Archive of Our Own

1.

Fucking freesias.

That’s the reason why Ava breaks up with Deborah, and not the other way around.

She’d specifically told the decorators (and had resisted confirming with Josefina) that she wanted jasmine. She didn’t tell them that the scent reminds her of winter back in California, of aimless walks at dusk with Kathy, and of the future rolled out in front of the two of them like a fresh suburban lawn. But it was heavily implied.

It’s easy enough to sugar-coat her annoyance into constructive criticism for the team, even as the second wave of guests filter out through the house and towards the pool, but tonight, at her own birthday party, Deborah suddenly resents having to do it. She can practically see the cartoon thought bubbles hovering above the wait staff’s heads anyway (My boss is a bitch, they’re flowers for fucks sake) and wonders once again why less than 2% of humanity gets it: if you want to kill, everything has to elevate you to that. Even if it’s just a paltry bit of decoration.

So anyway, that’s how she misses Ava’s arrival to her birthday party.

To be honest — something that Ava is always pestering her to be — she’d been a little hurt that the unromantic little shit hadn’t stayed and gotten ready at home with her. There’s only so many times a body can turn sixty-three. Deborah knows. She’s turned sixty-three four times already. 

She’d actually voiced this to Ava, instead of letting it sit quiet and hard inside herself, if only to never have that extremely time-consuming fight again — and Ava had still said no.

‘Kiki has a whole shelf of eye-shadow palettes dude.’ Ava had said, mostly into her oat milk latte, and Deborah had bitten her tongue about the full make-up team she kept on retainer. ‘Besides it’s a DV event tradition by now. We’d probably get sixty-three fake-ass years of bad luck if I turned up unbaked.’ Here, she had mimed aggressively powdering her face with a croissant from the birthday basket Mitchell from the Palazzo had sent. And Deborah had heard herself snort and agree, like the matching yokel she’s apparently become.

(Her little fantasy — one she’s only recently taken out of whatever mental drawer it was collecting dust in —of a house full of friends awaiting her, and a necklace being placed around her neck like she’s Grace Kelly on the Riviera—definitely did not bear mentioning.)

Damien looks like he’s about to stress-cry, so she cuts herself off mid-speech, point made, drawn to the commotion at the door anyway.

“- so cuute, am I right?” 

Bo, a big shareholder from MGM, is already there. He’s had a thing for Kiki since Deborah invited him to play blackjack, and to outbid Marty for her fifteen year anniversary show. 

(Kiki was barely a year out of the strip club then; but she always handled his advances with ease. It helps that he’s roughly 110 years old, attended by a stoic Belarusian nurse, and moves at the speed of a tortoise.)

(And they do really need to find a venue to film her second comedy special. He’s good to have in her back pocket.)

Ava’s voice mumbles something in agreement that she doesn’t quite catch. 

A pleasant warmth suffuses her body. She’s wearing an off-cream silk dress that just hints at cleavage. She’s looking forward to Ava peeling it off her later. Mostly she loses the ability to speak before they’ve gotten a couple of orgasms in. It’s absurdly flattering.

Deborah steps around a throng of guests, acknowledging their greetings with her most gracious ‘do-not-engage’ nod, before she spots them. 

Kiki’s in electric blue, and Bo has already abandoned looking at her face in favour of her cleavage. Svetlana is frowning at Kiki’s matching eyeshadow. But there’s someone next to her who didn’t read the fucking dress code —some moron in a tux when Deborah clearly specified ‘semi formal’ and —

Ava turns around and smiles at her. 

Well, it’s a lot less smooth than that. She turns, blushes so hard her hairline is momentarily obscured, then lifts a hand at Deborah.

Who can’t move. She’s at her own birthday party and (Her writer? Her best friend? Her fuckbuddy? Her employee? Thing 2?) — whatever the hell Ava is— has just shocked Deborah Vance into speechlessness.

Ava’s lips quirk up in a tiny private smile and, misreading the situation as only someone full of millennial overconfidence could, moves closer. Her suit makes a plasticy noise. It’s a cheap one, obviously, and it sits completely wrong on Ava, who’s raising her arms for a hug of all asinine greetings—

“What the hell are you wearing?” Deborah hears herself say in a voice she usually reserves for the Water Cop. Which is ironic because she invited him and managed to greet him just fine.

Ava stops, a ‘hold please’ all but issuing from her mouth, then flushes again, less prettily this time. She drops her hands.

“Umm a tux?” She says, like Deborah doesn’t have a pair of eyes herself “I bought it online —as a joke —but tonight seemed like the perfect—”

More people are filtering in through the house behind Ava. She spots Marty, piloting the Mayor their way, a strained smile on his face. 

Deborah feels the back of her neck start to burn. No one can see this of course — Manny styled her wig in a low chignon for tonights soirée — but surely everyone can see the link between her and her openly bisexual writer as clear as day. Christ, they’re basically a pair of wedding cake toppers.

“Change,” Deborah hisses under her breath, throwing a fake little social smile at Bo, who looks up from Kiki’s sternum at her tone. Ava doesn’t move.

“Right. Now. ”

Ava is still gaping at her like a fish. A big, very obviously gay, fish. A fish who’s said on multiple occasions that she would like to live between Deborah’s legs if that were hygienic or possible.

“Dee —” Ava says, her voice low and concerned, touching her fingertips to Deborah’s elbow so lightly, like she’s a thing that might break —

“Did I stutter?” Deborah snaps, still smiling, but yanking her arm out of Ava’s reach. The burning sensation has spread from her neck to the top of her shoulder blades. It shocks her just how angry she is. 

Ava’s face falls, and Deborah feels a vicious rush of satisfaction. “Oh,” She says. It’s easy to ignore the ping of worry. “Right. Okay —I’ll just—”

She points vaguely into the house behind her, then turns, brushing past Marty and Mayor Pezzimenti without saying hello.

“Deborah! And Bo!” Marty slaps the man’s back with the air of a shipwrecked sailor who’s spotted land. “You know our lovely Madame Mayor right?” 

Bo staggers under this male bonding and Svetlana turns her impressive scowl on him.

Kiki meanwhile has watched Ava go, and leans in. “Umm, not to overstep, but that looked like not the usual heart-eyes and UST.” She says in a low voice “I know the suit kinda sucks, but she was so hyped about you seeing it that I didn’t have the heart to like, crush her.”

“Kiki,” Deborah says, emphasising what she hopes is a happy, careless note in her voice. Mostly for the others. Who don’t appear to give a rats’ ass about the minor disaster that just unfolded in front of them “Let’s keep the advice to blackjack okay?”

“O-kurr girl,” Kiki says, shrugging one shoulder easily “I’ll go and see if she needs help.” She pauses, tilting her head. “She was really excited.”

We both were, Deborah thinks watching her go. And shame on us. 

This whole affair is obviously a disaster in the making. She knows this. Ava knows this. Marcus, Josefina and Damien, who surely suspect something by now, know this.

Deborah should call this off. It’s a terrible idea on every level. The right moment just hasn’t come up. 

But it will. Soon.

*

Ava reappears half an hour later.

She’s lost the jacket, bow tie, and has undone the top three buttons of her white shirt. Instead of aggressively homosexual, her look is now Cate Blanchett in an Armani commercial. Still gay, but hetero enough for government work. 

Well thank god for Kiki, Deborah thinks, even as she notices the way Ava won’t quite meet her eye from across the lit pool.

They had decided against a sit-down dinner together, partially to let Marty suffer under Madame Mayor’s attentions for ‘the maxest time possible’ — but also because Ava had whispered ‘What about all the quickies we’re gonna have during the party? I saw you at D.J’s and that’s when I only had a sex dream and a prayer going for me —now that you’ve topped me, I physically wouldn’t make it past the entrees.’

(Deborah had choked on her bite of sashimi.)

(Then she’d steered the conversation back to strategy on beefing up the offers for a second special. Well, she’d explained that she’d be doing the networking, and Damien and Marcus would be keeping Ava away from any important cishet white men.)

(Ava’s job is to write this second show with her. A show they have only a minimal outline for. Nothing they’ve spitballed so far is big enough. Once you’ve emptied your emotional guts out on stage — you can’t elevate that. Can’t go back to a cushy Vegas comedy routine about how awful straight men are at sex for gods sake.)

(Anyway.)

