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chainofcloversTitle: Waking Up
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Rating: Mostly R; some M
Disclaimers: These characters do not belong to me.
Note: This piece is the last in the series that began with Job Security and was followed by There Will be Time and Good Medicine. This particular piece is written from Miranda's perspective, which was challenging and nerve-wracking but ultimately enjoyable. Several of the writers in this community have been very inspiring and have given me a lot of different ways to think about this pairing. In particular, I want to mention the story "Miranda Priestly's Five Best Friends", by Telanu. It's a great piece that I read before getting this LJ account, and re-reading it recently inspired me to write about internalized homophobia.
So, enjoy! I had a lot of fun with this one, despite trying to deal with a difficult theme.
Miranda Priestly squinted at the buttons on her cell phone, hoping to find the one that would silence the alarm as quickly as possible. She was unused to using her phone as an alarm, but then again, she was also unused to keeping her glasses in a bag in her assistant Andrea Sachs’ living room, and she was certainly not accustomed to sitting up in a strange bed and looking down to see that same assistant stirring and murmuring against the pillow.
Miranda’s silk slip was pulled at an odd angle across her breasts, and her stockings—why did she keep them on?—were itchy against her legs. She had a terrible taste in her mouth, and after she adjusted the slip she reached up to verify that her hair was matted and tangled against the back of her head. She’d slept horribly, and always did in unfamiliar locations, but nothing would have stopped her from going to Andrea’s place the night before. Despite being tired out from a hellish day, no other option had revealed itself to her.
It wasn’t just guilt over the fact that the warm presence next to her in bed was suffering from Miranda’s own disgusting cold or flu or whatever it was. Mere guilt wouldn’t have motivated her to march into Andrea’s apartment late at night, taking the risk of resembling some sort of clichéd mother figure. Miranda thought with no small measure of shock that if Andrea had asked her to run to the store for Vick’s Vapo Rub, or to make soup from scratch, or read her bedtime stories or a Jane Austen novel, she would have done so uncomplainingly, with sweetness. Without sarcasm, or flippancy, or even resentment.
Of course, there were other people who could extract that rare tender treatment from Miranda. Her daughters, always. And Paul, her first husband—they’d been like that for awhile, and had been such close friends, although without trust it wasn’t sustainable. Never Stephen. He hadn’t inspired much of anything good or sweet in Miranda. Maybe that was all. She certainly couldn’t imagine tending to Nigel that way, even when they’d been on better terms. Or anyone in her social circle, Lord no. Regardless, the feelings that her family provoked in her didn’t resemble any of the reasons she could picture herself hovering over Andrea with cool compresses and antiquated, unfashionable home remedies.
Andrea’s beauty gave Miranda a stomachache, nearly everyday. Now that spoke to a source of guilt that wasn’t easily ignored. They had never taken off each other’s clothes, or had sex, or even discussed if that was going to happen anytime soon. But Miranda knew that she wanted sex with Andrea, and the thought was delicious enough that it made her feel sick. Every time she saw her, whether she was berating her for a minor show of incompetence or kissing her under unflattering fluorescent lighting in the bathroom of a Thai restaurant, she could feel herself starting to clutch at the edge of a warm glowing happiness. But she knew what would happen to her there. It would make her weak, and dirty, and small. It was already starting. Night after night she had kissed Andrea and talked to Andrea and let Andrea see her sad and lustful, convincing herself afterwards that she “couldn’t help it.” As if neediness was a consolation. It had to stop.
Andrea stirred a bit more, and turned around to look up at Miranda. Her large brown eyes smiled, delighted. “Hi,” she said. “Thanks so much for staying…” Her voice was sleepy, and her eyes were so soft, and Miranda could already feel the awful clenching in her gut.
“Don’t mention it.” Really. Please, don’t mention it. “Ah, how are you feeling?”
“A little better, I think.” Her eyes glimmered mischievously. “Maybe, since I’ve actually rested, I won’t be sick for as long as you.”
“Hmph,” Miranda said, stiffening as Andrea placed a hand on her thigh and squeezed a little. She sat up straighter, the warm pain in her stomach taking hold. “I’ve got to get back to the townhouse so I can arrive at the office at a reasonable hour.” She had brought makeup and a change of clothes with her, but it wouldn’t do for them to get ready for work together. She realized that now. Roy always picked her up at the townhouse, and that was how today would officially begin. What would she and Andrea have done? Sipped coffee, read the paper, run hand in hand toward the subway, keeping each other warm? “I have to call a cab,” Miranda heard herself say, and tried to still the panic that was bubbling up inside her. To lose her cool now would be as bad as letting this continue, letting herself fall into an awkward middle-aged crisis of lesbianism any more than she already had. She never, ever let herself think in any of those terms. Not about her own life. “You should rest—it’s only 6:15. I do expect you in the office this morning”—sick days from Runway were reserved for incapacitating injury or near-death experiences—“but someone else can do the coffee order. 9:30 at the latest.” Miranda sprang out of bed and scrambled into her wrinkled dress, and had to remind herself to slow down.
“Okay. Thanks, Miranda,” Andrea said, a slight frown spreading across her face. “Do you want any coffee now, or anything? You don’t have to leave so fast, you’re more than welcome to stay—” She coughed, and winced.
A miniscule voice whispered maliciously in Miranda’s head: She has to say that. Miranda flashed back to the night following the twins’ car accident. She hadn’t cried that much in years: not after Stephen had left, or Paul had left, or after her father told her not to bother visiting from New York anymore, that she’d changed too much and made them uncomfortable. Andrea had held and comforted her that night, but what choice did she have? It would have been polite but cruel to pretend Miranda hadn’t been crying, and although Andrea had good manners, she wasn’t polite enough to ignore another person’s pain.
Miranda slipped her feet into her black high heels—evening shoes were supposed to be for the evening, damn it—and ran her fingers through her hair. “I’ll see myself out,” she said. “See you in a few hours. There’s a lot on the agenda for today.” She grabbed her phone from the nightstand, thinking bitterly and against her will about the boy whose water glasses and watch and phone had probably cluttered the same piece of furniture until very recently. Andrea had mentioned the breakup briefly at dinner two nights before, but Miranda had figured it out days earlier, when she went to Andrea’s home for the first time and could sense an emptiness, a quiet that seemed sudden.
***
At 9:15, Emily told Miranda that Nigel was on the phone. “I’m so sorry, Miranda. It’s urgent.”
Miranda nodded tersely and picked up the receiver. “Yes?”
“Sorry to bother you, but the dresses haven’t showed up at the shoot. We’re by the fountain, and everyone’s getting impatient—”
“Andrea said she had everything in order yesterday morning. Why haven’t you spoken with her?”
