Casey is 18, Dave is 40. Lottie is just Lottie.
Dave looked himself over.
New breast forms--bit bigger than the last set. The cats had clawed one open last week, silicone leaking like guilt onto the bathroom floor. So--treat yourself. Go a cup size up.
He adjusted the bra straps, twisted at the waist, checked his silhouette in the mirror. He could live with it. Hell, he looked good. Lipstick check. A smudge at the corner; gone with a flick of a nail.
The front door creaked.
"Hey, Dad!"
Casey's voice, bright as always, came with the usual energy spike. She dropped keys in the bowl like a scatter of dice. "Can't stay, meeting Leona. Big talk she wants to have."
She darted past him in boots and a canvas jacket, blue eyes wide and soft. Tiny, flat-chested, brunette--her build all elbows and sincerity. The kind of girl who'd miss a train because she was helping a stray cat off the tracks.
"She okay?" Dave asked, stepping into the hallway light.
Casey shrugged, already halfway to the kitchen. "Probably? I think she's nervous. She gets that little... tightness around the mouth. Like she's trying not to smile or cry."
Dave watched her go, the swish of her backpack, the hum of her body in motion. There were traces of her mother in her--none of the cruelty, though. All the curiosity.
"She loves that girl," he murmured to no one. Then turned back to the mirror.
Dave sighed.
He angled the phone. Chin down. Tilt. Duck lip, no--soft smile. Just a little femme joy, nothing forced. Click. Another. A third, just for safety.
He scrolled through the gallery--
One looked like a divorced PTA mom rediscovering eyeliner. Delete.
The next? Kinda hot, actually. Cheekbones working overtime. That one stayed.
He tapped his nails--pink, slightly chipped--against the counter. Needed a fill. Or at least a touch-up. Maybe after lunch.
Outside, the grass had the look. That specific suburban fuck you kind of growth. Not wild enough to be charming, but scruffy enough the neighbors were probably already whispering.
Dave eyed the lawnmower out the window. Then looked down at his patent nude heels.
"Nope."
It could wait. Let it grow. Let it rebel a little. Everyone deserves a phase.
He refilled his coffee, bare calves catching a bit of sun through the kitchen window, and gave himself one last look.
Damn, he looked good.
Casey's little Civic chugged down Arch Street like it had somewhere to be and a reputation to uphold.
South Philly was alive today--parking cones, nerds in cloaks, plastic swords clacking against cargo shorts. The annual Fan Expo had hit like a glittery plague. Stormtroopers waited at bus stops. A rogue passed out in front of Rita's. Batman jaywalked without consequence.
She honked, not out of anger, just participation.
Panera Bread was jammed. She snagged a spot only by divine intervention--or whatever busted saint handled heartbreak logistics in South Philly. She made it out with minimal door dings and jogged in.
Inside, chaos.
The line stretched into the vestibule, a crush of spandex and foam armor. A Warhammer group had taken over half the tables. A girl dressed like a slutty beholder was crying because someone called her a "Pokémon" and she didn't know whether to be offended.
Casey texted.
Here.
Leona didn't reply.
"Hey," Casey said, sliding in.
She found her tucked in a corner booth, half-curled over a lukewarm lemonade, a paper straw drooping like it had given up on life. Leona wasn't in costume--jeans, a dark v-neck tee, no cosplay, no hint of festivity. Just Leona. Quiet.
And still, somehow, unfairly gorgeous.
Her strawberry blonde hair was pulled into a lazy bun that didn't even try to look cute--just efficient, like she'd stopped bothering with the mirror but still accidentally looked like a goddamn romance cover. Loose strands curled around her ears, catching the light in that soft, deceitful way that made people think she was kinder than she was. Her full lips were chapped, just a little, like she'd been biting them too much. And there was that patch of rosacea high on her cheekbones--vulnerable, unfixable, endearing in a way that made Casey want to scream.
Her tits were obnoxiously perfect. Not showy. Not begging for attention. Just... there. Sitting soft and natural beneath the fabric, the kind of curve that said trust me, I smell like sun-warmed skin and heartbreak. She wasn't wearing a bra. Casey could tell. Not from anything explicit, but from the way the cotton settled, the slight, unfair sway when she shifted. It made something inside Casey twist and snap.
Leona looked up.
Eyes: grey-green, a little puffy like she'd been crying, but dry now. Her gaze locked on Casey with a heaviness that didn't match the bright lights or the screaming teens arguing about initiative order three booths away.
There was a pause.
And then she smiled.
But it wasn't her real smile. It was the polite one. The I'm-about-to-do-something-awful one. "Hey," she said softly. "Thanks for coming."
Casey shrugged off her bag, dropped it beside her. "Panera's a warzone, but you're worth it. What's going on?"
Leona fiddled with the straw. Didn't answer. Just stared at it, like maybe the lemonade would offer her courage.
Leona's thumb worried the edge of her cup. She kept her eyes on it like she was trying to carve her confession into the waxy paper with sheer will.
"There's someone," she said. Voice too calm, too deliberate. "I've met someone."
Casey blinked. Her brain did that thing--just shut down the sentence halfway, like if she didn't process the last half, it wouldn't be real. "You've what?"
"Met someone." A little louder this time. Still not looking at her. "Her name's Lucy Mae. She's a carpenter."
A carpenter. Not a barista. Not a student. Not a friend. A fucking carpenter. The kind of woman who could build you a deck and then ruin your life under it.
"She makes things with her hands," Leona added, like that made it better. Or maybe worse.
Casey didn't breathe. The Panera blurred--beholders, card tables, screaming teens debating initiative order--it all faded behind the swell of pressure in her throat.
"Okay," Casey said, the word brittle. "Okay. So... what does that mean? For us?"
Leona finally looked at her. Eyes soft. Guilty. Still fucking beautiful. "It's a special relationship," she said.
"What the fuck does that mean, Leona? Like the U.S. and Britain?"
Leona gave a tiny, miserable laugh. "I don't know. It's not... it's not like what we have. It's different."
"You're fucking her."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't not."
Silence. Even the cosplayers felt distant now, like ghosts or memories or metaphors.
Casey felt like the floor under her was about to drop, and she was going to fall right into the cement bones of Arch Street. Leona had always made her feel like she was glowing. And now--now she was just sitting here under buzzing lights, her hands flat against cheap laminate, wondering if she'd ever meant anything real.
Casey stood so fast the booth table rattled. Her chair scraped back hard enough to turn heads.
"Special relationship," she spat, not loud, but venomous. "Go fuck yourself, Leona."
She was out the door before the tears came, swallowing them like broken teeth.
Sunlight slapped her in the face. She turned left, charging down Arch like a missile--only to realize two blocks later, she was going the wrong way.
Of course.
She stopped, spun around, heart pounding so hard it made her shoulders twitch. And there it was: Panera Bread. Again.
And Leona--still in the booth. Still looking. That crumpled paper cup of betrayal between her hands.
Casey stormed past without looking, but she felt Leona's eyes on her. Like heat. Like shame.