Now Deborah can’t seem to catch Ava alone. 

It’s childish. At first she sticks close to Kiki who’s talking skincare to Bo in a practiced monotone. 

“— almond oil, coconut oil, jojoba oil-–”

Deborah wonders if Kiki will actually manage to bore Bo to death this time. She hasn’t even gotten to the exfoliators yet, physical or chemical.

For a brief second Ava’s eyes meet hers. They’re red-rimmed, like she’s been crying. Deborah’s stomach takes a funny little plunge, even as she rolls her own at the immaturity of the whole situation. Then Ava looks away again.

“— linseed, olive oil, extra virgin for obvious reasons—“

Deborah turns back to the party at large, and decides to let Ava sulk. 

It might be a private gathering, but she considers executives from major networks close personal friends, so there’s work to be done. 

There’s some exceptions of course. She spends fifteen tedious minutes with Richard from Starz, letting the man think he’s charming her. He’ll want to double his offer if he wants a chance in hell against HBO and Netflix.

As the daiquiris are served, Ava finally grows tired of Kiki’s Bo-influenced personality, and abandons her for D.J.

Bingo, Deborah thinks, watching her daughter pour shot after shot down Ava’s throat, while Aiden nurses a beer on the couch next to them. Could have told you that was your horse from the start.  

Marcus catches her eye, but she shakes her head. Cutting off D.J’s drinks at an event has never ended in anything but a d’juvenile scene. 

Before she can think how to best intervene, Josefina pulls her aside to head off a minor catastrophe brewing around the shrimp aperitifs. 

Later, when she’s back by the pool, talking to one of the local news anchors (Archie? Arthur? Yes, that was it, Arthur: The Once and Future King of Standing Just a Little Too Close to Her) she lets her gaze drift over the party. It’s going well.

Except.

D.J has dug two snot-colored earrings out of her purse, missing a few times as she hooks them into Ava’s ears. “I always have samples with me,” Deborah hears her say, and makes a mental note to tell Josefina to start screening her bag for those too. 

If she hadn’t spent the evening being a giant pain in the ass — and not in the fun way that she’d promised — Deborah might have rescued her. As it is, their eyes meet once again, like their own fucked-up version of telepathy, before Ava looks away. Deborah laughs a little louder than strictly necessary at one of Arthur’s jokes.

The final faux-tapas get brought out at a quarter to eleven, because it’s a Thursday night and everyone here has work the next day. 

Deborah has ordered little charcoal waffle bowls filled with matcha ice-cream for no reason she’ll admit to in a court of law. It’s Buddhist ceremonial grade matcha flown in yesterday from Japan. And Ava hasn't even taken one bite. Next to her D.J chatters on, oblivious to the fact that her drinking buddy is about to keel over.

She feels a spike of something she’s firmly deciding to log as old-fashioned rage, and lays a quelling hand on Arthur’s arm. “Excuse me for just a moment.”

She moves Ava’s half-drunk cocktail first, waving over one of the waiters to take it.

“Mooom!” D.J whines, still mostly sober. Her girl: the rhino. “Not cool!”

Deborah ignores her in favour of Ava.

“I think you’ve had enough,” 

A hush has fallen over their corner of the party. It shouldn’t feel like a kick in the balls every time: no Vance event is complete without some drama for Marty and the obnoxious rest of them to smirk at. 

Ava has just been surprisingly good about not adding to the circus. So far.

(And wouldn’t everyone just think this new act was hilarious? Deborah Vance, lecherous old woman, and the unstable millenial who’s fucking her for clout, or kicks or whatever —)

“You’re embarrassing me, and yourself?” D.J stage-whispers, even as Aiden puts a hand on her knee.

“D.J,”

To Deborah’s surprise, it’s Ava, not Aiden who has spoken. Deborah is even more amazed to see her daughter chastised. She can’t remember that expression on D.J’s face since bellbottoms went out of fashion.

Then, before she can do much more than blink at this eighth wonder of the world, Ava sits up a little straighter. 

“Yeah. Sorry,” She says, still to her feet “I’m gonna lay down for a bit.” 

Deborah loathes their little audience then. If they weren’t here she’d pinch Ava’s face and make her look up. 

“Upstairs.”

And then Ava’s ducked around her, and is walking towards the lit-up house.

“Jesus Christ Mom,” D.J says in her normal voice “And I thought our relationship was fucked up.”

*

The party winds down without any other major disasters. Her constructive criticisms have been heeded, every flower replaced, the band ignores D.J’s more outlandish music requests, and the ‘Happy Birthday’ the crowd gathered around the pool sings to her is a gratifying mix of toadying and genuinely affectionate.

But later, as the cleaners are taking down the lanterns, and she’s said goodbye to the last guests, she can’t help but glance up at the gilded ceiling of the dining room, above which Ava’s bedroom sits. 

(Well, it’s more of a suite at this point. She’d been itching to redecorate that wing of the house anyway, and who did it hurt that she chose touches — light colours, basic bitch modern art, one of those showers that rains on you — that Ava’s mentioned enjoying at some point? The uncultured dumbass spends most of her nights in Deborah’s bed watching The Bachelor anyway — even before all the recent sex.)

(When she bought the house —still giddy with her first decade in Nevada and financial security— there had been painted cherubs on the ceiling underneath. A gauche touch, even by Vegas standards. Tonight she fancies she can still see the mocking curve of a chubby face, staring down at her from the tasteful gilding.)

“You up for a nightcap?” Marty asks from behind her, putting two warm palms on her exposed shoulders. 

Another person might have flinched. Deborah just looks around and realises that they’re alone. The clatter of cutlery still drifts in from the kitchen. 

Deborah shrugs out of Marty’s hold. Takes another step for good luck. 

“It was good to see you Marty.”

He straightens a little. Adjusts his jacket. “It was good to see you too.” He smiles, something wolfish in there even now. Age didn't humble them equally. “What did Netflix end up paying you for the hour special?” 

Behind him Josefina has appeared by the door. She doesn’t look like she’s about to offer him a Diet Coke.

“More than you ever did,” She scoffs, and Marty has the good grace to look pleased.

“You deserve it kid,” He says, and all Deborah can do is picture Ava’s full-body shudder at the nickname. Any other time she would have had a few choice responses to it too, but right now she’s just focused on getting him the hell out of her house. Getting everyone the hell out of her house really, so she can finally see what stick is up Ava’s ass. And then break things off with her. Because she’ll do it. Tonight. 

(Or maybe tomorrow — they do still need to get something down on paper for the second show. And running damage control on a butthurt Ava will definitely eat into their working time for a few weeks.)

Instead of any of that she hears herself say “Well, it’s like Britney said;”

Marty looks at her blankly.

“There’s only two types of people in the world, ecetera, ecetera,” She says, air-quoting vaguely. She’d laughed hard enough to sneeze a glob of Diet Coke out of her nose when Ava had said this. Marty just frowns.

“I actually golf with James and I can tell you this whole conservatorship thing is a big misunderstanding—”

“Oh fuck off Marty. It’s a human rights violation.”

They look at each other for a long moment. Then he sighs, and chuckles, her favourite soft sound of his, his expression turning boyish and genuine. 

“Happy birthday Debbie,” He leans conspiratorially closer “And you’re right as always.”

“Hashtag Free Britney,” Deborah murmurs. He draws back, still smiling, but looking a bit disturbed at that.

Then he’s finally, finally gone.

“Ugh,” She says out loud, turning  back to her blessedly empty dining room.

“Ugh,” Josefina concurs from behind her.

*

Everyone leaves and she doesn’t check on Ava.

Instead she pours herself a generous glug of whiskey, sits barefoot at her office desk, and reviews the Instagram stories her new social media team have put together for her birthday. They’re kids who say things like ‘xoxo’ and ‘girlboss’ out loud, and she’s never leaving Ava and them alone in a room together. 

The clips they’ve chosen are from the last tour and the hour special, plus a few of her —young and shiny and dumb —in some early interviews. Kathy still has the rights to the sitcom footage, and she’ll pay for Marty’s next round of hair implants before she gives that woman a single red cent.

If she’s really being honest —if only with herself—it makes her nervous. Everything that this Deborah Vance Renaissance touches does. It somehow voids everything that came before it.

