![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
chainofcloversTitle: Five Times Miranda Priestly Tells the Truth
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Rating: R
Disclaimer: The words are mine but the characters are not.
Note: This is an aggressively narrated "five things..." one-shot that got a little out of hand. Writing it was a blast, and it went through a couple of stages before growing into the odd blend of lightness and emotional stress I present to you now. Also, many thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sporkmetender for getting me thinking about what a dream can do.
Five Times Miranda Priestly Tells the Truth
Hey Mrs. Blue,
Time to think of something new
Please pause from spinning those hips
To the old soft shoe
And if you wanna last the rest of the night
There's nothing better I have to do
And if I tell you something you won't have to ask if it's true
--from “Mr. Tough” by Yo La Tengo
ONE: THE KNOWN FUTURE
The first time was in a dream.
In our culture, we like our dreams grounded in the past and to come with a psychoanalytic framework for usefulness, so this dream—this one synapse-fired nightmarish truth—is preceded by backstory.
It was a Sunday evening in mid-January when Andy boarded the train from Boston to New York, relieved to have a seat to herself and a few hours to rest after a day and a half in Nate’s suffocating apartment. Nate’s words from that afternoon echoed in her head, an obviously-rehearsed speech that could have been delivered over the phone, instead of after an uncomfortable weekend of sleeping and eating and talking together but not together: “I don’t think I can wait around for you to get over Runway any longer. It’s been months, Andy. I thought things were going to get better, but they haven’t. I care about you, but I’m tired of going through this, and I really think you need help. Um, so do Doug and Lily.” Andy’s response had been to nod and tell him she would pack up her things and try to get an earlier train, but she as she settled into her seat she couldn’t stop her mind from running through a dozen unspoken responses. They weren’t very clever, but if she liked any of them, the one she liked the most was “But you didn’t wait. You went to Boston.” Still, she was glad she didn’t say anything, and a little bit glad she wouldn’t have any opportunities to do so in the foreseeable future—they’d decided not to call each other for awhile. She knew, deep down, that she was the one who started the leaving. Who tended to leave.
Andy pulled a King Size package of M&Ms out of the front pocket of her travel bag, and ate them in about three minutes, before the train had even pulled out of South Station. Looking down at the empty bag, she smirked. So much for willpower, for making a good thing last. She had a novel with her and a couple of her own articles to look over before she submitted them to her editor the next morning, but knew she wouldn’t be able to focus, especially not after looking around the train and noticing that the woman across the aisle was reading Runway.
That’s it, Andy thought, and closed her eyes. Sleep came surprisingly quickly, and, as often happened, with sleep came Miranda.
Andy had dreamed about her last night in Paris many times before. She never told Nate, but she was stuck on that night more than anything else. Her subconscious had memorized all the details and played them back to her with utter realism: the way she choked back shock as her brain registered Miranda without makeup and pretty clothes, the way Miranda talked about Stephen and the girls and—of all the absurd things—Snoop Dogg, the way she felt powerless and clumsy in the wake of Miranda’s cold, wry sadness. Andy always woke up from these dreams wishing, just once, that she could see her dream-self sit next to Miranda on the couch and tell her she was wonderful and insist that they both play hooky from Miranda’s evening. But even if such an unheard of thing occurred, it wouldn’t replace the reality of the memories that met her each time she woke up: Andy went off and slept with Christian Thompson, Miranda put her makeup back on and betrayed Nigel to keep her career from derailing, and most things that hadn’t already shattered did. Every day following, even as she adjusted to her job at the Mirror and started to enjoy the pace of her new life, she wondered whether the pieces she was picking up were the wrong ones.
Maybe it was the motion of the train, or the feeling that she and Nate had just sawed the last tether between them to shreds, or rapid ingestion of chocolate prior to sleep, but this dream was very, very different. Like always, Miranda wore the grey bathrobe and sat on the couch in the hotel, tear-stained and barefoot, but she wasn’t saying anything about her daughters and seating charts and newspapers. She didn’t seem to care whether or not Snoop Dogg would sit next to her tomorrow, but she did want Andy to sit next to her now. Andy did so, and Miranda grabbed her wrists so tightly the skin stung, and pulled Andy toward her until they were both lying down, Andy on top. It wasn’t a very large couch, and Andy’s wrists burned and the robe was soft and Miranda’s skin was cool. She felt herself starting to cry in the uncontrollable way people cry in dreams when Miranda opened her mouth to speak.
Her eyes bore into Andy’s and her tone took on a low inevitability as she said, “I’m going to do a terrible thing tomorrow.”
Andy had no words, only tears and sensation.
“It’s going to hurt you, and you’re going to despise me.” Still holding Andy’s wrists, Miranda maneuvered her arms behind her head until both women’s arms were hanging over the armrest, and their faces were only a couple of inches apart. Miranda released Andy’s wrists and sighed. “You can hurt me now, if you like.” She closed her eyes, bracing.
And Andy could have: she could have bitten or scratched or name-called. But she didn’t want to hurt her; she wanted to grab hold of Miranda’s shoulders and kiss her puffy red eyelids and tell her to figure out something else, some other way to get the results she required, and—she didn’t do anything at all but sob and wonder at how Miranda was overwhelming her, even from underneath.
“Just don’t walk away from me. Please stay with me.” She looked pained, like she already knew Andy was going to leave. In this dream, all the details were finally different, but they were totally wrong, and awful, and Miranda’s fingers found all the spaces between Andy’s fingers, and she pressed their palms together. Miranda increased the pressure, and an orgasm snuck up on Andy as she lost some mutinous part of herself completely to the whirlpool of grey fabric and perfumed skin. Miranda looked up at her with a strained smile, read the joyless pleasure on Andy’s face, and said, “Me too. Me too.”
She jolted awake to silently suffer the remains of this bodily almost-non-sequitur, painfully aware of her close proximity to other travelers and the loudly turning pages of Runway. Wiping away the tears that were leaking from the corners of her eyes, she glanced down at her watch to see she still had nearly two hours before pulling into Penn Station. Great. Two hours stuck on a train, feeling like she’d just cried her way through misery sex with Miranda Priestly. At least we came at the same time, she thought, rousing herself from her stupor long enough to roll her eyes at her own ridiculousness.
She guessed she really was broken up with Nate. When she was still working at Runway and dating him, and could kind of tell she was starting to feel way too thrilled whenever Miranda didn’t look like she was going to kill her, her mind—conscious and otherwise—hadn’t so much as allowed for a single sexual fantasy involving her boss. Even in Paris, when she and Nate were on a break, she hadn’t indulged. It was like she’d thought of Miranda as some kind of sacred icon, even in the bathrobe. Maybe that was her mistake—mixing up “sacred” with “untouchable.” With “not for her.” She hadn’t made the same mistake with Christian—or at least, the same kind of mistake. Back then, Miranda was sacred and separate, and Nate was special but wearing out, and Christian was a dick. Charming, but a dick.
And now Nate was in Boston, and she’d heard Christian moved to London, and though Miranda would always live in New York, all three of them were—or should have been—gone from Andy. Deciding the other passengers probably already thought she was crazy, she allowed herself a small smile as it occurred to her that she was hurtling back toward Miranda’s city. Her smile grew wider when she remembered that by now it was her city too, and she pulled the least frustrating of her articles out of her bag, ready to try to get some work done.
TWO: MISSING
The second time was Nigel’s fault.
Andy missed him terribly, and also missed talking to people who were not on staff at the Mirror or her parents. It seemed that Lily and Doug were firmly in Camp Nate, at least for the time being. It was sad, but she couldn’t really blame them.
On her way back from lunch about a week after her final return from Boston, she realized it was in her power to do something about the loneliness that had settled into her life. She struggled to remember Nigel’s number, cursing for the umpteenth time her stupidity in throwing that cell phone into the fountain. Her hands shook as she dialed, but most of her tension left in a rush when she heard his voice cry warmly into the phone. “Six? To what do I owe this honor?”
“I miss you,” she said honestly. “And I’m sorry about everything that happened.”
“You should be! You left this place in a mess we had to pretend was cleaned up about a month before it actually was. Finding the new ‘you’ has been hell.”
Andy didn’t know what to say, but Nigel continued, “If you’re wondering, she hasn’t showed up yet. Miranda keeps chewing them up and spitting them out again—even the ones whose starts have been better than yours was. She’s about ready to murder the current girl, but I don’t think she can handle another search for awhile. And Emily’s going to pieces.”
She cringed at the images. “I really am sorry.”
They chatted a few more minutes, reverting to small talk that was only marginally uncomfortable. Finally, as her building came into view, she swallowed her pride, inhaled deeply, and said, “So, my lunch break’s almost over, but I was wondering…would you maybe want to grab a drink or some coffee sometime?”
“I’ll do you one better. I’m having a little get-together at my place on Friday night. Want to come?”
“Um, mostly Runway people?” She wondered if her tone could pass for casual.
“Well, yes, and assorted others. Don’t worry, nobody’s going to chew you up and spit you out. Not in my apartment, they won’t. You’re an idiot, but I like you.”