“I couldn’t get her on the phone, and Emily said she wasn’t at her desk yet.” He sounded puzzled, and really, who wouldn’t be? Miranda was taking calls she ordinarily shouldn’t have even heard about, because her second assistant was sick and late. And her second assistant was sick and late because Miranda couldn’t stop herself from kissing her and spending time with her. Miranda’s horror of germs was well-known. Everything was off. Even if Nigel didn’t know just how off off was, she was sure he could sense something unusual.
“I’ll deal with her as soon as she gets here. Think of something in the meantime.”
“What did you have in mind, because I really—”
Miranda hung up the phone, and looked up just in time to see Andrea burst into the office and hurry toward her desk.
“Andrea…” she called softly.
Andrea threw her bag onto her chair and came running. She still wore her coat, and her nose was red from the cold. Her eyes were tired and rimmed with pink. Surely she hadn’t been crying; Miranda couldn’t bear to think—
“Are you aware that Nigel is in Central Park with a gaggle of models and an entire production team and there are no dresses for these models to wear?”
“Central Park?” Andrea squeaked. “Central Park?” She looked appalled. “Oh my God. I am really, really sorry. I was so sick yesterday. I could hardly hear a word, and—”
“Your excuses are simply wasting more of our time and money. The Bethesda fountain area is only reserved until noon. So redirect the dresses from whichever park you sent them to immediately. And call Nigel.” She looked down at the spread of newspapers and magazines on her desk. Andrea was still standing there, frozen in place. “That’s all, Andrea. Why aren’t you hurrying?”
Andrea fled the office and dove for her cell phone. Miranda took a deep breath and tried to relax the muscles around her mouth. If she didn’t watch out, the wrinkles there were going to keep deepening. She needed serenity. It occurred to her that she hadn’t even washed her face or put on skin crème the night before. No wonder she felt so miserable.
She tried not to look at Andrea’s panic-stricken expression as she made phone calls. The young woman nearly tripped over herself as she ran for the door, phone pressed to the side of her face. She was undoubtedly assuring Nigel that she was tracking down the dresses herself. It was endearing to see her hurry like that, even if, in a way, it was at both their expenses. In spite of everything, she remembered soothing Andrea to sleep the night before, her hideous t-shirt stretched so tight and soft across her skin. Miranda throbbed between her legs and felt her face flush warm. Distractions, she reminded herself sternly. This was so wrong. Pathetic. She would not speak to Andrea for the rest of the day. If she couldn’t account for her behavior in Andrea’s presence, she would just have to remove any opportunity to behave irresponsibly.
***
That night, there was a knock on the door of Miranda’s study.
“What?” she asked, trying to hide the irritableness in her tone. She’d told the girls after their dinner that she had a lot of work to do, and would be up later to spend time with them and tell them goodnight.
But instead of Cassidy or Caroline, Andrea marched into the study. “Why were you so mean to me all day?” she demanded, in lieu of a greeting.
Miranda was outraged. “What are you doing in here, traipsing through my home?”
“I didn’t ‘traipse.’ Caroline told me where you were. And I hardly think all the old rules can still apply, not after all this.”
Neither of them said a word for an uncomfortably long amount of time. Miranda broke the silence. “Please sit,” she said quietly. Andrea sat at the other end of the sofa and turned to face her.
“Are you going to answer my question?”
“I wasn’t being mean to you, not spitefully. You made a mistake. A big one.”
“Yes. I made a big mistake. But I fixed it—pretty quickly, even. You ignored me all day long.”
“You’ve been distracted, and you know it. If your job performance suffers because of any of this…” She echoed Andrea’s convenient use of “this” as a stand-in for the unnamable thing that had transpired between them.
Andrea’s mouth dropped open. “Oh. I get it. You think I can’t focus anymore, so you’re overcompensating by being extra-mean to me at work? Well, you’ve been distracted too.” She blushed. “You said so yourself. And yet everything is running just about as smoothly as it ever does. That shoot was delayed forty minutes, yeah. But it was no trouble getting the park personnel to leave the partitions up an extra twenty, which was all the additional time we needed. And Nigel told me this afternoon that you thought a lot of the digital proofs looked okay. Maybe he was just trying to you know, make me feel better, since I was practically inconsolable, but I know he wouldn’t lie about your opinion. So really, this has to be about you and me. Right?” She blushed even more furiously.
Miranda sighed. She felt entirely unprepared for the discussion, despite thinking along these lines all day. “This can’t continue,” she said without preamble.
“What? You don’t mean that. You can’t just make that kind of decision unilaterally. This is ludicrous.” Tears were forming in Andrea’s eyes, and Miranda knew that she had been wrong to think Andrea was acting solely out of obligation. “Miranda, I can tell you like, um, spending time with me, and the things we do together. Are you having second thoughts?” She paused. “Were you ever with any women before me?”
Perhaps stupidly, Miranda hadn’t anticipated the slight subject change. She couldn’t decide which answer was more humiliating, so she went with the truth. “No,” she said flatly.
“But you wanted to be, right? I mean, you’re really good at, um—” She cut herself off, looking frightened.
“Why do you want to know?”
“It’s my business. I’m not going to tell anybody. I just have to know, so I can try to understand what’s happening.”
“Yes. I wanted to be.”
“Wow,” she said, seemingly before she could stop herself. “And you never once acted on it…well, what about men? Do you like men too? Did your husbands, or anybody, know how you felt?”
“Leave me alone,” Miranda said, knowing it sounded childish and cold. She curled her legs underneath her and pressed her fingers against her eye sockets until the space behind her eyes hurt. “And what about you, Andrea? What’s made you so willing to spend all this time with me?” Her voice was harsh, but hardly above a whisper.
“I like women. More specifically, I like you. God knows why. I’ve been with a couple women, a long time ago, but it was never anything serious. At all. And I like men, but less consistently.” She smiled ruefully. “My parents are pretty okay with it, but I could tell how happy they were when I started dating Nate, and how disappointed they were when we broke up. They blame you, you know.” She reached across the sofa and grabbed Miranda’s hand, maneuvering so their arms were awkwardly stretched toward the middle of the center couch cushion. “Everybody does.”
Miranda grimaced, but didn’t pull her hand away. Andrea’s hand was so warm, nearly hot, and she might not get to hold it again. “Well?”
“They’re right, of course. But I’m happy I’m not with Nate anymore. And I don’t actually blame you—you couldn’t have come between us if I hadn’t let you.”
Miranda harrumphed at her for the second time that day, and didn’t provide an additional response. “Look, Miranda,” Andrea continued. “I guess I don’t see the real problem with us being, um, whatever we are. But you really hurt me today.”
“See? That’s the problem. I act the way I have to act, and instead of it being a part of your job, it hurts you. Your feelings get involved. It was a mistake for me to let this go on as long as it has, and to believe we could work it out. I was very, very wrong. My behavior has been unforgivably inappropriate.”
