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The gentle October sun treats Trinity’s blinds as a mere suggestion, sneaking in through the slits and shrouding the bedroom in golden light. The woman on top of her is a marvelous sight, skin made honey brown and hair shining beneath the rays. Trinity tucks a curl behind her ear, smiling as Yolanda exhales contentedly.
“Morning,” Yolanda whispers, her voice scratchy from a lack of use. Trinity wants to wake up next to her every single day, for the rest of time, just to hear her like this.
“Good morning,” Trinity returns. She presses a kiss into Yolanda’s hair. “You slept in.”
Yolanda is normally up first, and by seven o’clock at the latest, but she worked two doubles this week—thanks to the flu making its way around the surgical floor a bit early this year. Her body was generous, granting her rest until just before nine today.
She lifts her head from where it has been resting on Trinity’s chest and makes eye contact, and Trinity nearly melts. Her eyes are like pools of amber in the sunlight, warm and inviting.
Trinity could drown in them.
Yolanda hums. “Did I keep you?”
“No.” Trinity shakes her head. “I was more than happy to stay.”
“Okay,” Yolanda acknowledges. She buries her face in the crook of Trinity’s neck. “Okay.”
They stay like that for a little longer, curled together in Trinity’s bed. Yolanda stays lying on top of Trinity, and Trinity’s arms stay wrapped around Yolanda.
The morning carries on without concern for their paralysis. Yolanda decides that it’s time for them to join it only at half-past nine, mumbling something about wasting away the day.
Slowly but surely, they ease out of bed. Yolanda moves first, shifting off of Trinity and sitting at her side, gently tugging her upright and into a kiss. The kiss is soft and sweet and sure, but it only lasts a few seconds before Trinity’s stomach growls. Yolanda breaks it with a laugh. She presses a kiss to Trinity’s forehead and slides off the bed.
“Come on,” she says, holding out a hand. Trinity takes it without thought, letting her girlfriend guide her to her feet. “I’ll make breakfast.”
Yolanda leads, padding out of the bedroom and down the hallway, into Trinity’s kitchen, and Trinity follows.
She would follow Yolanda anywhere if asked.
The older woman wastes no time, shuffling around the kitchen, pulling bowls and pans from cabinets and utensils from drawers, moving with a certain familiarity, as though the place is her own. Trinity reckons she spends enough time in the apartment to have partial ownership—maybe one-sixth belongs to Yolanda. One-third belongs to Dennis, and the remaining half belongs to Trinity herself, the only one with their name on the lease.
Trinity watches as Yolanda turns on the stove, the flame flickering to life, and places a griddle on the burner. As the pan preheats, Yolanda cracks two eggs into a large mixing bowl, whisking them rapidly. Trinity approaches her from behind, wrapping one arm around her waist and using the other to reach for a measuring cup to the right. She slides it to Yolanda, who silently measures and adds milk, then vanilla, cinnamon, and just a pinch of salt, also with Trinity’s “help.”
(Trinity has been barred from doing anything more, on account of the time she cracked an egg and dropped half of the shell, crumbled into pieces, into Yolanda’s beloved brownie batter.)
Slices of bread are dipped into the mixture and then placed on the griddle two at a time, a first serving for one. There are three of them, and more is always had, so Trinity makes herself comfortable, hooking her chin over Yolanda’s shoulder.
After a minute, Yolanda flips the slices, which are now properly toast. While wielding her spatula, she starts to hum. The tune is familiar—one Trinity recognizes but can’t place. The lyrics and the title escape her, but the melody does not, and she joins in, humming along to the unknown song.
When the first batch is finished, it is replaced with the second. The same is true of the song.
Yolanda chooses a new tune, and Trinity listens to it intently. It’s repetitive, the song’s structure simple enough for Trinity to memorize and join back in before a minute has passed. She hums and holds Yolanda, swaying softly from side to side.
“Food’s almost done,” Yolanda whispers. She turns her head to look at Trinity. “You should wake your farm boy.”
Trinity shakes her head. She’d sooner let Dennis starve than let go of her girlfriend. “The smell will reach him soon enough.”
Yolanda laughs, light and sweet, and Trinity presses a kiss to her cheek. She smiles, and Trinity smiles in return, but the expression falls with Yolanda’s next request.
“Can you grab plates and silverware?”
So much for not letting go of her girlfriend.