(Objectively, she knows she did well — she’s surrounded by hard evidence of that —but it still unsettles her that the new fans don’t care much about the thirty years in between. Well, except to perv on their little internet blogs at how hot she was. Ava showed her three fan accounts before even she couldn’t take the second-hand embarrassment.)

By the time she’s finished her second tumbler, her stomach warm and her tongue loose, and Ava still hasn’t emerged to unpack their emotions in cringe-worthy detail, well, she starts to get nervous in a whole other way.

There’s no reason. 

Ava’s probably just passed out in cheap polyester blend and bad decisions. She’ll wake up tomorrow and Deborah can still let her down (easy, gently, like something that might break) over those crabrolls she always wolfs down like they’re the first food she’s seen in days.

Deborah’s had plenty of practice. The only difference is she wants the dumpee to keep sleeping in her bed after —if she hasn't drunk herself to death.

Suddenly, she sees D.J’s first overdose  — it’s always the first one, the one that surprised and scared the living shit out of her — all that vomit and clammy skin — and she’s up, and on the stairs, before she fully understands where her legs are taking her.

She knocks on Ava’s door. “You alive in there Amy Winehouse?”

If she expected Ava to rip open the door and tell her how incredibly crass it is to make a joke about someone who died of alcohol poisoning, she’s disappointed. There’s no reply. She waits another moment, then turns the door knob, eyes adjusting slowly to the dark room.

The bed is empty. Deborah sways on her feet another minute.

“Oh for fucks—”

*

She calls D.J while stalking back and forth in her garage. 

None of her very expensive and very safe cars are missing. What is missing is the actual piece of shit Ava bought off eBay for a thousand bucks, right before she moved in. Deborah has considered asking Damien to slash the tires, but so far they’ve always just tricked Ava into driving something with working airbags.

D.J picks up the third time she calls her.

“Oh my god! What Mom?! Are you dying? Can it wait until, like, a normal hour?”

“Is she there with you?”

“Who— ” D.J starts before cutting herself off with a theatrical groan “Why do I even ask. No, your light-weight employee of the month is not currently in my marriage bed. Don’t worry, I know how possessive you get.”

Deborah hears Aiden say something, gruff and sleepy in the background. D.J ignores him.

“Have you tried calling her?”

“Of course I’ve tried calling her! Her cell’s on fucking do-not-disturb!”

Shit, she did not mean to sound that panicked.

D.J’s quiet for a long minute.

“Okay,” She sighs “Okay. Have you tried tracking her phone?”

“How the fuck would I do that?”

D.J gives another martyred sigh. “Do you know the passcode to like one of her devices? Or is that too Who’s Cooking Dinner even for you two?”

Deborah blinks. She does in fact know the passcode to Ava’s iPad. 

(Because while she’s content with her notebook, Ava works like an unsupervised child at a birthday party; on post-its, and scrap paper and, worst of all, the Notes app on her phone. Damien had set up a Google Docs for them as a compromise. But sometimes she still needs to cross-reference an old joke with a new one, so sometimes she needs access to Ava’s iPad full of notes from the digitisation. It’s not that big of a deal.

‘This is a B.F.D.’ Ava had said at the time, widening her eyes. ‘A Big Fucking Deal. You are crossing some serious digital boundaries right here. I mean Ruby and I tried sharing an Evernote account once and it was a disaster.’

‘My hand was literally in you last night. Basically to the wrist.’ Deborah had replied, blandly ‘And I’ve already seen your ‘Aspirational Linen’ pinterest board. Nothing could be more embarrassing than that’.

‘It’s a B.F.D Debs.’ Ava had repeated, flushing, but not rising to the bait.)

“Mooooom?”

“Yes,” She says, quickly “Yes, I know it. But how am I meant to—”

“Okay. Oh my god, I’m so not doing tech support for you over the phone again, and I’ve got a trade show that I have to be up for at the ass-crack of dawn tomorrow—”

Deborah waits. She’s not exactly sure for what. Finally, D.J groans again.

“Aiden, wake up sweetie, I need a favour.”

*

“I think that’s it,” Aiden says next to her. He’s pointing at a lone diner off the Interstate 15 to their right. 

There’s a red sign flashing ‘WE ♡ PENNY PLAYERS’. The wind whistles faintly outside the windows. Ava’s car sits alone in the dusty parking lot. Aiden pulls up next to it. Takes a deep breath, and turns to her with what is a horrifyingly empathetic expression.

“Want me to come with you?”

I’d rather spend the rest of the evening with Perla, Deborah thinks and says “No thanks sweetie,” instead. He looks a bit too relieved at that.

The ride together was weird enough. He’d shown up to her house without D.J, taken Ava’s iPad and pressed a few buttons, the tips of his ears red, until it had spewed out a set of coordinates. Then he’d insisted on driving her. 

And it’s not like Deborah hasn’t done worse with more than two itty-bitty glasses of whiskey in her system, than drive; but there was something endearing to how visibly uncomfortable he was with the idea, and had offered anyway. 

(She tries not to allow herself the hope that D.J really has found the only decent man in Las Vegas. She doesn’t fully succeed.)

Through the windshield she can see the diner, Hopper-style. The short-order cook and waitress move around alone. She can’t see Ava, but the plastic booth dividers are tall and the little shit is good at making herself small.

She’s not sure why she hasn’t started moving yet. Aiden keeps sneaking glances at her very furtively, for all the full-on eye-contact he can maintain at a weigh-in.

“Alright Aiden,” She smiles, a classic D.V-fuck-off-now smile, and wonders how much D.J has guessed and told him. It is once again very clear that she has to end this before it seeps any further into their lives. “You head home to your beautiful wife now. I’ll catch a ride home with the Cooler King in there.”

Then she makes herself get out of the car without looking back. 

The bell chimes when she walks in. Ava sits next to the window at the back, in her let’s-get-balls-to-the-wall-high outfit, with what appears to be every item from the breakfast menu spread out in front of her. She doesn’t look up when Deborah slides into the seat across from her, just continues hacking at her bacon.

“Ava—”

Ava drops her fork and begins to stuff a whole waffle in her mouth by hand. God, sometimes Deborah still can’t believe she apparently wants to have sex with this person on a regular basis.

“ — feelings huddle?”

Ava finally looks at her. Like a full-cheeked hamster considering murder, but still. Deborah can work with that.

“You made fun of me for a solid five minutes last time I said that. I know , because I looked at the clock —you know what?” Ava swallows the rest of the waffle, and coughs. “Fine. Feelings huddle. Bring it.” 

“I’m sorry I’m not as hip as you want me to be—”

“Oh my god Deborah, that’s so not the fucking issue.”

Her full name falls like a slap from Ava’s mouth. Deborah flinches. Of course the self-involved little shit doesn’t notice. She’s folded her arms, slunk into her seat, and is frowning at the stripe of visible desert floor outside. Deborah tries shutting up herself. They’re obviously not getting anywhere with words.

“I can’t believe you farmed Kiki out to that creep.” Ava says after a moment.

“Excuse me?” 

“That old, rich guy. He was practically drooling on her. It was not a vibe.”

“Well, I wasn’t the one who abandoned her to get hammered with an addict. People in glass houses.”

Ava’s still not looking at her. But Deborah catches the faint flush in her cheeks. It doesn’t make her feel as vindicated as usual.

“The worst part was that she expected it. Not just from him — but from you. It was so fucked.”

Deborah tries to imagine the third wave feminism reading list behind that, and gives up. Ava’s cast her as the bad guy, and that’s the bottom line. She won’t defend a mutual understanding Kiki and her have had since day one. Not to this naive idiot.

After another long silent moment, Ava angles her head half-back towards Deborah.

There’s something in her eyes that Deborah does not care for right now. It’s entirely too open. One of them better make a joke soon, or they’ll head into completely uncharted territory. Puns are good. So are celebrity impressions. Just as Deborah’s deciding between the two, Ava seems to have come to a decision.

“I think I gotta move out.”

Okay, fuck getting called by her first name. This feels like a slap. And also Deborah was going to break up with her — and she still will somehow, even if it kills her— Ava will not get the upper hand here—

Deborah realises that she’s not breathing. Worse, that she can’t. She’s sitting in a shitty diner in the middle of the desert — she’s just been dumped by a person wearing a Red Sox jersey and sweats —and she cannot fucking breathe.