“But that’s why we set up those boundaries,” Andrea spluttered. “So nothing would get too mixed up. The way you treated me today would have hurt even if we’d never so much as held hands in the elevator.”
“We’ve never held hands in the elevator, or anywhere in Elias-Clarke, and those boundaries aren’t enough,” Miranda said resolutely, pointedly refusing to apologize. “It isn’t that simple.”
“Okay, you’re right. It’s not. But we can figure something out. I mean, everybody needs—”
“There is nothing I need, Andrea,” Miranda interrupted. She didn’t add I’m too old. It’s too late. You’re too lovely, you’ll get ruined. I can’t handle it. “Now please leave.” Andrea looked stunned. “Please.”
“The Book’s on the end table in the hall.” She raised her voice. “I’ll see myself out.”
***
As Miranda tucked Caroline into bed, she noticed her daughter looking at her strangely. “What’s the matter, darling?”
“Why was Andy fighting with you?”
“Caroline, did you go back upstairs after you told Andy—Andrea—where I was tonight?”
“Um, yes. Sort of…well, I was on the stairs at least.”
“Caroline!”
“I didn’t hear what you guys were saying, I promise. But her voice kept getting louder.”
“Don’t worry about it. Everything is fine.”
“I like her, Mom,” Caroline’s face was inscrutable. “But she should be nice to you.”
“Andrea is very nice to me, darling. She said some things I needed to hear. We can talk about this more later, okay?”
“Okay,” Caroline said reluctantly. “Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
***
Miranda and Andrea were exceedingly careful at work the next day. They were civil without ever slipping into friendliness or rudeness, and spoke a minimal amount, exchanging far fewer words than they had even at the beginning of “all this.”
The day was so eventless that by the time Andrea was due to deliver the Book, Miranda had almost forgotten to be nervous about seeing her. Almost, but not quite. She wandered aimlessly through the downstairs rooms of the townhouse, annoyed with her inability to sit and wait, and found a distraction when Cassidy came downstairs to grab a snack before bedtime. She stopped her daughter in the hallway, and said, “Don’t forget that you’ve got physical therapy tomorrow after school. Your father’s taking you.” The injuries Cassidy sustained were relatively minor, but she was doing several weeks of physical therapy to insure that her neck and back would be in good enough shape for her to exercise and play sports.
“Ugh!” Cassidy groaned. “I hate physical therapy.”
“I know you do, sweetheart, but it’s important. We have to make sure everything’s all right before soccer starts back up.”
“It’s boring, and it hurts.”
Miranda felt a flare of indignation. “I’m sure that it does hurt sometimes, but it’s a lot safer for you to work through it with a physical therapist. You could injure yourself even worse if you don’t do therapy.”
“I’m not going tomorrow.”
“Yes, you absolutely are going tomorrow. Just because something’s boring, and hurts doesn’t mean it isn’t worth doing!” Miranda could feel her voice getting louder, which never used to happen, and briefly imagined Andrea walking in on them like this.
“No, I’m not. Caroline doesn’t have to go. It isn’t fair.”
“You’re right, it isn’t fair. But you’re the one who got hurt. I am so sorry that it happened to you. I wish it hadn’t. I was terrified. But you’re fine, and you’ll be more fine if you do physical therapy.”
“It still isn’t fair.”
“Cassidy, I’ve had it. I know you’re upset, but you need to remember how lucky we are that I can pay for you to go to doctors, and—”
“Dad said he was paying for this.”
Miranda went pale. Paul had lied to the girls before, but not about money, or anything big. Just fibs. Kind of like the ones he often told her during their marriage, to keep things going, to keep looking like the good guy. “Oh did he?”
“Yeah, he said he doubted you would pay for it, and that he was going to pay.”
Miranda had started paying for physical therapy two days after the accident, in advance of Cassidy’s first appointment. “Well, that’s something I’m going to have to talk to him about. But regardless of who is paying for this, we love you very much, and we are very, very lucky to be able to afford it. There are a lot of people out there with injuries much worse than yours, who can’t pay for any health care at all. We should be grateful that we can.”
Cassidy didn’t look convinced. Miranda rolled her eyes, exasperated, and made sudden eye contact with Andrea, who was practically tiptoeing toward the end table with the Book. Andrea smiled, her eyes enormous with fear, and for a moment Miranda remembered what she had been like nearly a year ago, when she first started working at Runway. The memory hurt everywhere. “Cassidy,” she said, her voice softer. “Please go up to your room. We’re going to continue this tomorrow.” Cassidy didn’t go up to her room, not right away. She ran into the kitchen, grabbed an apple, and finally headed upstairs, her brows furrowed.
Miranda walked toward Andrea. “How much did you hear?”
“A lot, I think.” Miranda sighed. At least she felt certain that Andrea would never lie to her. “I’m sorry.”
She waved her hand. “No, no. It’s all right. Cassidy thinks she understands what life would be like if it were fair and just, but she obviously hasn’t started pondering the merits of universal health care. And it’s not like her father and I have really talked to the girls about privilege. Not nearly enough. I can hardly talk to them about anything these days…” she trailed off. “God. Listen to me.”
Andrea stared at her. “Um, I should go.”
Miranda stepped forward. “Please stay. Please,” she whispered, hating the way her voice got so desperate. She had never sounded like this before, not with anyone. She had told herself so many times that it wouldn’t work out, that it was pathetic to hope, and yet here she was, begging.
“No, I can’t.” Andrea shook her head slightly. “I think I figured out what might be wrong. Right now, I’m here because I have to be. To deliver the Book. I would love to stay. Genuinely. But if I did, you wouldn’t be able to tell why, not for sure. You can’t tell yet. I hope you’ll be able to soon.” Miranda felt faint. How did she see what the matter was? How did she figure this out? “We have to trust each other. So maybe…instead of giving this up completely, we can just plan better.”
“Plan?”
“Yes. I can’t just let myself into your house on some work errand and expect to feel normal about everything that happens next. Comfortable. I didn’t think it bothered me, but it does. And it obviously bothers you, which matters a lot. But if I’m invited, or you’re invited, and we have to ring doorbells or knock on doors, it might make things feel better.”
It was Miranda’s turn to stare. “You think this is going to help?”
“I don’t know!” Andrea sounded frustrated. “But we could try it. Seeing you as upset as you were last night makes me feel awful. And I can’t handle not knowing where we stand.”
“The twins are going to Paul’s for the weekend. Perhaps you could come for dinner on Saturday, and we could talk more then.” Lately Miranda felt like her whole life was spent promising to continue conversations when the timing might be better. She felt like a fuck-up, and resisted the urge to say so, not least because she couldn’t think of a more couth phrasing. “I know I’m going to have to let the twins in on this…part of me…but I don’t think I can manage it very soon.”