Trinity huffs, then pouts, exaggerating her bottom lip.
Yolanda laughs again. “Please, baby?”
And who is Trinity to say no?
Ruefully, she steps away from the surgeon, gathering what has been requested. By the time the peninsula is set with dishware, glassware, and silverware, breakfast is ready. Yolanda turns off the stove, and Dennis comes waddling out of his room, yawning.
“Good morning,” he says, barely comprehensible.
“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Yolanda returns without pause. She adds the last two slices of French toast to the finished pile and brings it to the peninsula, where she begins to plate.
At the nickname, Dennis’ sleepy expression morphs into a frown. He opens his mouth to object, but Trinity cuts him off.
“Careful,” she warns. “She made you breakfast.”
“I made you breakfast,” Yolanda corrects, pressing a kiss to Trinity’s cheek. “He’s just the stray I would feel wrong not feeding.”
Trinity grins, while Dennis rolls his eyes—a recently acquired skill for the native Nebraskan. The two of them walk around the counter, each claiming a barstool. The one to Trinity’s left remains empty for Yolanda to take.
Yolanda pushes plates toward the pair, and they dig in, Dennis like a ravished man. Trinity takes her time, cutting a strip of French toast before dipping it in syrup, lifting her fork to her lips. She chews slowly, savoring the flavor, then swallows.
“Good?” Yolanda asks. Her eyes have not left Trinity since the plate crossed the counter.
“Always,” Trinity answers. “I’m a very lucky woman.”
“Are you?”
“Yeah.” She twirls her fork in the air, pointing it at Yolanda. “To be fed by you, a master chef.”
Yolanda blushes, her whole face turning red. It’s one of Trinity’s favorite things about her girlfriend—how easily she gets flustered. The color quickly spreads down her neck and across her chest. She averts her gaze, staring firmly at the countertop. “I like taking care of the people I love.”
Trinity hums and returns to her food, stabbing her fork in it. Dennis looks up abruptly, no longer consumed by or consuming the meal, reminding her of his presence. She adds, “And Dennis.”
“Yeah,” Yolanda agrees, quiet in a way that is unsure instead of soft. It isn’t much like her. “And Dennis.”
Dennis pushes away from the counter, his barstool scratching against the floor. He stands up and takes a few steps back before gesturing with his thumb toward his room. “I’m gonna—” he starts to say, stopping in favor of starting to go.
Confused, Trinity watches him. She only looks away when Yolanda whispers her name.
“Trinity.”
Trinity makes eye contact, and she’s surprised by what she sees. The same beautiful brown eyes, deep and warm, but they express a foreign fear, one Trinity isn’t sure she has ever seen. “Yeah?”
“I love you.”
The words register, but the weight of them does not. It feels like an extension of their flirtatious exchange.
And so, Trinity smirks and shoots finger guns in her direction.
Across the peninsula, Yolanda blinks, processing. She stumbles backward, away from the counter, still blinking. “I—I’m—”
Trinity watches her travel across the kitchen, unbalanced. She tries to find her footing as she heads for the front door but doesn’t succeed.
It registers then that Yolanda is leaving.
Trinity doesn’t understand why she’s leaving.
By the door, Yolanda tears her coat off the coatrack, not bothering to put it on before she flips the deadbolt. Trinity glances from her and back to the counter where she just stood, finding Dennis in the hallway, having never made it all the way to his room.
What the fuck? she tries to say with a look.
Dennis doesn’t reply. His eyes dart back and forth between her and Yolanda, anxious. Almost afraid.
The moment that Trinity’s attention returns to her, Yolanda twists the doorknob and pulls open the door. She steps over the threshold, half out of the apartment, and shakily says, “I’ll see you at work.”
The door slams behind her.
“What the fuck?” Trinity demands, laughing because she doesn’t know what else to do. She looks at her roommate. “What the fuck was that about?”
“Trinity,” Dennis says, like it’s obvious. Like she’s stupid for not knowing.
Trinity shakes her head. “I don’t—”
“Trinity.”
A red face and averted gaze.
I like taking care of the people I love.
Brown eyes full of fear.
I love you.
No.
No, no, no.
Trinity pushes her stool away from the counter with impressive force and jumps to her feet. “Oh fuck,” she chokes out. “No.”
Dennis swallows. “Yeah.”
“Dennis,” she says, stern.