“Dee?” Ava’s fully turned back to her now, eyes widening, and even that isn’t enough because whatever this is has her now, is lumbering to its feet with her firmly caught in its grip —

“Hey,” Ava is next to her. Her arm is solid around Deborah’s waist. “Hey. Look at me—”

Deborah does. Ava is so good at making herself unattractive with bad clothes and terrible hair that it’s always a small shock to be this close to her and discover what a pretty woman she actually is. 

“ — you do not get to die dramatically before you’ve finished being an asshole.”

“Guess I’m going to live forever then.” Deborah manages after a pause that’s lasted way too long. And talk about embarrassing — Ava basically set that one up for her. Even if she snorts now, still clutching Deborah with her ridiculously large hands.

They stay still another moment. Ava rests her chin on Deborah’s shoulder. It feels good. 

(No, it feels infantile. They become touch-starved and infantile around each other. They’re a terrible match. She should have called this off weeks ago. Should have never let it happen in the first place. Ava’s worth too much to lose over this . Not after they survived that email together. Not when they still have so much work to do.)

“I gotta move out,” Ava mumbles into her shoulder “Only for a little bit. Sort my shit out.” 

Deborah fights the full-body shiver that threatens at Ava’s warm breath on her neck. 

(This morning Ava had to be physically pushed off her so she wouldn’t suck a mark into existence. She wants that hickey now, even if it means high-collared blouses and questions from her make-up team for the rest of the week. )

Breathing is easier again. She turns a little to check if the waitress and the short-order cook can see—

Ava moves away. “Yeah. Shit like that is extremely why.”

“I have a reputation,” As do you, Deborah can’t quite bring herself to continue.

“And like a million queer zillenial fans who would pay for you to step on them.”

Deborah rolls her eyes. “Do you have any idea how this industry works? I’m up now, but there’ll be some new jiffable special on Netflix next month, and all your little millennials will move right on—”

“It is pronounced GIF. Hard G. And yeah, then you’d have to rebrand your whole act again and start off fresh.” This close Deborah can see the sheen in Ava’s eyes. It’s startling to hear her own worries parroted back to her, near word for word. 

Deborah blinks at her, completely dumbstruck for the second time in twelve hours. Someone should call the Guiness World Book of Records.

“I get it,” Ava says “The act’s not forever. I’m not forever. Why fuck up the brand?”

She gets up, stomps out. Then she returns. “You didn’t tell Aiden to wait did you?”

Deborah can only shake her head.

*

The car ride back is the weirdest one they’ve shared yet.

“Do you really think—”

“Dee, do me a favour and pretend really hard that you didn’t fucking hitchhike here, when you own like fifty cars, so I can pretend really hard that I’m storming off in peace?”

Deborah raises her palms and mimes zipping her lips. Ava stays true to her word and looks at the Interstate for the whole drive. Deborah finds herself looking at everything but her. The road ahead of them, the dark shapes of the desert, the stars.

Miraculously, Ava’s car doesn’t blow a tire. They roll into Deborah’s front driveway peacefully. Deborah jerks out of her trance, the acrid taste of panic starting to claw its way up her throat.

“Honey—” She starts again.

“Deborah.” Ava says, breathing in “Please don’t. Don’t call me any vintage pet names. Just let me be sad and mad — smad if you will —in my own space. You’re kind of fucking overwhelming sometimes.”

That certainly doesn’t feel like a compliment.

“Okay,” She says. Ava looks over, rightfully suspicious of how easy that was. “Can I at least get one kiss? As the birthday girl?”

Ava scoffs, but she leans in, and brushes her lips to Deborah’s. 

Deborah opens her mouth and goes for it. Ava groans. Deborah palms her hip. She’ll fuck her in this piece-of-shit car, security cameras be damned, if that’s what it takes —

“No,” Ava hisses, and swats Deborah’s hands away from under her shirt. “Dude, stop.” 

She’s crying. Not sobbing like at her Dad’s funeral. Just letting the tears run down her face, making no attempt to hide or wipe at them, arching her face away. Deborah feels something throb, sharp and painfully, in her chest.

“Ava,” She says, helplessly.

“Please get out. Please, Dee.”

Deborah gets out.

*

Friday. She starts the day attending a charity brunch at the Bellagio, and ends it failing to find out where Ava’s holed up. 

Marcus blinks like a serial-killer, and won’t speak until she’s returned to the safe topics of apparel distributors. Urban Outfitters wants to reprint a bunch of her old show posters as faux-vintage tees, and he wants to push for more residuals. Maybe she shouldn’t have invited the Water Cop to the party without warning him.

Damien and Josefina are even less help. They fall silent after Deborah casually asks them when Ava came by to pick up the most important part of her junk. What kind of car she was driving and was anyone with her? She sees them giving each other what can only be termed a Look™ in the reflection of the soda machine. 

She could call Kiki, or even D.J again, but that would feel like admitting something. Something she’s definitely not admitting with a few casual questions to her team. 

Still — she makes it through the afternoon without any phone calls, but when the house staff have left for the night, she finds herself dialling Ava’s cell before she’s quite realised that’s what’s happening.

Ava picks up after one ring.

“Hey,” 

“Hey yourself,” Deborah says, going for light and airy and hitting God-knows-what. “The U-Haul cliche also applies in reverse I see.”

Ava snorts. “As if, lady —I’m an essential NPC at the Cheesecake Factory 5ever.”

“I don’t know what any of that means.”

Ava groans on the other end of the line, but Deborah knows she enjoys being faux-outraged just as much as Deborah enjoys being unhip. Ava showing her YouTube videos is basically a love language at this point.

There’s the sound of water running.

“You’re taking a bath?” Deborah asks, wondering if she can narrow her search down by bathroom style. AirBnB has a filter for that right?

“No, you creep,” Ava says “I’m getting a glass of water.”

“To drink?”

“Nah  — I’ll have a sip and it’ll become a part of my furniture for the next few days.” Ava always talks more nonsense when she’s nervous “Like a modern art sculpture about the state of consumerism versus the world’s depleted fresh water reserves.”

“So James Joyce’s Portrait of the Artist as a Young Hypocrite?” Deborah deadpans.

“Hey—” 

“Alright, calm down,” Deborah relents, rolling her eyes. She touches one of the antique china vases by the door. There’s no dust on it, but she can’t remember the last time she looked at this stuff. “Any idea when you’re coming back?” She asks, casually.

Ava goes quiet for a moment which Deborah has to physically restrain herself from breaking.

“I don’t know Dee.” She says finally, and she sounds small, voice drained of any of her usual bravado.

Deborah wants to ask —‘but you will eventually?’ — except that she’s realising she can't handle any other answer except yes. So she doesn’t ask. They’re quiet together for a moment longer.

“You gonna show up for work on Monday?”

“I don’t know —will Marcus and the other D.Villagers come after me with pitchforks and lit torches at the gate?”

“That doesn’t work sweetie. But he does want to talk merchandise branding, so we need to pick out some spicy one-liners from the show.”

“Spicy huh?” Ava laughs. “I don’t know —I’m really feeling the self-care ATM, and you two in product-placement mode are like, the opposite of relaxing.”

“Millennial self-care is just an excuse to cancel with short notice.” Deborah snaps before she can help herself. Ava laughs again, but it’s fond, and makes her feel like they’re back on script.

“Speaking of self-care —” 

She lets her voice drop a little, and is rewarded by a very different kind of silence on the other end of the phone.

“Are you alone?”

“Deborah!”

“Well? ” She snaps “Are you?”

“You said you’d never! You said phone sex was for sex-starved teenagers and middle-aged politicians!”

“Do you want to do this or not?”

“Of course I want to do this dude,” Ava says, and Deborah feels something that had been tight in her chest loosen a little “But you, like, kink-shamed me more about this than the ‘good girl’ thing.”

Deborah’s bites back a smile until she remembers that Ava can’t actually see her.

“Well aren’t you my good girl?”

Ava breathes in sharply.

“Touch yourself,” Deborah says, quietly in her empty bedroom in her empty mansion. “Be my good girl, and touch yourself.”

“Where?” Ava says, antagonistic to the bitter end. Deborah wishes she was here in person. She’d wipe that look right off her stupid face.

“Your tits,” She says instead. “Touch your tits for me Ava.”

There’s another little intake of breath. Then a sigh that Ava cuts off before Deborah can fully bask in it. Well that’s just not going to fucking cut it.