Andrea looked more calm. She smiled and said, “These things take a lot of time. I know everything’s crazy right now. A lot of bad stuff has happened since we, ah, started everything.” They were really going to have to work on a shared vocabulary. “The car wreck, and then you got really sick, and then I got really sick…”
“How are you feeling, by the way?”
“A lot better. I started feeling better, oh, about three minutes ago. And you know, since neither of has to worry about catching this thing anymore, we can kiss as much as we want to.”
We. Desire flared up in Miranda’s center. It felt a bit like the endless stomachache, but less painful. She didn’t know what to say.
“I should go. But can I kiss you goodnight? Just quickly? No one’s going to notice.”
Miranda nodded. The women stepped together, and for a moment it felt to Miranda like she’d never pressed her lips to Andrea’s. But the gentle pressure of Andrea’s mouth was familiar, and she gasped with relief.
***
Miranda sat up in her bed, glancing at the clock to find that it was only three hours into Sunday. She shifted uncomfortably, trying not to wake Andrea. She looked down at the sleeping form next to her, almost unable to believe she was there. Their dinner hadn’t been awkward after the first few minutes, and when it was over neither was particularly inclined to part ways. So they’d talked for a long time, and not just about their relationship and work, topics that had dominated dinner. They talked about their favorite seasons (clothes and weather), and ridiculous things like which drinks and colors and foods they liked the most. They even spoke about Ohio, a place Andy didn’t want to forget, and a very little bit about Pennsylvania, a place Miranda did want to forget but never could. And then it was very late, and Miranda heard herself asking once again if Andrea would stay. This time she didn’t think she sounded quite so desperate, and Andrea took a deep breath and said yes.
She loaned Andrea one of her nightgowns, and they’d both dressed for bed quickly and hardly touched once they were under the covers, as if they didn’t want to push their luck after such a pleasant evening. Miranda wondered if Andrea thought she wasn’t only closeted but was a closeted prude. Maybe it was true. It had been a long time. She worried that instead of simply being frustrated, she was going to turn out frigid—an awful term, probably coined by some clumsy, ineffectual man—even though she knew full well how badly she wanted Andrea.
“You okay?” Andrea asked sleepily.
“I’m fine. I just can’t sleep. Did I wake you?”
“I don’t think so,” Andrea said absently. She sat up and put her arm around Miranda’s shoulders. “I’m sorry you can’t sleep.”
“I can never sleep.” It was an exaggeration, but Miranda didn’t care.
“Aww,” Andrea said inexplicably, and kissed her. They kissed for awhile, their hands grazing each other’s shoulders and breasts. Eventually Andrea took one of her hands away, and moved it under the bedcovers until she found the hem of Miranda’s nightgown, just above her knee. She rubbed the silky material between her fingers. “Mm,” she said. “Is it okay, ah, is it okay if I touch you?”
Oh, help, Miranda thought. “Yes,” she said hoarsely. Andrea’s hand crept slowly up Miranda’s thigh, and she placed her other hand on Miranda’s back and guided her closer, until she was practically sitting in Andrea’s lap with her legs resting on either side of Andrea’s hips. They kept kissing steadily, except for when Andrea’s fingers began to tug at Miranda’s underwear, and Miranda whimpered “oh, God.”
“It’s all right,” Andrea said soothingly. “You’re safe. I’ll stop if you want me to.”
“Don’t stop,” Miranda muttered, and gasped as Andrea’s thumb circled her clit. She was suddenly wet, and Andrea sighed with delight as she sank her fingers against Miranda’s flesh. Then they were both hushed, concentrating, moving slowly together, savoring each other. After awhile Miranda began to pant, and her heart was racing, and couldn’t stop her hips from undulating against Andrea’s fingers. “Andrea…ah!” she cried as she came. She laid back against the pillows, and Andrea stretched out next to her.
There was something about sex with Miranda Priestly that made people a bit mean. Not that she’d slept with such an enormous number of people, but the pattern was noticeable despite the relatively small sample. These men knew Miranda as cold, and pulled-together, and calculating, and suddenly they had her splayed and sweaty and exhausted. It made one feel rough. And smug. But before Miranda had time to worry about fielding any smugness, Andrea’s right hand was meandering warmly across her stomach and breasts, and her left hand was brushing Miranda’s hair from her forehead. “You’re amazing, Miranda,” she said softly. “You’re so beautiful.”
Miranda sighed and pulled Andrea closer. “You don’t have to—” Andrea started to say, but Miranda’s hands were already working on pulling Andrea’s nightgown over her head.
“Can I?”
Andrea nodded, and giggled, and the sound made Miranda smile despite her nervousness. Then the sight of Andrea’s breasts literally stopped the breath in her throat. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness during the previous hours of insomnia, and she didn’t know where to begin except by kissing helplessly at Andrea’s perfection. A great deal of her internal life had been imagined in abstractions, and it was time to realize concreteness.
***
Several weeks later, it seemed like winter was going to cling to New York with a tighter grasp than ever. Miranda groaned as she opened the main door of Andrea’s building and a gust of wind slapped her in the face. “Isn’t global warming supposed to be taking care of all this?”
“Be careful what you wish for,” said Andrea, as she shut the door behind them. “I personally don’t want to see New York under water during my lifetime.”
“I can’t believe we’re taking the subway. For eggs,” Miranda complained. “We could still be in bed.” These days, Miranda’s appetite for bed was almost alarming; she would mention it to her doctor if it wasn’t so humiliating. Andrea didn’t seem to mind, of course, and rather encouraged Miranda’s newfound passion. But this was a Sunday, a rare one they could spend entirely together, and Andrea was insisting upon taking her to some faraway diner for brunch.
“This is going to be the omelet of your life, Miranda. And stop complaining. We agreed, we live my way at my place, and your way at your place.”
“I know, I know.” She wondered if they would ever arrive at anything resembling “their way.” Andrea was already talking about finding a new job, as soon as her year at Runway was through. It would make things easier and harder. They would have less secrets to keep, but would have to start telling the current ones in order to stay together. Soon enough their families would know, their friends would know, and a lot of worthless strangers without anything better to do with their time would think it was their right to know as well. It was unnerving, but Miranda couldn’t bring herself to panic. Not about Andrea; not anymore.
They walked in silence for nearly a block. Suddenly Andrea turned to Miranda, her face serious. “You keep me warm; I keep you warm.”
“What?” Miranda said, though they both knew she had heard perfectly well. Looking straight ahead, she grinned, and slid her arm until her hand rested on Andrea’s back. Andrea mirrored the gesture, and they propelled each other through the cold air and toward the subway station.
