

Commitment. It's either take it or leave it. And I can't help but feel afraid about taking that plunge. What if I screw up? What if I end up hurting her?

"Do you think I'm good for her?" I ask, sincerely needing an answer, something to grip me, and remind me that I can do this.

"That's for you to figure out. I'm just an unlicensed, unpaid therapist."

I manage to crack a laugh between my serious thinking, "thanks."

"We're friends now. Anytime you need advice. Remind Gemma about that too, would you?"

"Of what?"

"That I'm here. Always," she says.

Gemma's POV

I WATCH Claire laugh within conversation with who seems to be her girlfriend. They're a cute couple. I'm still keeping my distance. No one wants a middle aged lesbian raining on their parade about the good ole days, and I do think that I'm too old to hang out with them. She seems happy though. Even with everything she's been through this year.

My eyes follow the legs of a woman walking over to the cooler to retrieve a drink. I could recognize those legs from anywhere.

"She's too good for you, you know," Gerald mentions as he takes a swing of his beer.

My brow crinkle, "is she?"

"You're lucky. That one's a keeper," he says, "don't do anything to mess that up. I know I wouldn't if I had a chance."

I focus my attention on Veronica as she takes a seat on the fold-out chair, and leans back with her soda in hand, "I definitely won't," when her eyes meet mine, I feel gratification immediately. That smile is just for me, I know it.

"Don't worry. I'll back off. She seems happy with you. Haven't seen that sparkle in her eye before," he says.

"I'm not worrying," I turn to him, "for once in my life, I don't think I need to be worried."

"Is that so?"

"She's just that kind of woman. I trust her."

IT'S STRANGE how there's no keepsakes in this gigantic house. There's not a piece of jewelry of my mother that I'd like to pass down to my children. Or a cufflink of my dad's that I might want to give any one of my kids who'll wear a suit one day—whether girl or boy.

Nothing holds sentimental value, other than that picture that Mr. Johnson gave me. I grab my keys, leaving the movers to empty the house filled with hopelessness.

I drive with every thought in my head telling me not to. Don't go there, Gemma. You'll just make a fool of yourself.

Walking through those doors reminds me of every Sunday I've spent here, counting down the time till the preachings that I didn't agree with would be over. I held so much resentment for this place for so long. It was torture to sit quietly, patiently—waiting for the day that I could finally break free.

"Gemma, what a surprise," Mr. Johnson appears from behind a door by the podium. Is there a door chime or something? To let him know that someone is here? Maybe there's a sensor bar for when someone steps two feet in. Might be the reason I've never heard of a break in here.

"Yeah, sorry for just showing up, I'm, I'm..."

"Please, sit," he says. We both sit on the first bench of a long row of benches. I've been in this spot before, being berading by my grandfather to listen and learn. I was never interested in memorizing every verse in the bible. I preferred some cheesy romance novel or even the pamphlets at a carwash instead.

"There's something I've been trying to avoid you finding out," I say. If never bringing it up is avoiding. Not that I've had many conversations with Mr. Johnson. We've spoken what, three or four times after my grandfather's funeral? But it's not a topic that just gets forgotten when I'm around anyone, especially the pastor of the church that I was raised in.

"Would you like to take this to confessions?" His crinkled eyes show a glimmer of understanding. An understanding of what exactly? That I'm distressed, worried about what I'm about to say? I've had this conversation with many people. Coming out is an everyday responsibility, if you're proud of who you are. Heteorsexuals don't have to plaster a label onto their foreheads like the rest of us. Society assumes that you're straight until you say otherwise. It's just how it is.

"No, no," I'm not ashamed of who I am. But everytime this moment comes, I'm always anxious—nervous, hopeful that it isn't a big deal. It shouldn't be a big deal. My sexuality shouldn't be a cause of concern. Yet it is, "did my grandfather ever talk to you about me? About why I left? About why we'd been estranged?"

Mr. Johnson considers what I say for a moment, before leaning back and nodding, "he didn't talk much about himself. But he did confessional on the last day of every month ever since his daughter died."

"My mother?" He nods, "I'm assuming you can't tell me anything that he confided in you."

My mother... grandfather talked about her—mused about her. Told random stories of her childhood on nights that we'd sit for dinner together. He mourned her loss silently, while I grew up and forgot the feeling of that loss. But did I? Am I really over the fact that my parents died when I was so young? Maybe I would've been a happier person if they'd never muttered their last breaths on the side of that road. Maybe I'd be gentler, kinder, wiser. Maybe I would've grown up in the love I've been seeking all my life. Come to think about it, I might be chasing a love that no woman can give me—love from someone who is connected to me by blood. I've never felt that love resonating from my grandfather. He loved me, I'm sure he did. But not the way I needed to be loved.

"Did he ever mention me being a lesbian," I try to be blunt—straightforward. He doesn't seem shaken by my confession. I let out a sigh of relief—a weight lifted off my shoulder. It's almost like confessing to God himself—liberating, discerning, distant.

His eyes move over the wall, looking at the sun streaming in from the glass windows. Rays of hope, I'd called them. When young, I'd focus on the rays of light that created what seemed like portals on the floors and walls and people. A portal to another place—a place that understands me, loves me, cares for me.

"Twenty two years ago, your grandfather came to me with a question," Mr. Johnson says, "a question that I could not answer for him," he looks at me, and takes a contented breath, "what should I do about Gemma? He asked. I didn't know what he meant. Your grandfather sat there for ten minutes silent. I could tell that he was conflicted. But I'm a pastor, not a mind reader. He finally told me what was bugging him. That you'd been living in sin. There's lots of sins. He wasn't always good at being clear. I wondered, has Gemma gotten herself a boyfriend? Pregnant? Drugs? There's many sins," I inhale a deep breath. There's a tightness in my chest—an uncomfortable, uncontrollable tightness. He continues, "he loved you Gemma. And he decided to set you free—it was his way of letting you be happy. A happiness that he couldn't understand. He'd never understand. But it wasn't about his understanding of how you can choose to love someone... a woman. He decided to let go so you can live without his burden of disapproval."

I stay silent, going over what he said in my head. I can feel droplets scorching my eyes. There's no sadder but relieving feeling, than the painful truth, "that burden lives with me regardless of him letting me go. I pushed and he pulled away," I mumble, "I don't know how to feel."

"Gemma, in life no one fully comprehends what it is to be an individual. Just because he didn't understand you, doesn't mean he didn't love you."

"None of that matters if he didn't accept me. And now he's dead. I'm, I'm—"

"You do what you always do. You push. Even when everyone starts pulling. You love, even when love's given up on you. Not everyone's going to understand you Gemma, so keep those who do close."

"You don't too?"

He questioningly looks at me, "don't what?"

"You don't understand me either?"

Mr. Johnson stands and looks down at me, almost like my grandfather would when I was young, "I can't say I do. But what I think, you need to decide if you care."

I swallow. He steps back, "I think I needed that," I say.

"Good. Did you get what you came here for?"

I nod. I think I did.