She sighed. “Thanks. I’d like to come, but…will Miranda be there? I don’t know if I’m up for seeing her.”
He chuckled. “I was waiting for you to ask. She’s invited, of course—” He sighed. “—but I’m sure she won’t stay long, if she bothers to grace us with her presence at all. She’s been a bit of a homebody lately, well, as much as that’s possible. She’s been limiting herself to 60 hour weeks except for the week before deadline, if you can believe that. Anyway, things are getting started at nine, so you should be perfectly safe by 10:30.”
But if Andy was good at leaving, she was also good (too good) at being prompt—early, even. And that’s how, when Friday night rolled around, she found herself standing next to the coat rack in Nigel’s hallway, staring at Miranda as she walked out of the bathroom. Miranda was wearing a knee-length dress in such a dark shade of forest green it was almost black. It looked warm: substantial but not boxy. The neckline was low but not shocking, and an amber pendant glowed against her pale skin. She was beautiful, she was stunning, but she also wasn’t a dream—she was real, standing right there, and Andy had to—
“What are you doing here?” Miranda asked.
“Nigel said…” Andy started before realizing she couldn’t exactly tell her that Nigel had guessed she’d be out of the way by now.
Then Nigel was back in the hallway, holding the drink he’d promised Andy. “You did say on the rocks, didn’t you, Six?” he asked as he held out the glass of bourbon. His expression grew quizzical as he registered the surprise on Andy’s face and the way her hands seemed to hold her coat in a death-grip. He followed the line of Andy’s gaze to its object. “Oh! Miranda, I thought you’d left already.”
“I was in the—” she gestured with her thumb toward the bathroom, not taking her eyes away from Andy’s. “I’m just calling my car.” She didn’t move to find her phone or take her coat from the coat rack, though, and Andy didn’t move at all.
Nigel glanced from one to the other, shook his head quickly, and said “You two be nice.” Miranda’s eyes widened and eyebrows raised, and Nigel disappeared quickly into the living room, still holding Andy’s drink.
“Nigel must be drunk,” said Miranda.
“It is a party,” Andy pointed out.
Miranda sighed. “Yes, it is.”
“So, are a lot of people here? Has it been a fun night?”
“Don’t do that. Don’t you dare pretend this is a normal moment.”
“I’m sorry,” Andy said, immediately hating how quick she was to apologize. She supposed it made sense to be nervous around Miranda after several months away from her. She’d never been able to relax around her former boss. She forced some sarcasm into her voice, hoping Miranda couldn’t hear the way the words quivered: “And how would you prefer I react to seeing you?”
Miranda said nothing for a long time, standing statue-like in her spot that was just a bit farther from Andy than was convenient for a personal conversation. Just when Andy wondered if she’d been challenged to a staring contest without realizing it, Miranda spoke. “I miss you more than I miss Stephen.”
Andy’s mouth fell open, and Miranda looked away. “How’s, ah, your work at the paper?” she asked quietly.
“Practicing what you preach about small talk, huh? Miranda, you put me through hell, and I still don’t know what to make of—”
Miranda stepped forward, not entirely steadily, and placed a silencing hand on Andy’s shoulder. “Andrea. I may have something in common with Nigel tonight, and I am in no state to hear whatever it is you have to say.”
Andy was annoyed, and told herself that the flicker of amusement she felt upon realizing Miranda was drunk could be chalked up to the fact that, as a writer, she often observed scenarios with interest while simultaneously living them out. “Would you rather hash all this out over lunch sometime next week?” she asked, fake sweetness dripping off her tongue.
“Fine,” Miranda said. “You may call me on Monday. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to locate my coat and call for my car.”
Andy nodded slowly, sure her mouth was gaping again, sure that Miranda heard the sarcasm in the invitation in spite of her intoxication. She walked quickly into the living room, ready to chase down Nigel and make him hand over her drink. But no matter how much bourbon she drank or how much perfectly acceptable small talk she made with people who either resented her, were stunned by her, or had no idea who she was, she couldn’t stop thinking about the bomb Miranda had dropped.
Why would Miranda compare Andy to Stephen when they played such different roles in her life? Maybe it was just because they left her within two days of each other, a fact for which Andy still felt guilty. And certainly, Miranda considered them both disappointments. She thought of the dream she had on the train, and how Miranda tried to convince Andy to stay despite seeming to know what was going to happen. Louder than the buzzing in her head and the residual sadness from the dream was the knowledge that she was going to call Miranda on Monday. Her old phone might have been waterlogged in Paris, but that number was a part of her permanent memory.
THREE: RESPONSIBLE PARENTING
Watching someone else eat is an intimate act. One is privy to another’s tastes, and hunger, and thirst. One observes what happens with the other’s napkin, and whether he or she is polite to the server. One must juggle chewing, swallowing, and conversation. Eating with another person is an act of honesty in and of itself. Without it, the third instance of truth might have taken far longer to emerge.
Andy and Miranda ate a lot of lunch. A couple months’ worth, in fact. It was awkward at first, with both women acting out of terrifyingly polite hostility. Andy could admit to herself that fear and anger were making her behave this way, and imagined this was true for Miranda as well, though she would refuse to recognize it as such. Andy made sure to schedule their first lunch on a day she knew she had a busy afternoon, so she’d have an easy out. Miranda didn’t like being a second priority, but couldn’t pretend to find another person’s commitment to work bewildering when she was secretly wishing she’d come up with a work excuse before Andy did. She played off of Andy’s guilt at leaving lunch early and sweetly, politely demanded that they meet again the following week. Andy didn’t know what the hell they were doing, but she hadn’t had a single Paris dream since the night of Nigel’s party, and that was cause for celebration—cause, maybe, for an abundance of lunch.
So they ate together three or four times a month, usually at places inconveniently far from Elias-Clarke and the Mirror building. Miranda kept saying she liked to “get away” from the office; however, Andy knew that more often than not, her business lunches took place at little bistros quite close to work. But if Andy initially felt hurt that Miranda was insisting on keeping their friendship or acquaintance or whatever it was as inconspicuous as possible, she stopped minding after she learned some very important things. She learned that when Miranda asked her how her reporting work was going, she didn’t see it as small talk and was genuinely interested in the answer. Miranda was relatively quiet about her divorce and never complained about the proceedings, but it was obvious from her terse statements on the matter that the process was long and exhausting. And once, after Andy told a funny anecdote from a recent staff meeting and looked to Miranda for a response, she didn’t get the smile or small chuckle she’d been hoping for. Instead, with a faraway look in her eyes, Miranda said, “My daughters would like you.”
It wasn’t much of a surprise, then, when Miranda called late one Saturday morning and said, “Do you have work this afternoon?”
“I was planning on doing a little work from home, but it’s nothing urgent. Technically, I have the day off. Why?”
“Would you be available for lunch at my house, then? I know it’s short notice.”
It was a brisk day in March, and Miranda’s townhouse smelled like weather and flowers. “I always open the windows too early,” Miranda explained. “I can shut them if you’re cold.” She looked like she hoped Andy was not cold enough to say anything.
“It’s fine,” Andy assured her, expecting to see the twins any moment. “Are the girls eating with us?”
“They’re at their grandmother’s.”
Andy suddenly felt acutely aware that she was alone with Miranda. She was used to the presence of other restaurant patrons and a wait staff, or, when they were at Runway, clackers and designers and Emily and Nigel. Their most private moments had been witnessed by Roy, or the driver in Paris, or at the very least, throngs of random people making their way down the street. With no one else around, the energy between them shifted.
They sat down quickly to a lunch of chicken Caesar salad and mint iced tea, eating faster and with less talking than they were accustomed. Neither seemed to know what to do when the meal was over; Andy stood up to thank Miranda and leave when the awkwardness grew too thick.
She pulled on her jacket and they stood together by the front door. Andy swallowed. “What are we doing?”
Miranda pressed her fingers to her temples. “I don’t know.” It seemed to pain her to say the words. “I don’t know what I want, and I don’t know what you want, or how you feel…”
“How do you feel?”
She took a deep breath, stepped forward, and kissed Andy briefly on the lips. She tasted faintly of the mint tea. “Oh God,” Miranda said, but before she could move backward Andy’s hands were on her neck, and Miranda’s hands flew to Andy’s back, and they were kissing again.
Miranda pulled away first. Her brow furrowed. “If you don’t want this, you have to tell me. And if you’re going to leave, tell me before you go. I can’t handle another Paris. And you have to tell me if we need to talk, or if I’m being too difficult. I can’t make any promises, but—”
Andy brought a finger to Miranda’s lips. “Shhh…” Miranda closed her eyes. “Can we just worry about this little by little?” She returned her hands to the back of Miranda’s neck, amazed that her body was something solid to hold onto.
“I have to know that you’ll tell me before you leave. If you’re ever even thinking of it. I can tell you things, too. It doesn’t have to be a one-way street.”