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Rating: Mostly R; some M
Disclaimers: These characters do not belong to me.
Note: This piece is the last in the series that began with Job Security and was followed by There Will be Time and Good Medicine. This particular piece is written from Miranda's perspective, which was challenging and nerve-wracking but ultimately enjoyable. Several of the writers in this community have been very inspiring and have given me a lot of different ways to think about this pairing. In particular, I want to mention the story "Miranda Priestly's Five Best Friends", by Telanu. It's a great piece that I read before getting this LJ account, and re-reading it recently inspired me to write about internalized homophobia.
So, enjoy! I had a lot of fun with this one, despite trying to deal with a difficult theme.
Miranda Priestly squinted at the buttons on her cell phone, hoping to find the one that would silence the alarm as quickly as possible. She was unused to using her phone as an alarm, but then again, she was also unused to keeping her glasses in a bag in her assistant Andrea Sachs’ living room, and she was certainly not accustomed to sitting up in a strange bed and looking down to see that same assistant stirring and murmuring against the pillow.
Miranda’s silk slip was pulled at an odd angle across her breasts, and her stockings—why did she keep them on?—were itchy against her legs. She had a terrible taste in her mouth, and after she adjusted the slip she reached up to verify that her hair was matted and tangled against the back of her head. She’d slept horribly, and always did in unfamiliar locations, but nothing would have stopped her from going to Andrea’s place the night before. Despite being tired out from a hellish day, no other option had revealed itself to her.
It wasn’t just guilt over the fact that the warm presence next to her in bed was suffering from Miranda’s own disgusting cold or flu or whatever it was. Mere guilt wouldn’t have motivated her to march into Andrea’s apartment late at night, taking the risk of resembling some sort of clichéd mother figure. Miranda thought with no small measure of shock that if Andrea had asked her to run to the store for Vick’s Vapo Rub, or to make soup from scratch, or read her bedtime stories or a Jane Austen novel, she would have done so uncomplainingly, with sweetness. Without sarcasm, or flippancy, or even resentment.
Of course, there were other people who could extract that rare tender treatment from Miranda. Her daughters, always. And Paul, her first husband—they’d been like that for awhile, and had been such close friends, although without trust it wasn’t sustainable. Never Stephen. He hadn’t inspired much of anything good or sweet in Miranda. Maybe that was all. She certainly couldn’t imagine tending to Nigel that way, even when they’d been on better terms. Or anyone in her social circle, Lord no. Regardless, the feelings that her family provoked in her didn’t resemble any of the reasons she could picture herself hovering over Andrea with cool compresses and antiquated, unfashionable home remedies.
Andrea’s beauty gave Miranda a stomachache, nearly everyday. Now that spoke to a source of guilt that wasn’t easily ignored. They had never taken off each other’s clothes, or had sex, or even discussed if that was going to happen anytime soon. But Miranda knew that she wanted sex with Andrea, and the thought was delicious enough that it made her feel sick. Every time she saw her, whether she was berating her for a minor show of incompetence or kissing her under unflattering fluorescent lighting in the bathroom of a Thai restaurant, she could feel herself starting to clutch at the edge of a warm glowing happiness. But she knew what would happen to her there. It would make her weak, and dirty, and small. It was already starting. Night after night she had kissed Andrea and talked to Andrea and let Andrea see her sad and lustful, convincing herself afterwards that she “couldn’t help it.” As if neediness was a consolation. It had to stop.
Andrea stirred a bit more, and turned around to look up at Miranda. Her large brown eyes smiled, delighted. “Hi,” she said. “Thanks so much for staying…” Her voice was sleepy, and her eyes were so soft, and Miranda could already feel the awful clenching in her gut.
“Don’t mention it.” Really. Please, don’t mention it. “Ah, how are you feeling?”
“A little better, I think.” Her eyes glimmered mischievously. “Maybe, since I’ve actually rested, I won’t be sick for as long as you.”
“Hmph,” Miranda said, stiffening as Andrea placed a hand on her thigh and squeezed a little. She sat up straighter, the warm pain in her stomach taking hold. “I’ve got to get back to the townhouse so I can arrive at the office at a reasonable hour.” She had brought makeup and a change of clothes with her, but it wouldn’t do for them to get ready for work together. She realized that now. Roy always picked her up at the townhouse, and that was how today would officially begin. What would she and Andrea have done? Sipped coffee, read the paper, run hand in hand toward the subway, keeping each other warm? “I have to call a cab,” Miranda heard herself say, and tried to still the panic that was bubbling up inside her. To lose her cool now would be as bad as letting this continue, letting herself fall into an awkward middle-aged crisis of lesbianism any more than she already had. She never, ever let herself think in any of those terms. Not about her own life. “You should rest—it’s only 6:15. I do expect you in the office this morning”—sick days from Runway were reserved for incapacitating injury or near-death experiences—“but someone else can do the coffee order. 9:30 at the latest.” Miranda sprang out of bed and scrambled into her wrinkled dress, and had to remind herself to slow down.
“Okay. Thanks, Miranda,” Andrea said, a slight frown spreading across her face. “Do you want any coffee now, or anything? You don’t have to leave so fast, you’re more than welcome to stay—” She coughed, and winced.
A miniscule voice whispered maliciously in Miranda’s head: She has to say that. Miranda flashed back to the night following the twins’ car accident. She hadn’t cried that much in years: not after Stephen had left, or Paul had left, or after her father told her not to bother visiting from New York anymore, that she’d changed too much and made them uncomfortable. Andrea had held and comforted her that night, but what choice did she have? It would have been polite but cruel to pretend Miranda hadn’t been crying, and although Andrea had good manners, she wasn’t polite enough to ignore another person’s pain.
Miranda slipped her feet into her black high heels—evening shoes were supposed to be for the evening, damn it—and ran her fingers through her hair. “I’ll see myself out,” she said. “See you in a few hours. There’s a lot on the agenda for today.” She grabbed her phone from the nightstand, thinking bitterly and against her will about the boy whose water glasses and watch and phone had probably cluttered the same piece of furniture until very recently. Andrea had mentioned the breakup briefly at dinner two nights before, but Miranda had figured it out days earlier, when she went to Andrea’s home for the first time and could sense an emptiness, a quiet that seemed sudden.
***
At 9:15, Emily told Miranda that Nigel was on the phone. “I’m so sorry, Miranda. It’s urgent.”
Miranda nodded tersely and picked up the receiver. “Yes?”
“Sorry to bother you, but the dresses haven’t showed up at the shoot. We’re by the fountain, and everyone’s getting impatient—”
“Andrea said she had everything in order yesterday morning. Why haven’t you spoken with her?”
