Anne read it a second time, then a third, her heartbeat wild.
It was about her. She didn’t understand the poem, but she knew, somehow: It was about her. At some point in the pastyear, Sadie had written these lines about Anne and put them into her chapbook, probably trusting that Anne’s aversion to poetry would keep her safely away.
Speak anyway. Fail. Well, Anne had done that today, hadn’t she? But that wasn’t where the poem ended.
Tell me again, again, again.
Impulsively, Anne clutched the book to her chest, breath shallow in her chest. “James?” she called out and walked into the kitchen. “Sadie’s latest book. Where’d you get it?”
James stood at the massive kitchen island. He’d already laid out a small feast for them: grapes, a few rinds of cheese, some crackers, olives, almonds. A glass of sparkling water sat next to the spread. “Oh, that? She loaned us her copy a while back. I told her I wanted to buy our own to support her work, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Don’t worry, I’m still ordering one.”
That explained the note. But it didn’t explain everything else Anne couldn’t figure out: what Sadie meant by the dream in the poem, why it mattered that language failed, what the tide had to do with any of it. Would understanding the poem help her understand Sadie better, or what Sadie needed? It felt impossible, like some kind of feelings scavenger hunt set up by an English major.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” James’s gaze dropped to the book in her hand. “It’s none of my business, but now that you’ve mentioned Sadie—does she know yet?”
Anne looked away, not trusting herself to make direct eye contact. “I haven’t told her, no.”
“But she knows something.” The sharp, perceptive note in his voice reminded Anne that this was the man who’d taken Backlight Artists Agency from obscure origins to international dominance. “WhereisSadie? Why isn’t she here with you?”
Wasn’t Sadie here with Anne, in a sense? Wasn’t she always? “I don’t want to talk about it right now,” she said. “Not yet.”
“But—” James began, and then they both heard it: the sound of the front door opening. Arthur was home.
Alarm had to be written all over Anne’s face because James immediately shook his head at her and whispered, “I won’t say anything.”
She nodded, feeling a small squeeze of gratitude.
From the foyer, Arthur called out, “You’ll never guess what Rosie did today, my love! It made her look exactly like a human.”
“The neighbors’ Labrador,” James clarified. “Arthur takes daily walks to visit her in their yard.”
Anne barely registered the explanation. She’d been so focused on the aftermath of coming out to James, and then on this poem of Sadie’s, that she hadn’t even considered Arthur. Was she ready for him to know? Did she want this news to leave the quiet intimacy of her first confession—so soon after it had happened—and start leaking out into the world?
The idea made Anne a little faint. Nauseous, too, as the implications of her realization began to trickle in. Arthur didn’t matter, not really, but he wasn’t the end of the conversations she’d need to have. Or the conversations that would begin happening outside her knowledge.Did you hear about Anne Lowell? Iknow! Isn’t it shocking? Both herandJames, can you believe it? She had me completely fooled.
Did you hear? Anne Lowell is alesbian.
Sharp anxiety scratched at her raw, soft places.
James was still watching her, his expression concerned.
Anne shook her head quickly to clear it. Well, she’d have to make a quick decision before Arthur came in. There were multiple options. She could lie to him or muddy the situation or stay silent and let James come up with a story, or—
No.
Maybe she didn’t have Sadie at the moment, but she could have something else.
Anne could come out to James, and she could come out to Arthur, and, as a matter of fact, she could come out to anyone she damn well liked. Fuck staying silent or hiding the truth, from herself or from anyone else. Fuck caring about other people’s opinions. She’d done more than enough of that for one lifetime, and where had it gotten her?
She had a clear choice: to turn away from herself, just like she’d always done—or she could cut off a sixty-year-old whalebone corset.
Anne took a deep breath. If she knew who she was now, if she couldn’t look away from this anymore, well, then, the people in her life needed to know, too. That was all there was to it. Damn the consequences.
No half measures. Not for Anne Harris Lowell.
Arthur entered the kitchen, all smiles, and surprise brightened his expression. A short, round, balding man who’d never met a stranger, he was rarely anything but sunny. Anne had always found it a little unsophisticated.
“Hello, Anne,” he said, clearly surprised to see her there, and then, to James, “Hello, my love.”