Andy nodded solemnly. “You’ll know. We’ll keep each other informed.” She laughed shakily. “Well, I see now why we didn’t meet at a restaurant.”
Tentatively, they kissed again.
That was almost that. But if a lunch in public after a three-and-a-half month professional estrangement was somewhat awkward, imagine, if you will, scenes from the next several months:
Navigating a relationship around the demanding work schedules of two women (one at the top of the ladder and semi-indispensable, one at the bottom of the ladder and very dispensable) extremely devoted to their careers. Miranda admitting that she hadn’t slept with another woman in twenty years, at which point Andy remembered that twenty years ago, she had been six. At which point they abruptly stopped talking and had fumbling but ultimately successful sex. Almost getting caught making out in the kitchen by Miranda’s first ex-husband, who came in the townhouse to see one of Caroline’s art projects while he was dropping the girls off. The art project was on the refrigerator, and Andy spent twenty minutes in the rather spacious pantry, praying John wouldn’t ask for any soda crackers or canned tomatoes. To keep the peace, Miranda swore afterward that if her divorce from Stephen was final, Andy wouldn’t have had to go in the pantry.
Which brings us to the fact that the third truth—the truth of wanting to be with Andy and care about her rather differently than before—is a two-parter. Originally, Miranda didn’t want to tell the girls about Andy until the divorce was official. But after a few months of displaying nothing more than chaste friendship in front of Cassidy and Caroline, sneaking around had long stopped being fun or novel. “I kept the girls from Stephen for too long,” Miranda said one night over dinner at Andy’s apartment. “It was a mistake.” Andy wanted her to say And of course, Stephen was a mistake, but she didn’t. She did say “You’re different. I want you to feel close to them, and vice versa. And I want them to understand us.”
All was forgiven, and two evenings later, Andy and Miranda found themselves far apart from each other on the sitting room sofa. Cassidy and Caroline faced them, seated in chairs, their legs swinging with identical restlessness.
“Girls, Andrea and I have something to tell you.”
“You’re getting married,” the girls said in unison. Damned uncanny twin-ness. They burst into helpless giggles.
“No!” Miranda cried.
“Oh my God, no,” echoed Andy.
“We were only joking,” giggled Cassidy. She turned to Caroline. “Weren’t we?”
“No one is getting married,” Miranda said firmly. “But Andrea and I have decided that we want to…”
Andy tried to help. “Your mom and I feel that we…”
“We care about each other very much. And we want you to know that.”
The girls nodded slowly. Their legs stilled.
“So, are you, like, going to go out to dinner and to shows and stuff?” Caroline wanted to know.
They’d talked about it. A little. In October, when the divorce would be final, they might appear in public for something more substantial than coffee or lunch. They both knew that coffee looked very different from dinner—and that people were most definitely looking. Before they could answer, Cassidy chimed in. “And have sleepovers?” Caroline pinched her arm and glared, resembling Miranda as she narrowed her eyes at her sister.
“Not all the time,” Miranda said, sort of pulling off the reassuring, maternal tone she rarely used with her daughters. “We’ll still have plenty of time with just you girls and me, all right? But sometimes, yes.”
“Great!” Caroline said. “I knew it!”
“What?” Miranda was shocked.
“Well, you’ve been acting like you did right before you decided Andy was going to Paris last year: kinda hyper. But happier.”
“Yeah, definitely,” Cassidy agreed. “The signs are all there. Plus, um, we saw you guys kissing in the hallway, like, two weeks ago.” This time, Caroline didn’t pinch Cassidy for the indiscretion. “Can we go finish our game now?”
They scampered off, and Andy scooted closer to Miranda on the couch, throwing an arm around her shoulders. “Kids say the darndest things, huh?”
“I can’t believe they saw us. And I am not ‘hyper.’ But I am relieved. That could’ve been a lot worse.”
“Before Paris, huh?”
She nudged Miranda, who huffed indignantly. “You believe everything people tell you, don’t you?”
“If that were true, I’d be out of a job. But when somebody like Caroline, who’s obviously pretty astute about these matters—”
Miranda kissed her to shut her up, but Andy saw the excited gleam in her eye even if it didn’t spread to the rest of her face. And Andy herself felt strangely…perky. Lightheaded, almost, at having everything out in the open—at least to Miranda’s daughters. She realized that even though she spent a great deal of her almost-year at Runway resenting Caroline and Cassidy, a part of her wanted their approval even then.
“Andy, are you gonna come over on Thanksgiving?” Cassidy stood in the doorway.
Miranda and Andy jerked apart, their reflexes having sharpened to razor points over the past couple of months. Thanksgiving was still months away, but Andy supposed it would be important for a kid to brace herself for changes in holiday traditions. “I’m going to Cincinnati for Thanksgiving. I didn’t make it there last year, and I promised my family I wouldn’t pull the same stuff this year. I’ll only be there about twenty-four hours, but all my relatives are getting together.”
“Only twenty-four hours?” Miranda asked. “Maybe you could come for dinner the next evening. I know you’ll be tired, so nothing big…just—” she flapped her hands dismissively. “—turkey sandwiches, etc.” She coughed. “Anyway, that’s months away. Cassidy, I really don’t know why you’re worrying about this now.”
Andy smiled. She really liked the image of Miranda eating Thanksgiving leftovers. “Definitely. That sounds great.” She wondered at the relief that briefly crossed Miranda’s face.
FOUR: OLD-TIME RELIGION
Truth can bubble up, uninvited, at the most unexpected times. It cannot be helped.
“Sometimes I miss being Jewish,” Miranda mumbled into Andrea’s shoulder. “Subconsciously, I think. I’ll remember snatches of Hebrew when I’m in the shower or a meeting, but only the sounds, not the meaning of the words. It’s very strange.” Her hand stroked Andy’s breast. Neither of them were wearing any clothes. They were in bed together for the first time in a week. Unexpected times, indeed.
“Really? Wow.” Andy angled her head uncomfortably away from her pillow, so she could see into Miranda’s eyes. They were very bright, as if she was about to cry. Or laugh. She didn’t do either, though. She just closed her eyes and slid her hand down until her arm was wrapped tightly around Andy’s waist. She was lying on her side, and threw her right leg over Andy’s. The two of them were becoming very skilled at filling negative spaces.
Seldom apologetic, Miranda looked a bit startled. “I’m sorry. That really wasn’t the thing to say…”
“Um, don’t worry about it—”
“I don’t think of it all that often.”
“It’s okay if you do; I don’t mind. I’m not the one whose Jewish upbringing left me trau—I mean, you’ve said you’d never go back.”
Miranda sighed, and didn’t respond. The conversation was over. It occurred to Andy that alluding to a partner’s miserable childhood was by far the more potent of the two mood-killing sentences uttered tonight. “I just want to go to sleep,” Miranda said in a strained voice, although she didn’t sound angry.
The next day was a Friday, and Miranda invited Andy for dinner with her and the girls.
Andy didn’t know what came over her, but as they sat around the table eating lemon pepper chicken with asparagus and listening to the girls’ tales of playing lacrosse in P.E., she suddenly said, “You know Miranda, we could have Shabbat dinner sometime. If you want.”
Miranda placed her hand over Andy’s, under the table. It was a large table, so she had to stretch. The gesture was not romantic.
“Huh?” Cassidy asked.
“A week from now, maybe. Mmm, I’m sure I could find the time to bake challah, maybe late Thursday night. I haven’t in a couple years.” She peeked at Miranda’s face, which was inscrutable, and braided their fingers together.
“Washed down with Manishewitz?” Miranda added, wrinkling her nose in distaste.
“Well, yeah, maybe.”
“I can’t recite Kiddush anymore. It’s been decades.”
“I can, though. And I bet it’d come back to you.”
“Really.”
“Huh?” Cassidy tried again.
Miranda sighed. “The girls’ school is very small. And their friends are WASP-y beyond belief. As you might imagine.”
“Um, have you two developed some kind of code? I don’t understand half the words you’re saying.” Caroline looked incredulous.
“Look who’s talking!” Andy wondered if a little teasing might dispel the shadow cast over the table. “You and your sister totally have your own language. Your mom tells me when you were little she could hardly get you two to talk to her in English, and—”
“Yes, but it’s normal for twins—”
“Let’s just enjoy this Friday’s dinner while it’s still warm. Andrea and I can explain, after we have had more time to discuss it.” Miranda’s grip on Andy’s hand was bone-crushing.
“Sorry,” Andy mouthed, as silent as the rest of their dinner.
After dinner the twins cleared their plates and rushed to put on a movie, abandoning Andy and Miranda to the tasks of dishwasher-loading and awkward theological discussion. Andy suspected that Miranda would’ve preferred to stack the dishes on the counter and leave them for the part-time cook, but Andy started doing her own dishes at the townhouse after the first time she ate there, and Miranda always joined in willingly.
Andy wasn’t betting on an invitation to stay the night, not after the way dinner went, and perhaps it was the kitchen’s close proximity to an exit that gave her the courage to ask Miranda whether or not she believed in God.