“I couldn’t get her on the phone, and Emily said she wasn’t at her desk yet.” He sounded puzzled, and really, who wouldn’t be? Miranda was taking calls she ordinarily shouldn’t have even heard about, because her second assistant was sick and late. And her second assistant was sick and late because Miranda couldn’t stop herself from kissing her and spending time with her. Miranda’s horror of germs was well-known. Everything was off. Even if Nigel didn’t know just how off off was, she was sure he could sense something unusual.
“I’ll deal with her as soon as she gets here. Think of something in the meantime.”
“What did you have in mind, because I really—”
Miranda hung up the phone, and looked up just in time to see Andrea burst into the office and hurry toward her desk.
“Andrea…” she called softly.
Andrea threw her bag onto her chair and came running. She still wore her coat, and her nose was red from the cold. Her eyes were tired and rimmed with pink. Surely she hadn’t been crying; Miranda couldn’t bear to think—
“Are you aware that Nigel is in Central Park with a gaggle of models and an entire production team and there are no dresses for these models to wear?”
“Central Park?” Andrea squeaked. “Central Park?” She looked appalled. “Oh my God. I am really, really sorry. I was so sick yesterday. I could hardly hear a word, and—”
“Your excuses are simply wasting more of our time and money. The Bethesda fountain area is only reserved until noon. So redirect the dresses from whichever park you sent them to immediately. And call Nigel.” She looked down at the spread of newspapers and magazines on her desk. Andrea was still standing there, frozen in place. “That’s all, Andrea. Why aren’t you hurrying?”
Andrea fled the office and dove for her cell phone. Miranda took a deep breath and tried to relax the muscles around her mouth. If she didn’t watch out, the wrinkles there were going to keep deepening. She needed serenity. It occurred to her that she hadn’t even washed her face or put on skin crème the night before. No wonder she felt so miserable.
She tried not to look at Andrea’s panic-stricken expression as she made phone calls. The young woman nearly tripped over herself as she ran for the door, phone pressed to the side of her face. She was undoubtedly assuring Nigel that she was tracking down the dresses herself. It was endearing to see her hurry like that, even if, in a way, it was at both their expenses. In spite of everything, she remembered soothing Andrea to sleep the night before, her hideous t-shirt stretched so tight and soft across her skin. Miranda throbbed between her legs and felt her face flush warm. Distractions, she reminded herself sternly. This was so wrong. Pathetic. She would not speak to Andrea for the rest of the day. If she couldn’t account for her behavior in Andrea’s presence, she would just have to remove any opportunity to behave irresponsibly.
***
That night, there was a knock on the door of Miranda’s study.
“What?” she asked, trying to hide the irritableness in her tone. She’d told the girls after their dinner that she had a lot of work to do, and would be up later to spend time with them and tell them goodnight.
But instead of Cassidy or Caroline, Andrea marched into the study. “Why were you so mean to me all day?” she demanded, in lieu of a greeting.
Miranda was outraged. “What are you doing in here, traipsing through my home?”
“I didn’t ‘traipse.’ Caroline told me where you were. And I hardly think all the old rules can still apply, not after all this.”
Neither of them said a word for an uncomfortably long amount of time. Miranda broke the silence. “Please sit,” she said quietly. Andrea sat at the other end of the sofa and turned to face her.
“Are you going to answer my question?”
“I wasn’t being mean to you, not spitefully. You made a mistake. A big one.”
“Yes. I made a big mistake. But I fixed it—pretty quickly, even. You ignored me all day long.”
“You’ve been distracted, and you know it. If your job performance suffers because of any of this…” She echoed Andrea’s convenient use of “this” as a stand-in for the unnamable thing that had transpired between them.
Andrea’s mouth dropped open. “Oh. I get it. You think I can’t focus anymore, so you’re overcompensating by being extra-mean to me at work? Well, you’ve been distracted too.” She blushed. “You said so yourself. And yet everything is running just about as smoothly as it ever does. That shoot was delayed forty minutes, yeah. But it was no trouble getting the park personnel to leave the partitions up an extra twenty, which was all the additional time we needed. And Nigel told me this afternoon that you thought a lot of the digital proofs looked okay. Maybe he was just trying to you know, make me feel better, since I was practically inconsolable, but I know he wouldn’t lie about your opinion. So really, this has to be about you and me. Right?” She blushed even more furiously.
Miranda sighed. She felt entirely unprepared for the discussion, despite thinking along these lines all day. “This can’t continue,” she said without preamble.
“What? You don’t mean that. You can’t just make that kind of decision unilaterally. This is ludicrous.” Tears were forming in Andrea’s eyes, and Miranda knew that she had been wrong to think Andrea was acting solely out of obligation. “Miranda, I can tell you like, um, spending time with me, and the things we do together. Are you having second thoughts?” She paused. “Were you ever with any women before me?”
Perhaps stupidly, Miranda hadn’t anticipated the slight subject change. She couldn’t decide which answer was more humiliating, so she went with the truth. “No,” she said flatly.
“But you wanted to be, right? I mean, you’re really good at, um—” She cut herself off, looking frightened.
“Why do you want to know?”
“It’s my business. I’m not going to tell anybody. I just have to know, so I can try to understand what’s happening.”
“Yes. I wanted to be.”
“Wow,” she said, seemingly before she could stop herself. “And you never once acted on it…well, what about men? Do you like men too? Did your husbands, or anybody, know how you felt?”
“Leave me alone,” Miranda said, knowing it sounded childish and cold. She curled her legs underneath her and pressed her fingers against her eye sockets until the space behind her eyes hurt. “And what about you, Andrea? What’s made you so willing to spend all this time with me?” Her voice was harsh, but hardly above a whisper.
“I like women. More specifically, I like you. God knows why. I’ve been with a couple women, a long time ago, but it was never anything serious. At all. And I like men, but less consistently.” She smiled ruefully. “My parents are pretty okay with it, but I could tell how happy they were when I started dating Nate, and how disappointed they were when we broke up. They blame you, you know.” She reached across the sofa and grabbed Miranda’s hand, maneuvering so their arms were awkwardly stretched toward the middle of the center couch cushion. “Everybody does.”
Miranda grimaced, but didn’t pull her hand away. Andrea’s hand was so warm, nearly hot, and she might not get to hold it again. “Well?”
“They’re right, of course. But I’m happy I’m not with Nate anymore. And I don’t actually blame you—you couldn’t have come between us if I hadn’t let you.”
Miranda harrumphed at her for the second time that day, and didn’t provide an additional response. “Look, Miranda,” Andrea continued. “I guess I don’t see the real problem with us being, um, whatever we are. But you really hurt me today.”
“See? That’s the problem. I act the way I have to act, and instead of it being a part of your job, it hurts you. Your feelings get involved. It was a mistake for me to let this go on as long as it has, and to believe we could work it out. I was very, very wrong. My behavior has been unforgivably inappropriate.”