“Squeeze them,” She says, sitting down hard at the edge of her bed. “Pinch your nipples.”

“Kinky,” Ava quips, but Deborah hears the rustle of the phone getting readjusted against her ear. 

“Is that what you want honey?” She continues, ignoring Ava’s rambling. “Is that what would make you wet right now? Thinking about how I’d pinch you, and bite you and hold you down?”

Ava moans. Deborah closes her eyes. Wills herself to focus.

“You know I fantasised about choking you a couple times now.” She begins again, feeling an unexpected surge of bitterness rush in at this admission. “How about it baby? My hand around your throat and my fingers in your mouth. Is that what you want?” She’s never said anything like this to any of her previous partners. They’d have run a mile before she finished speaking. “Would that get you off?”

“God, Deborah—” Ava sobs, and it’s not entirely arousal anymore. She sounds pained. “You can do anything you want to me and I’d still—” She groans.

Deborah gentles her voice. “I’d kiss you after. I’d make you drink my spit until we’re both dizzy—”

“Can I touch you?” Ava breathes.

“No,” Deborah says quickly before she can think through why not. “No, baby. Tonight I want to be inside you until you can’t remember your own name.”

Ava makes an inarticulate sound. There’s a crackle on the line, then she says “Whoops —sorry! Dropped the phone.”

Deborah rolls her eyes. “Are you still touching yourself?”

“Yup, haven’t stopped.”

“What are you wearing?”

“I think you’re meant to ask that at the start of the phone sex—”

“Ava,”

“A flannel and some Dad jeans.” Ava replies in her meanest voice.

“Well, if you want me to hang up you could just say—”

“Oh my god, I’m butt-naked on the bed. And just for the record I know flannel does something for you. You mentioned it in your set in the eighties like fifty times. It was a little gay Deborah.”

Deborah ignores that. She knows Ava would love to have nothing more than a long conversation about her sexual orientation, and she will keep dodging that bullet until she’s dead. 

(This whole thing between them feels like getting hit in the face with a cream pie anyway, and she won’t unpack all the relationships before this trainwreck. No matter what Ava says about ‘facing her truth’. All it will make her feel is sad.)

“Butt-naked huh?” She says sweetly instead “Have you considered switching genres to erotica? You’d kill with lines like that. I’m so turned on.” 

“I’m naked and wet and I need you to fill me,” Ava grits out “Is that Playboy bunny enough for you Hugh Hefner?”

Her arousal is back so quickly it shocks her. It always shocks her with Ava. They can go from cackling with laughter to being unable to speak in 0.03 seconds. It feels like the acceleration on her newest Porsche. One minute she’s here and the next she’s gone.

“Yeah,” She manages.

“Yeah?” Ava says, her voice dropping into a low, hypnotic register. Deborah squeezes her legs together. “How about you Dee? You naked for me?”

She looks down at her silk pyjamas. “Yes,” She lies, because it’ll make Ava happy.

“What do you wanna do?” Ava slurs, sounding almost drunk now. “Might be fun to use the strap-on again?”

The low throb in her stomach prevents Deborah from doing much more than inhaling sharply. 

“I think it would be cool if I wore it this time,” Ava continues, and Deborah closes her eyes. She can see the smooth expanse of Ava’s back the last time they used the toy. She can see the sweat beading on her skin. It had made her feel an unholy amount of powerful to run her hand up Ava’s spine while she fucked her.

“Hmm,” She manages, and Ava snorts. It’s not a very nice snort.

“Figures,” She says, almost under her breath. Deborah stiffens.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ava sighs, and Deborah hears the rustle of sheets as she sits up.

“For someone who used the words ‘radical vulnerability’ on a podcast last week, you are really fucking uptight, lady.”

Deborah doesn’t know what to say to that. She’s done kinkier shit in bed with Ava than with all of her previous sexual partners combined. Not that she will ever admit that to Ava. She’s even stopped her fake breathy moans because Ava told her they were a turn-off. Deborah Vance is a person who grunts during sex now.

“Well, I have this annoyingly woke writer who likes to put words in my mouth—” She tries. Her voice sounds brittle even to her own ears.

Ava stays silent, so she closes her eyes and drops the fake cheer. “Okay, you’ve done plenty of things to me that I wouldn’t just let any schmuck off the street do—”

“And you still manage to be an absolute dick about the whole thing.” 

Deborah feels the first flash of anger through the haze of her rapidly disappearing arousal.

“If there’s something you want to say, just fucking say it Ava. I can’t read your mind you know,” 

There’s a long pause.

“I guess it’s just fucking weird,” Ava says, obviously reluctant now.  Deborah rolls her eyes. Ava can surprise her with her own ‘radical vulnerability’ and still act like a complete ass in the same phone-call.

“Spit it out. I can’t believe one fashion faux-pas caused all of this angst.”

Ava takes a deep breath. “Okay. Okay yeah. I guess we’re doing this now.”

Deborah tenses.

“I guess the thing is—” Ava starts, and stops again. 

Deborah has to physically bite her tongue to tell her to get to the fucking point already so she can fix it, get Ava back home, stinking up the place with her vaping, and snoozing through the first three alarms she sets for herself. Even if they do have to call this off sooner than later. She will not lose Ava to this. She fucking won’t. 

“The thing is—” Ava says, sounding less cowed but still weird “The thing is I just moved into your mansion and essentially became your wife with no dating and like zero public acknowledgment.” 

There’s a long moment of very unsexy silence.

“I don’t recall adding my twenty-seven year old fuckbuddy to the property deed—” Deborah says, before she cuts herself off. 

“Yeah. Cool. ” Ava sounds like she’s choking on something. The edge of hurt in her voice is unmistakable “That was just an expression. All the cool queer kids have wives now. But I mean my basic argument still stands. You never want anyone to know about us, and it like fucking sucks alright?”

Deborah pinches the bridge of her nose. “We’ve talked about this. It would be incredibly damaging to both of our careers if this came out. We could lose all the offers for a second hour. Which we still haven’t even fucking drafted.”

“Yeah, but here’s the thing, I don’t think we would.”

“If you’re going to bring up Sarah Paulson and Holland Taylor again, I will hang up right now—”

“No,” Ava says quickly “I just think that it’s 2K21. The new roaring twenties. And I think you’re underestimating the fanbase—”

“—I don’t think that’s physically possible—”

“—and you’re underestimating our thing.”

“Oh no, please forgive me for underestimating the grand potential of ‘our thing’. I’m sure Shakespeare couldn’t have come up with a more romantic name for it than that—”

“But that’s the point! Everytime I try to call it anything, you freak the fuck out and make me feel like I’m all alone in this.”

“All alone in what?” Fuck, she’s really mad now. “Being an ungrateful shit who’s going to ruin the comeback I worked very fucking hard to pull off? Alone in embarrassing me at my own birthday party? Or in having the emotional maturity of a teenager? Which is what you were practically five minutes ago—”

“No, you asshole!” Ava shouts “Alone in being in love with you!”

They’re both silent for a long, horribly drawn-out moment. Deborah’s chest feels tight. Her tongue is about five sizes too big for her mouth. Half a dozen men have told her they loved her —usually surrounded by candlelight and rose-petals and a position of power —no one has ever called her an asshole in the same breath before.

“Okay, well I guess that answers my next question,” Ava finally says “TTFN, gonna drown myself in the pool now.”

And with that she hangs up.

Deborah stares at her homescreen for a second, before wiping her nightcream off it, and pressing on Ava’s contact details.

It goes straight to voicemail.

She tries again.

Fucking voicemail.

“Ava,” She finally hisses after the beep “You do not get to drop that on a person, then threaten to commit suicide and hang up. It’s cruel even by your standards.”

Ava, the absolute little shit, doesn’t call back.

*

Saturday. Her early morning jet keeps Deborah from obsessing once her alarm goes off. She’s barely slept an hour, tossing in her bed trying to get comfortable, and turning Ava’s words over in her mind.

The last person who told her they loved her was Marty, back when Britney Spears was still in a schoolgirl uniform. She’d laughed so hard she’d knocked over the bottle of champagne on the bed between them, and they’d had to fuck in one of the yachts smaller bedrooms.