The plate in Miranda’s hand clattered loudly when she dropped it into the dishwasher. She sighed and rolled her eyes, looking like she used to look at the office when suggesting that Andy was wasting her time. “No,” she said, as if it should have been obvious. She paused. “Well. Yes and no. Mostly no.” She had never sounded less certain about anything. “Do you?”
Andy shrugged. “Um, I used to say I didn’t, but I don’t think I ever stopped imagining God somewhere. Whatever that means.”
“I usually avoid the issue entirely. Ambivalence is infuriating.”
“I think I have a pretty high tolerance for ambivalence.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“If I get off work a little early on Thursday, can I teach the girls to make challah? I can do it as secularly as possible, if you’d prefer.”
“I suppose there’s nothing wrong with that. I won’t be here, which they’ll probably be happy about. Cassidy asked me the other night why they never get to hang around with just you.”
Andy beamed. “Really?”
“Yes. So make challah with them, and don’t let them sneak any raw dough. Are you staying over tonight?”
“Oh! Sure, sure. I didn’t think I’d be—”
Miranda’s eyes grew stern. She picked up a butter knife. “I love you,” she said, and added pointedly, “And I don’t care who knows it, all right?” It didn’t sound like a confession, or like it hurt her to say it. It was November, and she was nobody’s wife.
“Okay,” Andy breathed, radiant. Neither of them had said the words before. “I love you too. And I also do not care who knows it.”
FIVE: TEXTILE DYSFUNCTION
Sometimes the truth sounds false.
“I love chenille,” admitted Miranda, her voice casual. Andy could tell she was on the defensive, though, when she turned a bit red, pouted, and added, “I’m allowed to love one tasteless thing.”
They were cleaning out a linen closet near the bedroom so Andy could store some of her things at Miranda’s house. It was happening with more and more frequency lately—both the staying over and little Saturday morning organizational projects. It felt as if Miranda and Andy were moving in together at the most gradual place imaginable, probably because that was exactly what they were doing. Andy knew they were going to have to talk about it soon, in a context broader than a single drawer, closet, or nook.
Already, they’d found a few personal things among the sheets and towels, like a box with some of the twins’ old baby clothes, but nothing turned up that compared to the monstrosity Andy held in her hands. It was a massive chenille throw. It was fringed. It was a bright, unabashed magenta. And Miranda hadn’t even tried to blame its presence in her home on her eleven-year-old daughters, which would have been easy to do.
Andy laughed. “One tasteless thing. Yeah, I suppose you’re entitled.” She looked down at the heavy throw and rubbed the fluffy fringe between her thumb and index finger. “Gosh…I don’t know what to say.” She was delighted that Miranda had something this tacky—and admitted to herself that if it was her own, or if it belonged to one of her friends, it wouldn’t be nearly as shocking to behold. It was as if it was tacky only because someone so stylish owned it.
“Well, you don’t have to think of anything, because I have to get ready for my lunch with the Calvin Klein people. It will probably run long.” Miranda flounced down the hall. She paused and turned her head back to stare a challenging stare. “I know it’s hideous. But it’s soft.”
Miranda returned late that afternoon to find that everything worth keeping in the linen closet had been neatly folded and consolidated to take up only two of the shelves. She smiled, pleased, and followed the sound of a clicking keyboard to the bedroom, where Andy sat typing on her laptop at, of all places, the vanity table.
“Why are you working here instead of—” Miranda started, before all her senses were taken over by magenta. The chenille blanket was spread neatly across the bed. “Andrea, that throw has been in the closet for—for awhile now. It must be covered in dust.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Andy said lightly, still looking at her screen. “I took it outside and beat it with a yardstick. The girls held it up for me.”
“You and the girls appeared outdoors with that thing? And a yardstick?”
“Well, we ‘appeared’ on the back porch. Besides, you presumably showed your face in public with it at least once. When you bought it.”
“I ordered it online,” she muttered.
“From what, Pier One Imports?”
“Is there anything wrong with that? The internet...” She waved her hands vaguely. “Strange places.” Andy giggled. “I get absolutely no respect, do I?”
“Actually, Miranda, I’m pretty much overcome with respect for you. More specifically, for your restraint. You could run one article on the subject…or mention a few fond words at a party or something, and inflict chenille upon the whole nation! New York at the very least. It’s too warm in LA. But you haven’t. It’s a true public service.”
Miranda considered this. “Not to mention Paris, Milan…certainly London.” Her mouth shook with the effort to keep from smiling.
That night, Andy discovered that chenille—or, just maybe, her reaction to it—must work as an aphrodisiac or something, because they made love curled up together in the pink monstrosity. And Miranda wanted more of everything: more fingers filling her up, more kisses, more of Andy’s body, shaking and warm against her own.
SIX: BED, AND BREAKFAST
Andy and Miranda are good at nit-picking, huffy silences, and glowering stares, but neither are particularly adept at lying. There are times when sins of omission are easier than pristine honesty. Still, Andy knows how to tell the truth.
Andy and Miranda are also good at sex. They have triumphant sex, and make-up sex, and end-of-the-day solace sex, and myriad other kinds that Andy secretly classifies and tallies.
And somehow, somehow, they have become good at love. Love is the clincher—the reason Andy can’t let this particular truth remain a sin of omission forever.
They are lying under the covers in Miranda’s bed, naked and sleepy and calm after a long night of doing some, but not all, of the things they are good at doing. It’s surprisingly quiet for a Saturday night, though the New Year’s celebrations earlier in the week might account for that, and Miranda’s street never gets particularly noisy. Andy’s thoughts drift back to New Year’s Eve. Her parents, who have known about everything for a couple of months but are just starting to get used to Miranda and Andy in any context other than tyrant and victim, flew in from Cincinnati to celebrate the holiday. Miranda had some gala to attend and wanted Andy to go with her as their first official night “out” as a couple, and Andy wanted to stay at the townhouse and drink champagne with her parents and play board games with the girls until the ball dropped on TV. They’d fought, but then Miranda swept through the door at 11:45 p.m., lips pursed but an apology present in her eyes. Andy kissed her in front of her parents, Caroline, and Cassidy, and no one died, so she decided she was officially, completely a functioning adult. The girls crashed from their Sachs-induced sugar highs and went to bed around 12:15, and the four adults stayed up and drank champagne until Andy and her mother were laughing hysterically at nothing, and Miranda and Andy’s father started discussing baseball.
Miranda shifts slightly, bringing Andy back to the present. It’s warm in the bed but the air in the room is slightly cool—perfect sleeping conditions. Andy hears Miranda’s breathing start to slow down, and is about to murmur “Goodnight” when she is startled out of her sleepiness by further movement. Inexplicably, Miranda picks up Andy’s arm and moves it across her own body, gently circling Andy’s wrist with her thumb and forefinger. When Andy doesn’t take the arm back, Miranda slides her hand up the wrist until they are pressed palm against palm.
Andy’s mind flickers back to the previous January and the dream on the train. Her breath catches, and Miranda looks at her questioningly.
“I, um—you reminded me of something. I never told you before, but…I had a dream about you a few months after Paris. Lots of dreams, actually, but one in particular—the week before Nigel’s party. While I was on the train.”
Miranda is slightly scandalized. She often is. “Well, what made that dream particular?”
“It was kind of a sex dream. A really sad sex dream. We weren’t actually, like, having sex, but it felt like it. We were on that couch in your suite in Paris. Everything was sort of like that one really bad night. You know.”
Miranda nods and grimaces.
“Anyway, to be perfectly honest, it was an awful dream. Full of predictions that I already knew would come true, and you were sad, and I was sad.”
“It was a sex dream? Really? On the train?”
“Yeah.” Andy takes her hand away from Miranda’s and burrows it under the covers, wrapping her arm around Miranda’s waist and snaking her hand across her ribs. “Misery sex, I’d call it.”
“You have a name for it? Misery sex?”
“I, um, like categories.” All kinds of truth. “Misery sex—it rarely happens in a bed, it’s kind of desperate, and you feel depressed before, during, and after.”
“Oh.”
They are quiet for a long time, and then Miranda asks, “What’s happy sex?”
Andy thinks for a minute, and grins. “It’s where you delight in the other person and can tell the other person delights in you, and you go to sleep together. And in the morning, you do things like make pancakes and drink coffee. It’s just—really joyful.”
“Do we qualify?” Miranda asks lightly.
Andy buries her face in the slope of Miranda’s shoulder, and kisses her throat. “Of course we do,” she says against the soft skin.
“Okay. Good.” Miranda smiles at the ceiling.
Miranda wakes up first the next morning. She decides not to disturb Andy, who could probably sleep all day if given the chance, and she slips out of bed, pulling her bathrobe on before she leaves the room. When she gets down to the kitchen, Caroline—always an early riser—greets her from one of the bar stools at the counter. She eats cereal and reads from a chapter book.
“What are you doing, Mom?” Caroline asks as she watches Miranda pull eggs and milk from the fridge and rummage in the pantry for flour and baking powder.
“Making pancakes.”