“But that’s why we set up those boundaries,” Andrea spluttered. “So nothing would get too mixed up. The way you treated me today would have hurt even if we’d never so much as held hands in the elevator.”
“We’ve never held hands in the elevator, or anywhere in Elias-Clarke, and those boundaries aren’t enough,” Miranda said resolutely, pointedly refusing to apologize. “It isn’t that simple.”
“Okay, you’re right. It’s not. But we can figure something out. I mean, everybody needs—”
“There is nothing I need, Andrea,” Miranda interrupted. She didn’t add I’m too old. It’s too late. You’re too lovely, you’ll get ruined. I can’t handle it. “Now please leave.” Andrea looked stunned. “Please.”
“The Book’s on the end table in the hall.” She raised her voice. “I’ll see myself out.”
***
As Miranda tucked Caroline into bed, she noticed her daughter looking at her strangely. “What’s the matter, darling?”
“Why was Andy fighting with you?”
“Caroline, did you go back upstairs after you told Andy—Andrea—where I was tonight?”
“Um, yes. Sort of…well, I was on the stairs at least.”
“Caroline!”
“I didn’t hear what you guys were saying, I promise. But her voice kept getting louder.”
“Don’t worry about it. Everything is fine.”
“I like her, Mom,” Caroline’s face was inscrutable. “But she should be nice to you.”
“Andrea is very nice to me, darling. She said some things I needed to hear. We can talk about this more later, okay?”
“Okay,” Caroline said reluctantly. “Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
***
Miranda and Andrea were exceedingly careful at work the next day. They were civil without ever slipping into friendliness or rudeness, and spoke a minimal amount, exchanging far fewer words than they had even at the beginning of “all this.”
The day was so eventless that by the time Andrea was due to deliver the Book, Miranda had almost forgotten to be nervous about seeing her. Almost, but not quite. She wandered aimlessly through the downstairs rooms of the townhouse, annoyed with her inability to sit and wait, and found a distraction when Cassidy came downstairs to grab a snack before bedtime. She stopped her daughter in the hallway, and said, “Don’t forget that you’ve got physical therapy tomorrow after school. Your father’s taking you.” The injuries Cassidy sustained were relatively minor, but she was doing several weeks of physical therapy to insure that her neck and back would be in good enough shape for her to exercise and play sports.
“Ugh!” Cassidy groaned. “I hate physical therapy.”
“I know you do, sweetheart, but it’s important. We have to make sure everything’s all right before soccer starts back up.”
“It’s boring, and it hurts.”
Miranda felt a flare of indignation. “I’m sure that it does hurt sometimes, but it’s a lot safer for you to work through it with a physical therapist. You could injure yourself even worse if you don’t do therapy.”
“I’m not going tomorrow.”
“Yes, you absolutely are going tomorrow. Just because something’s boring, and hurts doesn’t mean it isn’t worth doing!” Miranda could feel her voice getting louder, which never used to happen, and briefly imagined Andrea walking in on them like this.
“No, I’m not. Caroline doesn’t have to go. It isn’t fair.”
“You’re right, it isn’t fair. But you’re the one who got hurt. I am so sorry that it happened to you. I wish it hadn’t. I was terrified. But you’re fine, and you’ll be more fine if you do physical therapy.”
“It still isn’t fair.”
“Cassidy, I’ve had it. I know you’re upset, but you need to remember how lucky we are that I can pay for you to go to doctors, and—”
“Dad said he was paying for this.”
Miranda went pale. Paul had lied to the girls before, but not about money, or anything big. Just fibs. Kind of like the ones he often told her during their marriage, to keep things going, to keep looking like the good guy. “Oh did he?”
“Yeah, he said he doubted you would pay for it, and that he was going to pay.”
Miranda had started paying for physical therapy two days after the accident, in advance of Cassidy’s first appointment. “Well, that’s something I’m going to have to talk to him about. But regardless of who is paying for this, we love you very much, and we are very, very lucky to be able to afford it. There are a lot of people out there with injuries much worse than yours, who can’t pay for any health care at all. We should be grateful that we can.”
Cassidy didn’t look convinced. Miranda rolled her eyes, exasperated, and made sudden eye contact with Andrea, who was practically tiptoeing toward the end table with the Book. Andrea smiled, her eyes enormous with fear, and for a moment Miranda remembered what she had been like nearly a year ago, when she first started working at Runway. The memory hurt everywhere. “Cassidy,” she said, her voice softer. “Please go up to your room. We’re going to continue this tomorrow.” Cassidy didn’t go up to her room, not right away. She ran into the kitchen, grabbed an apple, and finally headed upstairs, her brows furrowed.
Miranda walked toward Andrea. “How much did you hear?”
“A lot, I think.” Miranda sighed. At least she felt certain that Andrea would never lie to her. “I’m sorry.”
She waved her hand. “No, no. It’s all right. Cassidy thinks she understands what life would be like if it were fair and just, but she obviously hasn’t started pondering the merits of universal health care. And it’s not like her father and I have really talked to the girls about privilege. Not nearly enough. I can hardly talk to them about anything these days…” she trailed off. “God. Listen to me.”
Andrea stared at her. “Um, I should go.”
Miranda stepped forward. “Please stay. Please,” she whispered, hating the way her voice got so desperate. She had never sounded like this before, not with anyone. She had told herself so many times that it wouldn’t work out, that it was pathetic to hope, and yet here she was, begging.
“No, I can’t.” Andrea shook her head slightly. “I think I figured out what might be wrong. Right now, I’m here because I have to be. To deliver the Book. I would love to stay. Genuinely. But if I did, you wouldn’t be able to tell why, not for sure. You can’t tell yet. I hope you’ll be able to soon.” Miranda felt faint. How did she see what the matter was? How did she figure this out? “We have to trust each other. So maybe…instead of giving this up completely, we can just plan better.”
“Plan?”
“Yes. I can’t just let myself into your house on some work errand and expect to feel normal about everything that happens next. Comfortable. I didn’t think it bothered me, but it does. And it obviously bothers you, which matters a lot. But if I’m invited, or you’re invited, and we have to ring doorbells or knock on doors, it might make things feel better.”
It was Miranda’s turn to stare. “You think this is going to help?”
“I don’t know!” Andrea sounded frustrated. “But we could try it. Seeing you as upset as you were last night makes me feel awful. And I can’t handle not knowing where we stand.”
“The twins are going to Paul’s for the weekend. Perhaps you could come for dinner on Saturday, and we could talk more then.” Lately Miranda felt like her whole life was spent promising to continue conversations when the timing might be better. She felt like a fuck-up, and resisted the urge to say so, not least because she couldn’t think of a more couth phrasing. “I know I’m going to have to let the twins in on this…part of me…but I don’t think I can manage it very soon.”