Ava’s confession doesn’t make her want to laugh. It makes her want to throw up, or throw something — because what does that conniving little shit think she’s doing tossing the word ‘love’ around —like Deborah hasn’t heard her say ‘I love you’ to everyone from Jimmy to the server who’d given her extra syrup at the frozen yoghurt place last week. 

She must think Deborah is so easy, some love-starved fool who’ll throw away all her hard work at the first sign of affection from a nobody millennial—

“You okay over there?” Marcus’s voice cuts through her thoughts. He’s obviously been watching her a while: the crew have already brought him his mid-flight espresso. Damien is engrossed in his phone in the seat behind him.

“What are we pushing  today?” She asks, ignoring the question.

He raises one eyebrow slowly. Deborah can’t blame him. She can’t remember a single QVC trip where she’s just straight-up blanked on what she’s pedalling to the TV-bound masses.

“Okay,” He begins, pushing his glasses further up his nose, and doing a perfect impression of a worried mother mongoose “We’ve got Deborah Vance acrylic nail kits, a set of satin night robes,” He checks his notes “Oh, and the Koreans have gotten back to us about producing those sheet-masks. They’ve sent samples to the house. They’ll sell like that.” He snaps his fingers.

Deborah frowns.

“Isn’t all this a bit … cottage industry Marcus?” She opens her hand for the products folder and he passes them to her. She frowns at the break-downs. “I mean fucking press-on nail kits? What happened to big expensive bathroom fittings?”

“You’ve got a whole new audience Ms. Vance,” Marcus looks content in a way that only a massive profit margin could achieve. The Water Cop really does have stiff competition. “And the kids don’t have the coins to spend on sink faucets. They don’t even own their own bathrooms.”

“But they’ll spend their non-existent money on this shit?”

Marcus nods. “They’d break out the credit card on bigger ticket items too if you just approved them—“

“No,” She says, shuddering at the memory of that pitch “I draw the line at Deborah Vance branded crystal butt-plugs. That’s just too fucking weird.”

“I’d buy one,” Damien says from behind his phone. “And so would literally everyone I know. You would not believe the parties I can get into now, just by like, dropping your name.” Deborah ignores him, even as Marcus nods.

“The second half of the hour is still homewares,” He says, soothing now “But QVC said they’ve seen a real spike in smalls from your line the past few months. We should capitalise on it.”

‘Before it ends’ is the unspoken part of that sentence, but Deborah hears it loud and clear. 

She pushes her tongue into her cheek, then looks down at the paper on her lap, and sets to memorising the diamante shapes the youth apparently want on their nails.  

And not thinking about Ava’s confession. Not at all.

*

“Oh!” Kelly says next to her, earlier than usual “And I do believe we’ve sold out!”

They high-five, and as she throws a wink at the camera, Deborah wonders for the thousandth time what Ava is doing. 

She doesn’t own a TV, so she’s definitely not watching QVC’s shopping channel, but what’s she doing in her apparently essential bit of personal space? 

Deborah’s money is either on a destructive amount of alcohol, or a day-long Sims-binge. The woman does love to torture tiny 3D people when she’s feeling low. She’d tried to make it a bonding activity once, but Deborah hadn’t seen the point of dolls, virtual or not, since she’d reached double-digits.

(‘Come on’ Ava had whined ‘At least try building your mansion! Or go completely the other way — we stan a cottagecore kween?’ )

(Deborah definitely didn’t know what cottagecore was. That had kept Ava from convincing her to murder any fictional people for the rest of the afternoon and had taken them right back to TikTok.)

“Deborah?”

She blinks. Kelly is smiling at her, but a little bit of tension has appeared at the edges of her mouth. Or would if she’d tone down the fillers. Rejuvenate, don’t redo is definitely not part of her daily mantras.

“Sorry Kelly — totally spaced.” She laughs, and sees Marcus look up from his phone behind the monitor. “Let’s pivot to —?“

“His and hers guava-scented sleep masks,”

“Right,” She says, smiling hard enough that it starts to hurt a little “Dream couple stuff.”

*

She calls Kiki from her QVC dressing room.

“Wow personal call —you must be desperate girl,” Kiki says, sounding like someone who is not holding a hairy-armpit feminist sisterhood grudge “I’ve gotta take Luna to the optometrist at three, but if you want an emergency blackjack sesh, I could defs be there by five?”

“Kiki—”

“Hmmm four-thirty if Barry has gotten over the crayon incident and is ready to rekindle the friendship with Looney-Lu—”

“Kiki,” She interrupts “It’s not about poker.”

There’s a pause, then Kiki says “Okay, soooo Ava’s not here, and I’m really sorry I can’t tell you any more, but she made me swear on Queen Bey, and one of the minor Destiny’s Child members, that I wouldn’t.”

“When did she—” She cuts herself off. “No, never mind, I wanted to ask — were you uncomfortable at the party? You’ve always dealt with Bo so well, it never crossed my mind—”

“Oh my god hunni stop,” Kiki interrupts “Did Ava say something? Babe, I like seeing him. Like, not because of him, but because of you. He reminds me of when we met. And how I don’t have to talk to men like him on the reggy anymore.”

“But Kiki—”

“If it’s ever not cool I’ll tell you,” Kiki says, very firmly “Besides, I’m still hoping that he’ll leave the bulk of his fortune to me when he kicks it.”

“Don’t know how Svetlana would feel about that.”

“Svetlana can suck my dick,” Kiki says, cheerfully. Deborah scoffs.

“Kiki?”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t actually use oil on your face do you? It clogs your pores.”

Kiki snorts.

“My skincare is Korean, like space-age chemical, and way too interesting to waste on a basic bitch like Bo”

*

They’re back in Vegas late Saturday night. She gives Marcus and Damien the next day off, ignoring Marcus’ (sincere) protests and Damien’s (incredibly fake) ones. They have a morning show spot on Monday, and not much else for Sunday. If Ava is deep enough to need her own space, then so is Deborah. 

She takes the dogs to bed with her, something she’s told Ava never happens, meanders through her longest skincare routine, then sits with her BHA serum on, trying to get into a rerun.

About ten minutes in, her phone vibrates. It’s Ava. She lets it ring a bit longer, taking her time to mute the TV, and prop herself up.

“Hey,” She says, congratulating herself on sounding not like a person who has left twenty-five missed calls on this dumbasses’ cell. Neutral. Bored even.

“Hey,” Ava’s out of breath, and Deborah wonders once again where the fuck she is “You okay? You sound like shit.”

“Love you too,” She quips, then winces at the stony silence this inspires “Too soon?”

“You’re an asshole you know.” Ava says after a long moment.

“So you’ve said.” Deborah says “Right before you pledged your troth, which made it a little less convincing.”

Ava doesn’t laugh at this, which kinda makes Deborah want to bite her own tongue off. There’s an awkward pause.

“Look, honey,” She begins, not sure what indigo-child, emotionally murky waters she’s wading into, but somehow always willing to try for this idiot. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate it—“

“Oh my god Dee,” Ava exhales, half-groan and half-laugh. “You are the actual worst.”

“— but I don’t think you fully understand the repercussions if this goes wrong. Sure, it’s all rainbows and eggplant emojis, and a guest judge spot on Drag Race now, but think about a year from —”

“You got offered Drag Race?!” Ava yells down the phone, and Deborah has to lift the receiver away from her ear. “Holy fucking shit Dee —that’s huge !”

“No, you insufferable hipster, I’m just saying if we were going to lean into this thing there might be a chance—“

“How is meeting RuPaul not a dealbreaker dude?”

“I’ve actually met Ru several times—”

“I mean there are the incredibly dodgy rumours about the fracking on his farm—” Ava rambles, and Deborah starts to suspect that she might be a little bit baked “But aside from that it’s the queer crowd locked down. Even if you show your face with a fashion fuck-up like me.”

“Ava, you’re not a fuck-up —”

“Oh Dee, stop, I rule in so many aspects of life that I can admit that the style thing isn’t like my biggest strong-point.” There’s the crunch of gravel and Ava swears under her breath.

“What was that?” Deborah asks sharply “And where the fuck are you?”

“I turned off the Find-My-iPhone so don’t even think about doing that again,” Ava mumbles. Deborah feels a flush of anger.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” She hisses “I was just making sure you hadn’t crashed into a cactus in a drunken stupor.”