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Rating: R
Disclaimer: The words are mine but the characters are not.
Note: This is an aggressively narrated "five things..." one-shot that got a little out of hand. Writing it was a blast, and it went through a couple of stages before growing into the odd blend of lightness and emotional stress I present to you now. Also, many thanks to
sporkmetender for getting me thinking about what a dream can do.Five Times Miranda Priestly Tells the Truth
Hey Mrs. Blue,
Time to think of something new
Please pause from spinning those hips
To the old soft shoe
And if you wanna last the rest of the night
There's nothing better I have to do
And if I tell you something you won't have to ask if it's true
--from “Mr. Tough” by Yo La Tengo
ONE: THE KNOWN FUTURE
The first time was in a dream.
In our culture, we like our dreams grounded in the past and to come with a psychoanalytic framework for usefulness, so this dream—this one synapse-fired nightmarish truth—is preceded by backstory.
It was a Sunday evening in mid-January when Andy boarded the train from Boston to New York, relieved to have a seat to herself and a few hours to rest after a day and a half in Nate’s suffocating apartment. Nate’s words from that afternoon echoed in her head, an obviously-rehearsed speech that could have been delivered over the phone, instead of after an uncomfortable weekend of sleeping and eating and talking together but not together: “I don’t think I can wait around for you to get over Runway any longer. It’s been months, Andy. I thought things were going to get better, but they haven’t. I care about you, but I’m tired of going through this, and I really think you need help. Um, so do Doug and Lily.” Andy’s response had been to nod and tell him she would pack up her things and try to get an earlier train, but she as she settled into her seat she couldn’t stop her mind from running through a dozen unspoken responses. They weren’t very clever, but if she liked any of them, the one she liked the most was “But you didn’t wait. You went to Boston.” Still, she was glad she didn’t say anything, and a little bit glad she wouldn’t have any opportunities to do so in the foreseeable future—they’d decided not to call each other for awhile. She knew, deep down, that she was the one who started the leaving. Who tended to leave.
Andy pulled a King Size package of M&Ms out of the front pocket of her travel bag, and ate them in about three minutes, before the train had even pulled out of South Station. Looking down at the empty bag, she smirked. So much for willpower, for making a good thing last. She had a novel with her and a couple of her own articles to look over before she submitted them to her editor the next morning, but knew she wouldn’t be able to focus, especially not after looking around the train and noticing that the woman across the aisle was reading Runway.
That’s it, Andy thought, and closed her eyes. Sleep came surprisingly quickly, and, as often happened, with sleep came Miranda.
Andy had dreamed about her last night in Paris many times before. She never told Nate, but she was stuck on that night more than anything else. Her subconscious had memorized all the details and played them back to her with utter realism: the way she choked back shock as her brain registered Miranda without makeup and pretty clothes, the way Miranda talked about Stephen and the girls and—of all the absurd things—Snoop Dogg, the way she felt powerless and clumsy in the wake of Miranda’s cold, wry sadness. Andy always woke up from these dreams wishing, just once, that she could see her dream-self sit next to Miranda on the couch and tell her she was wonderful and insist that they both play hooky from Miranda’s evening. But even if such an unheard of thing occurred, it wouldn’t replace the reality of the memories that met her each time she woke up: Andy went off and slept with Christian Thompson, Miranda put her makeup back on and betrayed Nigel to keep her career from derailing, and most things that hadn’t already shattered did. Every day following, even as she adjusted to her job at the Mirror and started to enjoy the pace of her new life, she wondered whether the pieces she was picking up were the wrong ones.
Maybe it was the motion of the train, or the feeling that she and Nate had just sawed the last tether between them to shreds, or rapid ingestion of chocolate prior to sleep, but this dream was very, very different. Like always, Miranda wore the grey bathrobe and sat on the couch in the hotel, tear-stained and barefoot, but she wasn’t saying anything about her daughters and seating charts and newspapers. She didn’t seem to care whether or not Snoop Dogg would sit next to her tomorrow, but she did want Andy to sit next to her now. Andy did so, and Miranda grabbed her wrists so tightly the skin stung, and pulled Andy toward her until they were both lying down, Andy on top. It wasn’t a very large couch, and Andy’s wrists burned and the robe was soft and Miranda’s skin was cool. She felt herself starting to cry in the uncontrollable way people cry in dreams when Miranda opened her mouth to speak.
Her eyes bore into Andy’s and her tone took on a low inevitability as she said, “I’m going to do a terrible thing tomorrow.”
Andy had no words, only tears and sensation.
“It’s going to hurt you, and you’re going to despise me.” Still holding Andy’s wrists, Miranda maneuvered her arms behind her head until both women’s arms were hanging over the armrest, and their faces were only a couple of inches apart. Miranda released Andy’s wrists and sighed. “You can hurt me now, if you like.” She closed her eyes, bracing.
And Andy could have: she could have bitten or scratched or name-called. But she didn’t want to hurt her; she wanted to grab hold of Miranda’s shoulders and kiss her puffy red eyelids and tell her to figure out something else, some other way to get the results she required, and—she didn’t do anything at all but sob and wonder at how Miranda was overwhelming her, even from underneath.
“Just don’t walk away from me. Please stay with me.” She looked pained, like she already knew Andy was going to leave. In this dream, all the details were finally different, but they were totally wrong, and awful, and Miranda’s fingers found all the spaces between Andy’s fingers, and she pressed their palms together. Miranda increased the pressure, and an orgasm snuck up on Andy as she lost some mutinous part of herself completely to the whirlpool of grey fabric and perfumed skin. Miranda looked up at her with a strained smile, read the joyless pleasure on Andy’s face, and said, “Me too. Me too.”
She jolted awake to silently suffer the remains of this bodily almost-non-sequitur, painfully aware of her close proximity to other travelers and the loudly turning pages of Runway. Wiping away the tears that were leaking from the corners of her eyes, she glanced down at her watch to see she still had nearly two hours before pulling into Penn Station. Great. Two hours stuck on a train, feeling like she’d just cried her way through misery sex with Miranda Priestly. At least we came at the same time, she thought, rousing herself from her stupor long enough to roll her eyes at her own ridiculousness.
She guessed she really was broken up with Nate. When she was still working at Runway and dating him, and could kind of tell she was starting to feel way too thrilled whenever Miranda didn’t look like she was going to kill her, her mind—conscious and otherwise—hadn’t so much as allowed for a single sexual fantasy involving her boss. Even in Paris, when she and Nate were on a break, she hadn’t indulged. It was like she’d thought of Miranda as some kind of sacred icon, even in the bathrobe. Maybe that was her mistake—mixing up “sacred” with “untouchable.” With “not for her.” She hadn’t made the same mistake with Christian—or at least, the same kind of mistake. Back then, Miranda was sacred and separate, and Nate was special but wearing out, and Christian was a dick. Charming, but a dick.
And now Nate was in Boston, and she’d heard Christian moved to London, and though Miranda would always live in New York, all three of them were—or should have been—gone from Andy. Deciding the other passengers probably already thought she was crazy, she allowed herself a small smile as it occurred to her that she was hurtling back toward Miranda’s city. Her smile grew wider when she remembered that by now it was her city too, and she pulled the least frustrating of her articles out of her bag, ready to try to get some work done.
TWO: MISSING
The second time was Nigel’s fault.
Andy missed him terribly, and also missed talking to people who were not on staff at the Mirror or her parents. It seemed that Lily and Doug were firmly in Camp Nate, at least for the time being. It was sad, but she couldn’t really blame them.
On her way back from lunch about a week after her final return from Boston, she realized it was in her power to do something about the loneliness that had settled into her life. She struggled to remember Nigel’s number, cursing for the umpteenth time her stupidity in throwing that cell phone into the fountain. Her hands shook as she dialed, but most of her tension left in a rush when she heard his voice cry warmly into the phone. “Six? To what do I owe this honor?”
“I miss you,” she said honestly. “And I’m sorry about everything that happened.”
“You should be! You left this place in a mess we had to pretend was cleaned up about a month before it actually was. Finding the new ‘you’ has been hell.”
Andy didn’t know what to say, but Nigel continued, “If you’re wondering, she hasn’t showed up yet. Miranda keeps chewing them up and spitting them out again—even the ones whose starts have been better than yours was. She’s about ready to murder the current girl, but I don’t think she can handle another search for awhile. And Emily’s going to pieces.”
She cringed at the images. “I really am sorry.”
They chatted a few more minutes, reverting to small talk that was only marginally uncomfortable. Finally, as her building came into view, she swallowed her pride, inhaled deeply, and said, “So, my lunch break’s almost over, but I was wondering…would you maybe want to grab a drink or some coffee sometime?”
“I’ll do you one better. I’m having a little get-together at my place on Friday night. Want to come?”
“Um, mostly Runway people?” She wondered if her tone could pass for casual.
“Well, yes, and assorted others. Don’t worry, nobody’s going to chew you up and spit you out. Not in my apartment, they won’t. You’re an idiot, but I like you.”