“Trinity,” he returns.
Trinity takes a deep breath. “Did Yolanda just tell me she loves me for the first time?”
“Yeah.” Dennis grimaces. “She did.”
Trinity runs a hand through her hair, tugging as she reaches the base of her scalp. The twinge of pain is like a punishment. “And did I just do finger guns back?”
“Yeah.” Dennis nods, clearly wishing that he didn’t have to do so. “You did.”
“Fuck,” Trinity gasps. “Fuck.”
Without another word, Trinity turns. She all but runs in pursuit of Yolanda.
Her socks don’t give her much traction, and she slides across the hardwood floor. Luckily, however, she doesn’t slip, managing to stay on her feet as she crosses the cavernous distance between the peninsula and the front door.
Trinity would follow Yolanda to the end of the world, but if she leaves, she can’t lead.
The younger woman shoves her feet into the nearest available, easy-access shoes, a pair of purple crocs with clashing Spider-Man jibbitz. The door opens automatically, or she opens it, and she rushes outside, not caring that it is left open wide.
Apt. 4B disappears behind her as she hurries down the hall, then down the stairs, one flight after another. When she reaches the lobby, there’s no sign of Yolanda.
Trinity’s heart sinks.
It registers then, what she is losing. The full weight of it strikes her, and she nearly collapses under the pressure.
But then the elevator dings, signaling its arrival on the first floor.
Trinity stands still, her eyes landing on the silver doors. She stands and stares, waiting with baited breath.
Seconds later, Yolanda is revealed.
She looks a mess, eyes red and puffy, tears threatening to spill over. Her coat is thrown over her arm, her sneakers haphazardly shoved on, the laces untied, and she’s still wearing the “trEAT HER right” t-shirt Trinity lent her last night and pajama bottoms too short for Pittsburgh in October.
Yolanda looks up. When she sees Trinity, she freezes.
Trinity takes advantage of her inaction and steps toward the elevator. The movement seems to revive Yolanda, and she pushes past Trinity quickly, heading for the exit.
Panic begins to build in Trinity’s chest. She feels her heart pounding, her palms growing sweaty, her throat tightening, suddenly dry. She follows Yolanda, but Yolanda has a hand on the door before Trinity is able to reach her.
For a moment, she seems to hesitate.
Trinity notices.
Still moving toward her girlfriend, she half-begs, half-shouts, “Yolanda!”
Mercifully—though not merciful with her speed—Yolanda turns around. Trinity stops a foot short of her. Yolanda swipes under her eyes, wiping away the sadness to reveal anger, then snaps, “What do you want, Santos?”
The surname catches Trinity off guard.
She hesitates this time, and Yolanda scoffs. Yolanda starts to turn back around, but Trinity, finally thinking fast enough, closes the remaining distance between them before she can.
“Yolanda,” she whispers, terrified and sure. She takes Yolanda’s face in her hands. “Yolanda.”
Yolanda’s eyes soften like she does not want them to.
Trinity tilts her chin upward and kisses her, hard. Sure. She pours everything into it—her sorrow, her regret, her desire, her gratitude.
Her love.
So much love.
She feels Yolanda’s love when Yolanda kisses her back.
She feels her tears, too.
Trinity breaks the kiss, but she doesn’t pull away, her hands still holding Yolanda’s face. Gently, she wipes under Yolanda’s eyes with her thumbs, leaning forward and pressing a delicate kiss to the tear tracks on each cheek once she’s done.
“I love you,” she confesses, like she should’ve before. “I love you, too.”
Yolanda laughs, wet and relieved. The sound is everything to Trinity in a way words can’t adequately describe.
“Say it again,” Yolanda requests.
With a smile, Trinity complies. “I love you.”
“I love you.” Yolanda presses her forehead to Trinity’s, sighing. “I love you, too.”
That night, when the two of them are tucked into bed, every part of them tangled together, Yolanda’s head resting on Trinity’s chest, they exchange the three words again, soft and sure and without tears.
“I’m sorry, I’m an idiot,” Trinity whispers afterward. Yolanda huffs a small chuckle, warm air tickling Trinity’s skin. Then, Trinity adds, “I’m sorry I’m an idiot.”
“You’re my idiot,” Yolanda immediately replies.
And she is.
Her idiot.
Hers.
Trinity is a very lucky woman, indeed.