“You were just making sure I wasn’t spilling dirt on you because you’d stepped on my heart. Again.”

“Oh please. Your heart? More like your massive ego. That’ what this is all about isn’t it? You can’t stand the fact that no-one knows you’ve fucked your boss, and you have to dress it up as love!”

Ava hangs up.

Deborah does not call her back this time. She seethes, watches Criminal Intent, and pats Barry. He wiggles away from her with a little huff after five minutes.

“You too huh?” She says, reproachfully, even as the pat-pat-pat of his little claws moves away from the bed.

*

Sunday. She drinks three coffees before midday, and calls D.J while sitting next to her pool, completely unable to get any work done.

“Hey Mommy!” D.J coos. “My favourite lady! How are y—“

“Cut the crap D.J,” Deborah says “Is she there with you?”

“Well, excuse me for being born,” D.J mutters, but before Deborah can even start to feel guilty about this she continues “But no fucking way. Even if I did know where stepmommy  is —which I don’t — what did you do to her? She sent me like five songs from Farrah Abraham’s My Teenage Dream Ended last night, and said she ‘vibed’ .”

“D.J do you have any idea—“

“I don’t.” D.J snaps “I’ve been really busy making a huge sale for D’Jewellery actually, which you’d know if you cared about anything I do—”

Deborah resists the urge to throw her phone in the pool. 

“Tell me about it then sweetheart,” She says instead, digging her nails into her thigh for one brief painful moment. D.J immediately loses the hurt tone.

“Okay, well if you’re really interested, you can come over Tuesday and look at the new collection.” D.J says. She’s good, Deborah will give her that. “The color story for this season is jade, but not like in a Oriental way—”

Deborah settles back on to the pool lounge. She probably fucking deserves this.

*

She buys a eighteenth-century ottoman that she doesn’t really want on Sunday afternoon.

It’s a nice piece, original trim and all, but the deal she got is so-so. She’ll have to hide the invoice from Damien somehow when the thing gets delivered next week. He’ll never let her hear the end of it otherwise.

She’s in the living room, later that night, trying to visualise how it will fit in with the existing furniture, when her phone chimes. 

Finding her reading glasses takes a tediously long minute, and the text is cryptic to say the least.

i’m not dressing ‘it’ up as anything 🦀

She squints at this haiku for a minute, before she calls Ava.

“I love you,” Ava says immediately.

“Hello to you too,” Deborah says, raising her eyebrows. “Did you even look at the caller ID?”

Ava ignores her, barrelling on with the grim sort of determination she usually reserves for adding carbs and high-fructose corn syrup to their dinner order. Deborah hears slot machines, faintly, in the background.

“I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone in my whole stupid life.” She says. She doesn’t sound stoned anymore. She sounds like she’s on about six lines of coke and an energy drink. Deborah by contrast feels herself relaxing. This is salvageable. She can salvage this.

Ava, meanwhile, is still talking at meth-monkey speed.

“ — and it’s not because you’re rich or famous, or insanely paranoid apparently. I love you because you get me, and I get you.”

Deborah breathes slowly, trying to actually think about what she’s going to say to all of That, which will get them somewhere safe and keep their friendship, if nothing else, intact. 

“And I’ll tell you another thing — and this one’s for free, bud— I think you love me too, and I think you’re fucking terrified of what that means so you’re trying to sabotage it before it even really starts.”

There’s the sound of a car-honk in the distance. 

“Oh fuck off! ” Ava yells, away from the receiver. “Just try to hit me — I fucking dare you!”

“Ava,” 

“Yeah come over here dude!” Ava shouts, still not listening to her. “I’ll kick your ass all the way back to Florida!”

“Ava!” 

The phone gurgles, sounds like it’s been swept through a stream, then there’s nothing but dial tone.

*

Monday. She literally didn’t sleep a single minute. Manny clicks his tongue at the bags under her eyes as he glues on her eyelashes, but has enough survival instinct not to ask directly. Patricia just layers on extra concealer without saying anything.

(How many times can a person hear ‘the number you have called is unavailable’ and still stay sane? The only bit of calm she feels is when she reminds herself she’s Ava’s emergency contact, after the Great Toe-Stubbing Incident of St. Paul, back on tour.)

The four AM flight to Los Angeles is short. She’s told the crew to stall the jet until the last possible moment. No sign of Ava.

Fine. She can do this. She did it for decades without anyone else.

She gets to the studio and gets her make-up touched up, then there’s a quick chat with the two anchors and then the lights come on.

Deborah manages the whole thing mostly on instinct. She uses the word ‘personal’ about half a million times. The studio audience keeps laughing, so she guesses she must be funny, intentionally or not. She’s completely fucking out of it.

Their jet back to Vegas is at nine, and just before they’re cleared for take-off, her phone rings. It’s a number she doesn’t recognise.

“Hey, sorry” Ava mumbles, sounding tinny and far-away “That little bitch broke my phone. Had to buy a burner at 7/11, which was a Journey and a Destination, mostly because I lost my wallet two casinos before that.”

“Are you alright?” Deborah asks before she can say any of the other shit threatening to spill out “Do you want me to send someone to pick you up?”

“Nah dude,” Ava says “I’m just hung-over AF. And FYI if I hadn’t been able to hack a fight with a grown-ass man wearing a galaxy cat t-shirt, then the Ava Daniels you know and love is already dead.”

Deborah laughs at that, in spite of everything. “Will I see you today?”

“Tomorrow,” Ava yawns “I mean if you can stand to look at me.”

Deborah snorts. “I’ll risk it.”

They’re silent for a long moment. Just as Deborah wonders whether they’re going to talk about the uppers-fuelled rant, Ava takes a sip of something and groans.

“What?” Deborah says.

“Ugh,” Ava says “Just DC from the can. It sucks.”

“Well if that’s your biggest worry I’ll assume you won the fight.”

“I’m honesty still not sure,” Ava groans “That high.”

Up near the pilot’s door, Marlena signals for her to put away her phone. 

“Call you when I land?”

“Sure,” Ava yawns “I need the world's longest nap, but I’ll be at your house fresh and early tomorrow.”

“Our house,” Deborah can’t help but correct her. “That was cruel. It’s our house.”

“Alright,” Ava says, and Deborah can hear the smile in her voice “Just don’t let Marcus hear you say that. He’ll lock me into a pre-nup before I can say ‘Hers and Hers Soda Fountains’.”

*

She calls again the second the jet touches down. 

“Hey,” Ava mumbles. She sounds like she’s been sleeping, and the call has woken her up.

“What, no declaration of love as a greeting?” Deborah prods “A girl has standards now.”

“About that.” Ava sighs, and Deborah tenses “I get it. You can’t do it. It’s okay. And I really extremely miss a rain-shower right now. You know I like to do hungover Gorillas in the Mist in there.”

‘Your one successful celebrity impression’ is Deborah’s line here, but instead, ridiculously, now is the moment that she thinks she might cry. 

“So after that whole speech, it’s just that easy huh?”

“Yeah, I guess it is,” Ava says “It really sucks living without you.”

“Don’t throw hands with any more cishet men wearing galaxy cat t-shirts.” She manages, around a throat that’s weirdly tight suddenly. “They are obviously already Going Through It.”

“TM” Ava laughs, softly, and it’s Deborah’s favourite sound in the world, even through the terrible connection.

*

By the time Ava unlocks the front door, in a ratty hoodie and sunglasses, at the crack of noon on Tuesday, Deborah has everything ready.

She hands Ava a glass of Diet Coke in lieu of a greeting, and gives her a chaste little peck on the lips. Ava drinks the whole thing in one go, which shouldn’t be a turn-on, then sets aside the glass, and tugs at the sleeve of Deborah’s dress.

“Get back here” She says “I didn’t shower for nothing.”

“Charming,” Deborah says, but lets herself be pulled into a hug. Ava’s arms come around her securely, like she’s the one that fucking disappeared for a whole fucking Lost Weekend and not the other way around.

Ava’s hoodie is soft under her fingertips. Deborah is glad she told her entire household staff, including Josefina, to fuck off for the day. By the way Ava’s pushed her whole face into Deborah’s neck, she’s starting to doubt they’re gonna make it upstairs.