She sighed. “Thanks. I’d like to come, but…will Miranda be there? I don’t know if I’m up for seeing her.”
He chuckled. “I was waiting for you to ask. She’s invited, of course—” He sighed. “—but I’m sure she won’t stay long, if she bothers to grace us with her presence at all. She’s been a bit of a homebody lately, well, as much as that’s possible. She’s been limiting herself to 60 hour weeks except for the week before deadline, if you can believe that. Anyway, things are getting started at nine, so you should be perfectly safe by 10:30.”
But if Andy was good at leaving, she was also good (too good) at being prompt—early, even. And that’s how, when Friday night rolled around, she found herself standing next to the coat rack in Nigel’s hallway, staring at Miranda as she walked out of the bathroom. Miranda was wearing a knee-length dress in such a dark shade of forest green it was almost black. It looked warm: substantial but not boxy. The neckline was low but not shocking, and an amber pendant glowed against her pale skin. She was beautiful, she was stunning, but she also wasn’t a dream—she was real, standing right there, and Andy had to—
“What are you doing here?” Miranda asked.
“Nigel said…” Andy started before realizing she couldn’t exactly tell her that Nigel had guessed she’d be out of the way by now.
Then Nigel was back in the hallway, holding the drink he’d promised Andy. “You did say on the rocks, didn’t you, Six?” he asked as he held out the glass of bourbon. His expression grew quizzical as he registered the surprise on Andy’s face and the way her hands seemed to hold her coat in a death-grip. He followed the line of Andy’s gaze to its object. “Oh! Miranda, I thought you’d left already.”
“I was in the—” she gestured with her thumb toward the bathroom, not taking her eyes away from Andy’s. “I’m just calling my car.” She didn’t move to find her phone or take her coat from the coat rack, though, and Andy didn’t move at all.
Nigel glanced from one to the other, shook his head quickly, and said “You two be nice.” Miranda’s eyes widened and eyebrows raised, and Nigel disappeared quickly into the living room, still holding Andy’s drink.
“Nigel must be drunk,” said Miranda.
“It is a party,” Andy pointed out.
Miranda sighed. “Yes, it is.”
“So, are a lot of people here? Has it been a fun night?”
“Don’t do that. Don’t you dare pretend this is a normal moment.”
“I’m sorry,” Andy said, immediately hating how quick she was to apologize. She supposed it made sense to be nervous around Miranda after several months away from her. She’d never been able to relax around her former boss. She forced some sarcasm into her voice, hoping Miranda couldn’t hear the way the words quivered: “And how would you prefer I react to seeing you?”
Miranda said nothing for a long time, standing statue-like in her spot that was just a bit farther from Andy than was convenient for a personal conversation. Just when Andy wondered if she’d been challenged to a staring contest without realizing it, Miranda spoke. “I miss you more than I miss Stephen.”
Andy’s mouth fell open, and Miranda looked away. “How’s, ah, your work at the paper?” she asked quietly.
“Practicing what you preach about small talk, huh? Miranda, you put me through hell, and I still don’t know what to make of—”
Miranda stepped forward, not entirely steadily, and placed a silencing hand on Andy’s shoulder. “Andrea. I may have something in common with Nigel tonight, and I am in no state to hear whatever it is you have to say.”
Andy was annoyed, and told herself that the flicker of amusement she felt upon realizing Miranda was drunk could be chalked up to the fact that, as a writer, she often observed scenarios with interest while simultaneously living them out. “Would you rather hash all this out over lunch sometime next week?” she asked, fake sweetness dripping off her tongue.
“Fine,” Miranda said. “You may call me on Monday. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to locate my coat and call for my car.”
Andy nodded slowly, sure her mouth was gaping again, sure that Miranda heard the sarcasm in the invitation in spite of her intoxication. She walked quickly into the living room, ready to chase down Nigel and make him hand over her drink. But no matter how much bourbon she drank or how much perfectly acceptable small talk she made with people who either resented her, were stunned by her, or had no idea who she was, she couldn’t stop thinking about the bomb Miranda had dropped.
Why would Miranda compare Andy to Stephen when they played such different roles in her life? Maybe it was just because they left her within two days of each other, a fact for which Andy still felt guilty. And certainly, Miranda considered them both disappointments. She thought of the dream she had on the train, and how Miranda tried to convince Andy to stay despite seeming to know what was going to happen. Louder than the buzzing in her head and the residual sadness from the dream was the knowledge that she was going to call Miranda on Monday. Her old phone might have been waterlogged in Paris, but that number was a part of her permanent memory.
THREE: RESPONSIBLE PARENTING
Watching someone else eat is an intimate act. One is privy to another’s tastes, and hunger, and thirst. One observes what happens with the other’s napkin, and whether he or she is polite to the server. One must juggle chewing, swallowing, and conversation. Eating with another person is an act of honesty in and of itself. Without it, the third instance of truth might have taken far longer to emerge.
Andy and Miranda ate a lot of lunch. A couple months’ worth, in fact. It was awkward at first, with both women acting out of terrifyingly polite hostility. Andy could admit to herself that fear and anger were making her behave this way, and imagined this was true for Miranda as well, though she would refuse to recognize it as such. Andy made sure to schedule their first lunch on a day she knew she had a busy afternoon, so she’d have an easy out. Miranda didn’t like being a second priority, but couldn’t pretend to find another person’s commitment to work bewildering when she was secretly wishing she’d come up with a work excuse before Andy did. She played off of Andy’s guilt at leaving lunch early and sweetly, politely demanded that they meet again the following week. Andy didn’t know what the hell they were doing, but she hadn’t had a single Paris dream since the night of Nigel’s party, and that was cause for celebration—cause, maybe, for an abundance of lunch.
So they ate together three or four times a month, usually at places inconveniently far from Elias-Clarke and the Mirror building. Miranda kept saying she liked to “get away” from the office; however, Andy knew that more often than not, her business lunches took place at little bistros quite close to work. But if Andy initially felt hurt that Miranda was insisting on keeping their friendship or acquaintance or whatever it was as inconspicuous as possible, she stopped minding after she learned some very important things. She learned that when Miranda asked her how her reporting work was going, she didn’t see it as small talk and was genuinely interested in the answer. Miranda was relatively quiet about her divorce and never complained about the proceedings, but it was obvious from her terse statements on the matter that the process was long and exhausting. And once, after Andy told a funny anecdote from a recent staff meeting and looked to Miranda for a response, she didn’t get the smile or small chuckle she’d been hoping for. Instead, with a faraway look in her eyes, Miranda said, “My daughters would like you.”
It wasn’t much of a surprise, then, when Miranda called late one Saturday morning and said, “Do you have work this afternoon?”
“I was planning on doing a little work from home, but it’s nothing urgent. Technically, I have the day off. Why?”
“Would you be available for lunch at my house, then? I know it’s short notice.”
It was a brisk day in March, and Miranda’s townhouse smelled like weather and flowers. “I always open the windows too early,” Miranda explained. “I can shut them if you’re cold.” She looked like she hoped Andy was not cold enough to say anything.
“It’s fine,” Andy assured her, expecting to see the twins any moment. “Are the girls eating with us?”
“They’re at their grandmother’s.”
Andy suddenly felt acutely aware that she was alone with Miranda. She was used to the presence of other restaurant patrons and a wait staff, or, when they were at Runway, clackers and designers and Emily and Nigel. Their most private moments had been witnessed by Roy, or the driver in Paris, or at the very least, throngs of random people making their way down the street. With no one else around, the energy between them shifted.
They sat down quickly to a lunch of chicken Caesar salad and mint iced tea, eating faster and with less talking than they were accustomed. Neither seemed to know what to do when the meal was over; Andy stood up to thank Miranda and leave when the awkwardness grew too thick.
She pulled on her jacket and they stood together by the front door. Andy swallowed. “What are we doing?”
Miranda pressed her fingers to her temples. “I don’t know.” It seemed to pain her to say the words. “I don’t know what I want, and I don’t know what you want, or how you feel…”
“How do you feel?”
She took a deep breath, stepped forward, and kissed Andy briefly on the lips. She tasted faintly of the mint tea. “Oh God,” Miranda said, but before she could move backward Andy’s hands were on her neck, and Miranda’s hands flew to Andy’s back, and they were kissing again.
Miranda pulled away first. Her brow furrowed. “If you don’t want this, you have to tell me. And if you’re going to leave, tell me before you go. I can’t handle another Paris. And you have to tell me if we need to talk, or if I’m being too difficult. I can’t make any promises, but—”
Andy brought a finger to Miranda’s lips. “Shhh…” Miranda closed her eyes. “Can we just worry about this little by little?” She returned her hands to the back of Miranda’s neck, amazed that her body was something solid to hold onto.
“I have to know that you’ll tell me before you leave. If you’re ever even thinking of it. I can tell you things, too. It doesn’t have to be a one-way street.”
Andy nodded solemnly. “You’ll know. We’ll keep each other informed.” She laughed shakily. “Well, I see now why we didn’t meet at a restaurant.”