Andrea looked more calm. She smiled and said, “These things take a lot of time. I know everything’s crazy right now. A lot of bad stuff has happened since we, ah, started everything.” They were really going to have to work on a shared vocabulary. “The car wreck, and then you got really sick, and then I got really sick…”
“How are you feeling, by the way?”
“A lot better. I started feeling better, oh, about three minutes ago. And you know, since neither of has to worry about catching this thing anymore, we can kiss as much as we want to.”
We. Desire flared up in Miranda’s center. It felt a bit like the endless stomachache, but less painful. She didn’t know what to say.
“I should go. But can I kiss you goodnight? Just quickly? No one’s going to notice.”
Miranda nodded. The women stepped together, and for a moment it felt to Miranda like she’d never pressed her lips to Andrea’s. But the gentle pressure of Andrea’s mouth was familiar, and she gasped with relief.
***
Miranda sat up in her bed, glancing at the clock to find that it was only three hours into Sunday. She shifted uncomfortably, trying not to wake Andrea. She looked down at the sleeping form next to her, almost unable to believe she was there. Their dinner hadn’t been awkward after the first few minutes, and when it was over neither was particularly inclined to part ways. So they’d talked for a long time, and not just about their relationship and work, topics that had dominated dinner. They talked about their favorite seasons (clothes and weather), and ridiculous things like which drinks and colors and foods they liked the most. They even spoke about Ohio, a place Andy didn’t want to forget, and a very little bit about Pennsylvania, a place Miranda did want to forget but never could. And then it was very late, and Miranda heard herself asking once again if Andrea would stay. This time she didn’t think she sounded quite so desperate, and Andrea took a deep breath and said yes.
She loaned Andrea one of her nightgowns, and they’d both dressed for bed quickly and hardly touched once they were under the covers, as if they didn’t want to push their luck after such a pleasant evening. Miranda wondered if Andrea thought she wasn’t only closeted but was a closeted prude. Maybe it was true. It had been a long time. She worried that instead of simply being frustrated, she was going to turn out frigid—an awful term, probably coined by some clumsy, ineffectual man—even though she knew full well how badly she wanted Andrea.
“You okay?” Andrea asked sleepily.
“I’m fine. I just can’t sleep. Did I wake you?”
“I don’t think so,” Andrea said absently. She sat up and put her arm around Miranda’s shoulders. “I’m sorry you can’t sleep.”
“I can never sleep.” It was an exaggeration, but Miranda didn’t care.
“Aww,” Andrea said inexplicably, and kissed her. They kissed for awhile, their hands grazing each other’s shoulders and breasts. Eventually Andrea took one of her hands away, and moved it under the bedcovers until she found the hem of Miranda’s nightgown, just above her knee. She rubbed the silky material between her fingers. “Mm,” she said. “Is it okay, ah, is it okay if I touch you?”
Oh, help, Miranda thought. “Yes,” she said hoarsely. Andrea’s hand crept slowly up Miranda’s thigh, and she placed her other hand on Miranda’s back and guided her closer, until she was practically sitting in Andrea’s lap with her legs resting on either side of Andrea’s hips. They kept kissing steadily, except for when Andrea’s fingers began to tug at Miranda’s underwear, and Miranda whimpered “oh, God.”
“It’s all right,” Andrea said soothingly. “You’re safe. I’ll stop if you want me to.”
“Don’t stop,” Miranda muttered, and gasped as Andrea’s thumb circled her clit. She was suddenly wet, and Andrea sighed with delight as she sank her fingers against Miranda’s flesh. Then they were both hushed, concentrating, moving slowly together, savoring each other. After awhile Miranda began to pant, and her heart was racing, and couldn’t stop her hips from undulating against Andrea’s fingers. “Andrea…ah!” she cried as she came. She laid back against the pillows, and Andrea stretched out next to her.
There was something about sex with Miranda Priestly that made people a bit mean. Not that she’d slept with such an enormous number of people, but the pattern was noticeable despite the relatively small sample. These men knew Miranda as cold, and pulled-together, and calculating, and suddenly they had her splayed and sweaty and exhausted. It made one feel rough. And smug. But before Miranda had time to worry about fielding any smugness, Andrea’s right hand was meandering warmly across her stomach and breasts, and her left hand was brushing Miranda’s hair from her forehead. “You’re amazing, Miranda,” she said softly. “You’re so beautiful.”
Miranda sighed and pulled Andrea closer. “You don’t have to—” Andrea started to say, but Miranda’s hands were already working on pulling Andrea’s nightgown over her head.
“Can I?”
Andrea nodded, and giggled, and the sound made Miranda smile despite her nervousness. Then the sight of Andrea’s breasts literally stopped the breath in her throat. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness during the previous hours of insomnia, and she didn’t know where to begin except by kissing helplessly at Andrea’s perfection. A great deal of her internal life had been imagined in abstractions, and it was time to realize concreteness.
***
Several weeks later, it seemed like winter was going to cling to New York with a tighter grasp than ever. Miranda groaned as she opened the main door of Andrea’s building and a gust of wind slapped her in the face. “Isn’t global warming supposed to be taking care of all this?”
“Be careful what you wish for,” said Andrea, as she shut the door behind them. “I personally don’t want to see New York under water during my lifetime.”
“I can’t believe we’re taking the subway. For eggs,” Miranda complained. “We could still be in bed.” These days, Miranda’s appetite for bed was almost alarming; she would mention it to her doctor if it wasn’t so humiliating. Andrea didn’t seem to mind, of course, and rather encouraged Miranda’s newfound passion. But this was a Sunday, a rare one they could spend entirely together, and Andrea was insisting upon taking her to some faraway diner for brunch.
“This is going to be the omelet of your life, Miranda. And stop complaining. We agreed, we live my way at my place, and your way at your place.”
“I know, I know.” She wondered if they would ever arrive at anything resembling “their way.” Andrea was already talking about finding a new job, as soon as her year at Runway was through. It would make things easier and harder. They would have less secrets to keep, but would have to start telling the current ones in order to stay together. Soon enough their families would know, their friends would know, and a lot of worthless strangers without anything better to do with their time would think it was their right to know as well. It was unnerving, but Miranda couldn’t bring herself to panic. Not about Andrea; not anymore.
They walked in silence for nearly a block. Suddenly Andrea turned to Miranda, her face serious. “You keep me warm; I keep you warm.”
“What?” Miranda said, though they both knew she had heard perfectly well. Looking straight ahead, she grinned, and slid her arm until her hand rested on Andrea’s back. Andrea mirrored the gesture, and they propelled each other through the cold air and toward the subway station.