Ava’s hands palm, then knead, her ass. Deborah fists one hand in the back of her hair as revenge. Wrenches Ava’s face away from her throat, and forces her head back. Ava’s already glassy-eyed in the way that Deborah fucking loves. Her lower lip is moist and inviting, and Deborah kisses her quickly, before pulling away. Gives her a little pinch.

“Pay attention, I know it’s hard for your generation.”

She spreads her own stance a little. Uses her other hand to trail down Ava’s leg and pull her thigh into the space between her legs. Ava’s eyes widen. 

She lets Ava pull her in closer, with the hands that are still planted firmly on her ass. Lets her turn them around, until she’s walked Deborah against a wall. Her knee presses up, almost inquisitively. Deborah gasps, and Ava licks a firm stripe up her throat.

They breathe together for a moment. Ava’s rocking them gently. Nothing crazy, but Deborah still bites her lips and resists the urge to grind down. No way is that little shit seeing how turned on she is already. The smugness would be never-ending.

“Do you trust me?” Ava mumbles, half into her mouth.

Any other time Deborah would have snickered. Here, pressed up against a Manet reproduction by Ava, all she manages is to moan.

Ava bites her jaw. Her knee presses. Deborah gives up on useless concepts like shame, and lets herself sink down on it. They both gasp.

“Deborah,” Ava actually fucking growls. Deborah feels her knees give out. Why the fuck haven’t they done this before? Why hasn’t she allowed this before? 

“Yes,” She manages thickly “I trust you. I do.”

Ava tries to get her to lift her legs up, but Deborah can barely stand, can do nothing but accept the open-mouthed kisses Ava gives her. Can let herself be kissed down to the actual fucking ground.

The marble floor is cool against her ass. When did she lose her underwear? Deborah tries to lift her head, to past where her dress is shoved up to her hips, but Ava captures her lips again, and uses her now free hands to start palming her breast.

Her other hand trails down over her side, on to her bare hipbone, and then Ava presses one thumb against her.

She has to pull out of their kiss to groan, to catch some sort of breath, to stare wild-eyed at the ceiling which used to have painted cherubs. Gauche. Deborah Vance is getting fucked in her hallway. How gauche.

“Is this okay?” Ava asks, sweaty and frantically moving above her. She’s beautiful. “Are you okay?”

Deborah nods, and spreads her legs wider. She can’t manage words right now.

Ava kisses her again. “See? You love this,” She says in between kisses, and even in her state Deborah can hear the smugness in her voice. “And you are. Not. Breaking. Up. With. Me.”

She punctuates each word with a thrust of one of her long fingers. First one, but by the last word it’s two.

“More,” Deborah croaks. “Fuck me more.”

Ava stares at her, her mouth a perfect comic ‘O’. Then she twists her fingers, and by the third finger Deborah is full, so wonderfully full, she’ll never make fun of the catcher’s mitts again after this, she’ll —

Her back arches and she lets out a single shriek. The orgasm pulses in her fucking fingernails. She bends around Ava’s hand, feeling the matching anchoring grip on her hip, even as she bites her lip to keep from screaming again—

She collapses back. Her ass throbs faintly. She’ll have a pretty spectacular bruise tomorrow. She lies still for a moment, with her eyes closed, feeling totally at peace with that.

Ava’s still panting above her. When Deborah opens her eyes, blissed-out and boneless, Ava groans, unbuttons her own pants, then takes Deborah’s right hand and shoves it between her legs.

She’s wet. It feels lovely against her hand, even as Ava frantically rubs herself against it. Deborah lifts her other hand and cups the side of Ava’s face. Strokes her thumb along her cheekbone.

Ava presses her own hand over it. Feverish spots of colour have appeared on high on her cheekbones. Deborah knows how far that flush travels down, knows the valleys and freckles it touches, and usually delights in bringing it out. She’s halfway to deciding to trace it after all when, suddenly, Ava’s face crumples under her thumb. She feels a gush of moisture on her other hand. 

"Oh fuck!" Ava squeaks, and Debrohas heart seizes strangely again. 

Ava shakily takes both Deborah’s hands and kisses them, rough and fervent. Rolls away until they’re laying hip to hip. They’re quiet for a long moment. Then Deborah turns her head so they can look at each other for a beat.

“So do I get to know where you’ve been?” She asks, conversationally, watching how Ava’s cheeks have turned an appealing pink.

“D.J’s” 

Deborah frowns.

“She swore you weren’t there!”

“Well, she did hide a pill addiction from you for like a decade, so I think she has some practice.” Ava rubs one hand over her brow. She really does look like shit. “And I was in the apartment that smells like cat piss on the ground floor. So technically not in her home. When I wasn’t on my super destructive bender.”

“Did you check your outbox yet?” Deborah asks, mostly joking.

“Please. I deleted my email app on day uno dude. Just to be safe.” 

Deborah snorts. They look at each other some more. 

“You know someone literally died in that apartment last year,” Deborah shifts up on her elbows, looking around for her underwear. The floor is starting to feel icy. “His cats ate most of him.”

“Yeah, I figured there was some super shady reason why D.J offered it for free,”

Ava’s hand has worked its way up her skirt again and is palming her rib cage, obviously angling for a second round. Deborah swats her away, and sits up properly. Covers herself. Her back is going to fucking hurt tomorrow. But right now she doesn’t care.

“There’s some things I want you to look at,” She says, ignoring the frown of worry that’s passed over Ava’s face. She’s got absolutely no poker face. Deborah tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “In my office. Come.”

“Well, we both just did—”

Deborah doesn’t even dignify that with an eye roll. She just gets up, steps into her underwear as she walks, listening to the familiar thud of Ava’s boots hitting her expensive marble floors.

Ava’s old seventy-five page contract is already on her desk, plus two Korean sheet-masks with watercolour white blossoms on them. 

Ava’s frozen in the office door. Deborah sinks into her office chair. Yeah, her ass is definitely going to bruise.

“What’s this?” Ava says, probably thinking she’s projecting confidence. Deborah makes a mental note to send her some TED Talks on the subject.

“Your contract,” 

Deborah picks the binder up, makes a show of considering it. Then dumps it in the garbage can. Well, places it on top. The thing is too fucking big to fit. But the visual is what’s important.

“Oh my god,” Ava says “Are you for fucking real? You’re dumping me? After that?” With shaking hands she pulls her vape pen out of her back pocket, and takes a big dramatic drag. The scent of cherry fills Deborah’s office.

Deborah stares, startled. “No, dumbass,” This is what she gets for trying to make a romantic gesture. “I’m promoting you.”

“Oh my god,” Ava repeats, throwing herself down on the chair that faces the desk, wiping at her face furiously. “Marcus is going to murder me.”

“Oh, relax,” Deborah snaps “I’m not letting you anywhere near the business side of things. I want to have more than two dollars to pass on to D.J.”

She stops. Swallows. She’s nervous suddenly. But it’s the good kind of nerves, like right before she goes on stage, or makes a good investment, or fucks over Marty in some new, elaborate way.

“I’m making you my official writing partner. Effective immediately.”

Ava mops up the last bit of tears with the edge of her sweater. “Cool? So I get dental?”

“You won’t work for me anymore. We’ll be equals—”

“Wow Dee — that’s—”

“I also want to make you my official partner partner,” She rolls her eyes at herself “If you’ll still have me.”

Ava blinks hard a couple of times. Deborah waits. 

“No offense, but I feel like I maybe pressured you into this a tiny bit—”

“You came back,” Deborah cuts her off. Ava looks at her blankly. 

“You came back with no guarantees of anything beyond the soda machine. I heard you set aside your massive ego for several whole minutes for me. All the other shit before was very nice—” Ava gapes at her, visibly outraged “—but you really put a ring on it with that.”

“Deborah — are you asking me to marry you?” 

She laughs. The nerves have passed, and all she feels is happy. It’s so simple an emotion that she’s almost taken aback by it. But here she is, just happy, after all these years of hard work. Like when she walked with her baby sister through the flower-scented night, all those decades ago.

“Jesus Christ, no Ava. I’m asking you to put on this jasmine face mask and drive over to D.J’s apartment with me. We’ll get photographed, everyone will call us ‘gal pals’ for the next year and a half, and we can finally get on with it.”

“This is the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me.” 

Deborah rolls her eyes. “Alright honey, I need your help picking out an ugly outfit. You don’t need to change. You’re fine the way you are.”

Ava laughs. “You are such a fucking asshole.”