Tentatively, they kissed again.
That was almost that. But if a lunch in public after a three-and-a-half month professional estrangement was somewhat awkward, imagine, if you will, scenes from the next several months:
Navigating a relationship around the demanding work schedules of two women (one at the top of the ladder and semi-indispensable, one at the bottom of the ladder and very dispensable) extremely devoted to their careers. Miranda admitting that she hadn’t slept with another woman in twenty years, at which point Andy remembered that twenty years ago, she had been six. At which point they abruptly stopped talking and had fumbling but ultimately successful sex. Almost getting caught making out in the kitchen by Miranda’s first ex-husband, who came in the townhouse to see one of Caroline’s art projects while he was dropping the girls off. The art project was on the refrigerator, and Andy spent twenty minutes in the rather spacious pantry, praying John wouldn’t ask for any soda crackers or canned tomatoes. To keep the peace, Miranda swore afterward that if her divorce from Stephen was final, Andy wouldn’t have had to go in the pantry.
Which brings us to the fact that the third truth—the truth of wanting to be with Andy and care about her rather differently than before—is a two-parter. Originally, Miranda didn’t want to tell the girls about Andy until the divorce was official. But after a few months of displaying nothing more than chaste friendship in front of Cassidy and Caroline, sneaking around had long stopped being fun or novel. “I kept the girls from Stephen for too long,” Miranda said one night over dinner at Andy’s apartment. “It was a mistake.” Andy wanted her to say And of course, Stephen was a mistake, but she didn’t. She did say “You’re different. I want you to feel close to them, and vice versa. And I want them to understand us.”
All was forgiven, and two evenings later, Andy and Miranda found themselves far apart from each other on the sitting room sofa. Cassidy and Caroline faced them, seated in chairs, their legs swinging with identical restlessness.
“Girls, Andrea and I have something to tell you.”
“You’re getting married,” the girls said in unison. Damned uncanny twin-ness. They burst into helpless giggles.
“No!” Miranda cried.
“Oh my God, no,” echoed Andy.
“We were only joking,” giggled Cassidy. She turned to Caroline. “Weren’t we?”
“No one is getting married,” Miranda said firmly. “But Andrea and I have decided that we want to…”
Andy tried to help. “Your mom and I feel that we…”
“We care about each other very much. And we want you to know that.”
The girls nodded slowly. Their legs stilled.
“So, are you, like, going to go out to dinner and to shows and stuff?” Caroline wanted to know.
They’d talked about it. A little. In October, when the divorce would be final, they might appear in public for something more substantial than coffee or lunch. They both knew that coffee looked very different from dinner—and that people were most definitely looking. Before they could answer, Cassidy chimed in. “And have sleepovers?” Caroline pinched her arm and glared, resembling Miranda as she narrowed her eyes at her sister.
“Not all the time,” Miranda said, sort of pulling off the reassuring, maternal tone she rarely used with her daughters. “We’ll still have plenty of time with just you girls and me, all right? But sometimes, yes.”
“Great!” Caroline said. “I knew it!”
“What?” Miranda was shocked.
“Well, you’ve been acting like you did right before you decided Andy was going to Paris last year: kinda hyper. But happier.”
“Yeah, definitely,” Cassidy agreed. “The signs are all there. Plus, um, we saw you guys kissing in the hallway, like, two weeks ago.” This time, Caroline didn’t pinch Cassidy for the indiscretion. “Can we go finish our game now?”
They scampered off, and Andy scooted closer to Miranda on the couch, throwing an arm around her shoulders. “Kids say the darndest things, huh?”
“I can’t believe they saw us. And I am not ‘hyper.’ But I am relieved. That could’ve been a lot worse.”
“Before Paris, huh?”
She nudged Miranda, who huffed indignantly. “You believe everything people tell you, don’t you?”
“If that were true, I’d be out of a job. But when somebody like Caroline, who’s obviously pretty astute about these matters—”
Miranda kissed her to shut her up, but Andy saw the excited gleam in her eye even if it didn’t spread to the rest of her face. And Andy herself felt strangely…perky. Lightheaded, almost, at having everything out in the open—at least to Miranda’s daughters. She realized that even though she spent a great deal of her almost-year at Runway resenting Caroline and Cassidy, a part of her wanted their approval even then.
“Andy, are you gonna come over on Thanksgiving?” Cassidy stood in the doorway.
Miranda and Andy jerked apart, their reflexes having sharpened to razor points over the past couple of months. Thanksgiving was still months away, but Andy supposed it would be important for a kid to brace herself for changes in holiday traditions. “I’m going to Cincinnati for Thanksgiving. I didn’t make it there last year, and I promised my family I wouldn’t pull the same stuff this year. I’ll only be there about twenty-four hours, but all my relatives are getting together.”
“Only twenty-four hours?” Miranda asked. “Maybe you could come for dinner the next evening. I know you’ll be tired, so nothing big…just—” she flapped her hands dismissively. “—turkey sandwiches, etc.” She coughed. “Anyway, that’s months away. Cassidy, I really don’t know why you’re worrying about this now.”
Andy smiled. She really liked the image of Miranda eating Thanksgiving leftovers. “Definitely. That sounds great.” She wondered at the relief that briefly crossed Miranda’s face.
FOUR: OLD-TIME RELIGION
Truth can bubble up, uninvited, at the most unexpected times. It cannot be helped.
“Sometimes I miss being Jewish,” Miranda mumbled into Andrea’s shoulder. “Subconsciously, I think. I’ll remember snatches of Hebrew when I’m in the shower or a meeting, but only the sounds, not the meaning of the words. It’s very strange.” Her hand stroked Andy’s breast. Neither of them were wearing any clothes. They were in bed together for the first time in a week. Unexpected times, indeed.
“Really? Wow.” Andy angled her head uncomfortably away from her pillow, so she could see into Miranda’s eyes. They were very bright, as if she was about to cry. Or laugh. She didn’t do either, though. She just closed her eyes and slid her hand down until her arm was wrapped tightly around Andy’s waist. She was lying on her side, and threw her right leg over Andy’s. The two of them were becoming very skilled at filling negative spaces.
Seldom apologetic, Miranda looked a bit startled. “I’m sorry. That really wasn’t the thing to say…”
“Um, don’t worry about it—”
“I don’t think of it all that often.”
“It’s okay if you do; I don’t mind. I’m not the one whose Jewish upbringing left me trau—I mean, you’ve said you’d never go back.”
Miranda sighed, and didn’t respond. The conversation was over. It occurred to Andy that alluding to a partner’s miserable childhood was by far the more potent of the two mood-killing sentences uttered tonight. “I just want to go to sleep,” Miranda said in a strained voice, although she didn’t sound angry.
The next day was a Friday, and Miranda invited Andy for dinner with her and the girls.
Andy didn’t know what came over her, but as they sat around the table eating lemon pepper chicken with asparagus and listening to the girls’ tales of playing lacrosse in P.E., she suddenly said, “You know Miranda, we could have Shabbat dinner sometime. If you want.”
Miranda placed her hand over Andy’s, under the table. It was a large table, so she had to stretch. The gesture was not romantic.
“Huh?” Cassidy asked.
“A week from now, maybe. Mmm, I’m sure I could find the time to bake challah, maybe late Thursday night. I haven’t in a couple years.” She peeked at Miranda’s face, which was inscrutable, and braided their fingers together.
“Washed down with Manishewitz?” Miranda added, wrinkling her nose in distaste.
“Well, yeah, maybe.”
“I can’t recite Kiddush anymore. It’s been decades.”
“I can, though. And I bet it’d come back to you.”
“Really.”
“Huh?” Cassidy tried again.
Miranda sighed. “The girls’ school is very small. And their friends are WASP-y beyond belief. As you might imagine.”
“Um, have you two developed some kind of code? I don’t understand half the words you’re saying.” Caroline looked incredulous.
“Look who’s talking!” Andy wondered if a little teasing might dispel the shadow cast over the table. “You and your sister totally have your own language. Your mom tells me when you were little she could hardly get you two to talk to her in English, and—”
“Yes, but it’s normal for twins—”
“Let’s just enjoy this Friday’s dinner while it’s still warm. Andrea and I can explain, after we have had more time to discuss it.” Miranda’s grip on Andy’s hand was bone-crushing.
“Sorry,” Andy mouthed, as silent as the rest of their dinner.
After dinner the twins cleared their plates and rushed to put on a movie, abandoning Andy and Miranda to the tasks of dishwasher-loading and awkward theological discussion. Andy suspected that Miranda would’ve preferred to stack the dishes on the counter and leave them for the part-time cook, but Andy started doing her own dishes at the townhouse after the first time she ate there, and Miranda always joined in willingly.
Andy wasn’t betting on an invitation to stay the night, not after the way dinner went, and perhaps it was the kitchen’s close proximity to an exit that gave her the courage to ask Miranda whether or not she believed in God.
The plate in Miranda’s hand clattered loudly when she dropped it into the dishwasher. She sighed and rolled her eyes, looking like she used to look at the office when suggesting that Andy was wasting her time. “No,” she said, as if it should have been obvious. She paused. “Well. Yes and no. Mostly no.” She had never sounded less certain about anything. “Do you?”
Andy shrugged. “Um, I used to say I didn’t, but I don’t think I ever stopped imagining God somewhere. Whatever that means.”
“I usually avoid the issue entirely. Ambivalence is infuriating.”
“I think I have a pretty high tolerance for ambivalence.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“If I get off work a little early on Thursday, can I teach the girls to make challah? I can do it as secularly as possible, if you’d prefer.”
“I suppose there’s nothing wrong with that. I won’t be here, which they’ll probably be happy about. Cassidy asked me the other night why they never get to hang around with just you.”
Andy beamed. “Really?”
“Yes. So make challah with them, and don’t let them sneak any raw dough. Are you staying over tonight?”
“Oh! Sure, sure. I didn’t think I’d be—”
Miranda’s eyes grew stern. She picked up a butter knife. “I love you,” she said, and added pointedly, “And I don’t care who knows it, all right?” It didn’t sound like a confession, or like it hurt her to say it. It was November, and she was nobody’s wife.
“Okay,” Andy breathed, radiant. Neither of them had said the words before. “I love you too. And I also do not care who knows it.”
FIVE: TEXTILE DYSFUNCTION
Sometimes the truth sounds false.
“I love chenille,” admitted Miranda, her voice casual. Andy could tell she was on the defensive, though, when she turned a bit red, pouted, and added, “I’m allowed to love one tasteless thing.”
They were cleaning out a linen closet near the bedroom so Andy could store some of her things at Miranda’s house. It was happening with more and more frequency lately—both the staying over and little Saturday morning organizational projects. It felt as if Miranda and Andy were moving in together at the most gradual place imaginable, probably because that was exactly what they were doing. Andy knew they were going to have to talk about it soon, in a context broader than a single drawer, closet, or nook.
Already, they’d found a few personal things among the sheets and towels, like a box with some of the twins’ old baby clothes, but nothing turned up that compared to the monstrosity Andy held in her hands. It was a massive chenille throw. It was fringed. It was a bright, unabashed magenta. And Miranda hadn’t even tried to blame its presence in her home on her eleven-year-old daughters, which would have been easy to do.
Andy laughed. “One tasteless thing. Yeah, I suppose you’re entitled.” She looked down at the heavy throw and rubbed the fluffy fringe between her thumb and index finger. “Gosh…I don’t know what to say.” She was delighted that Miranda had something this tacky—and admitted to herself that if it was her own, or if it belonged to one of her friends, it wouldn’t be nearly as shocking to behold. It was as if it was tacky only because someone so stylish owned it.
“Well, you don’t have to think of anything, because I have to get ready for my lunch with the Calvin Klein people. It will probably run long.” Miranda flounced down the hall. She paused and turned her head back to stare a challenging stare. “I know it’s hideous. But it’s soft.”
Miranda returned late that afternoon to find that everything worth keeping in the linen closet had been neatly folded and consolidated to take up only two of the shelves. She smiled, pleased, and followed the sound of a clicking keyboard to the bedroom, where Andy sat typing on her laptop at, of all places, the vanity table.
“Why are you working here instead of—” Miranda started, before all her senses were taken over by magenta. The chenille blanket was spread neatly across the bed. “Andrea, that throw has been in the closet for—for awhile now. It must be covered in dust.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Andy said lightly, still looking at her screen. “I took it outside and beat it with a yardstick. The girls held it up for me.”
“You and the girls appeared outdoors with that thing? And a yardstick?”
“Well, we ‘appeared’ on the back porch. Besides, you presumably showed your face in public with it at least once. When you bought it.”
“I ordered it online,” she muttered.
“From what, Pier One Imports?”
“Is there anything wrong with that? The internet...” She waved her hands vaguely. “Strange places.” Andy giggled. “I get absolutely no respect, do I?”
“Actually, Miranda, I’m pretty much overcome with respect for you. More specifically, for your restraint. You could run one article on the subject…or mention a few fond words at a party or something, and inflict chenille upon the whole nation! New York at the very least. It’s too warm in LA. But you haven’t. It’s a true public service.”
Miranda considered this. “Not to mention Paris, Milan…certainly London.” Her mouth shook with the effort to keep from smiling.
That night, Andy discovered that chenille—or, just maybe, her reaction to it—must work as an aphrodisiac or something, because they made love curled up together in the pink monstrosity. And Miranda wanted more of everything: more fingers filling her up, more kisses, more of Andy’s body, shaking and warm against her own.
SIX: BED, AND BREAKFAST
Andy and Miranda are good at nit-picking, huffy silences, and glowering stares, but neither are particularly adept at lying. There are times when sins of omission are easier than pristine honesty. Still, Andy knows how to tell the truth.
Andy and Miranda are also good at sex. They have triumphant sex, and make-up sex, and end-of-the-day solace sex, and myriad other kinds that Andy secretly classifies and tallies.
And somehow, somehow, they have become good at love. Love is the clincher—the reason Andy can’t let this particular truth remain a sin of omission forever.
They are lying under the covers in Miranda’s bed, naked and sleepy and calm after a long night of doing some, but not all, of the things they are good at doing. It’s surprisingly quiet for a Saturday night, though the New Year’s celebrations earlier in the week might account for that, and Miranda’s street never gets particularly noisy. Andy’s thoughts drift back to New Year’s Eve. Her parents, who have known about everything for a couple of months but are just starting to get used to Miranda and Andy in any context other than tyrant and victim, flew in from Cincinnati to celebrate the holiday. Miranda had some gala to attend and wanted Andy to go with her as their first official night “out” as a couple, and Andy wanted to stay at the townhouse and drink champagne with her parents and play board games with the girls until the ball dropped on TV. They’d fought, but then Miranda swept through the door at 11:45 p.m., lips pursed but an apology present in her eyes. Andy kissed her in front of her parents, Caroline, and Cassidy, and no one died, so she decided she was officially, completely a functioning adult. The girls crashed from their Sachs-induced sugar highs and went to bed around 12:15, and the four adults stayed up and drank champagne until Andy and her mother were laughing hysterically at nothing, and Miranda and Andy’s father started discussing baseball.
Miranda shifts slightly, bringing Andy back to the present. It’s warm in the bed but the air in the room is slightly cool—perfect sleeping conditions. Andy hears Miranda’s breathing start to slow down, and is about to murmur “Goodnight” when she is startled out of her sleepiness by further movement. Inexplicably, Miranda picks up Andy’s arm and moves it across her own body, gently circling Andy’s wrist with her thumb and forefinger. When Andy doesn’t take the arm back, Miranda slides her hand up the wrist until they are pressed palm against palm.
Andy’s mind flickers back to the previous January and the dream on the train. Her breath catches, and Miranda looks at her questioningly.
“I, um—you reminded me of something. I never told you before, but…I had a dream about you a few months after Paris. Lots of dreams, actually, but one in particular—the week before Nigel’s party. While I was on the train.”
Miranda is slightly scandalized. She often is. “Well, what made that dream particular?”
“It was kind of a sex dream. A really sad sex dream. We weren’t actually, like, having sex, but it felt like it. We were on that couch in your suite in Paris. Everything was sort of like that one really bad night. You know.”
Miranda nods and grimaces.
“Anyway, to be perfectly honest, it was an awful dream. Full of predictions that I already knew would come true, and you were sad, and I was sad.”
“It was a sex dream? Really? On the train?”
“Yeah.” Andy takes her hand away from Miranda’s and burrows it under the covers, wrapping her arm around Miranda’s waist and snaking her hand across her ribs. “Misery sex, I’d call it.”
“You have a name for it? Misery sex?”
“I, um, like categories.” All kinds of truth. “Misery sex—it rarely happens in a bed, it’s kind of desperate, and you feel depressed before, during, and after.”
“Oh.”
They are quiet for a long time, and then Miranda asks, “What’s happy sex?”
Andy thinks for a minute, and grins. “It’s where you delight in the other person and can tell the other person delights in you, and you go to sleep together. And in the morning, you do things like make pancakes and drink coffee. It’s just—really joyful.”
“Do we qualify?” Miranda asks lightly.
Andy buries her face in the slope of Miranda’s shoulder, and kisses her throat. “Of course we do,” she says against the soft skin.
“Okay. Good.” Miranda smiles at the ceiling.
Miranda wakes up first the next morning. She decides not to disturb Andy, who could probably sleep all day if given the chance, and she slips out of bed, pulling her bathrobe on before she leaves the room. When she gets down to the kitchen, Caroline—always an early riser—greets her from one of the bar stools at the counter. She eats cereal and reads from a chapter book.
“What are you doing, Mom?” Caroline asks as she watches Miranda pull eggs and milk from the fridge and rummage in the pantry for flour and baking powder.
“Making pancakes.”
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-02-04 04:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-02-04 03:40 pm (UTC)