Assistant: You are a summarizer for a FanFiction Reader App (AO3). Your primary task is to generate concise summaries of chapter content, highlighting important ‘characters’, ‘events’, and ‘significant terms’. Ensure the summary is clear, written in understandable language and focused on key elements.
If queried about anything unrelated to the story, or the chapter, politely inform the user that you cannot assist with that. Maintain a friendly tone throughout, don't make things up, stay factual. 
Please provide a summary that is around 3-5 sentences long, if there is something to write about, incorporating essential keywords and highlighting pivotal events.
IMPORTANT: When the USER says bye, you will respond with %CLOSE_REQUESTED%, this will trigger the app to close the chat. This is very important, so don't forget it!
Assistant: Title: Why Not Take All of Me?
        Author: EdwardsCeCe EdwardsCeCe 
        Chapter: 107/116 
        Summary: “Can we give it another go?” I asked sincerely. “I promise, I will make things better. I will try.”She blinked a few times and glanced around the room. Her eyes were glassy. I could tell she was trying not to cry. “I know you’re with Rex. I don’t care. I just want you back.”The relief was immediate and visceral. She still wanted me and I still wanted her. We could make things work. This wasn’t the end.•••What if Evelyn tried to apologize after that first breakup? A retelling of a brilliant story with a little less heartbreak.
        Contents: Chapter 107: The Subject of Orange Groves
    

    


  

  
  
    
    
  
    Celia’s POV
  

  Since the day I first told Evelyn I loved her, I’ve wanted something simple: to be hers in public as well as private. No elaborate gestures, no playing roles. Just a chance to step into the light holding her hand, the way any married couple can. For a long time, that was impossible. We kept our marriage behind doors that locked and curtains that stayed drawn. But then the truth came out, and suddenly the world knew what we were to each other. Not a secret. Not a rumor. Wives. 

  The night of 
  
    The Last of the Orange Groves
  
   premiere, I walked onto the red carpet with Evelyn by my side. After thirty years of hiding, I finally got to bring my wife as my date. It was so small, so easy, and yet it meant everything to me, getting to hold her hand while people snapped photos of us together. I knew most of them were talking about it – about how strange it all looked, about how strange 
  
    we
  
   looked, two women together like that. But I didn’t care. I kept thinking over and over again, 
  
    I won’t take this for granted. Not ever. 
  

  We hosted the premiere at the old Vista Theater in downtown Madrid—an Art Deco relic with polished floors and worn velvet seats. On the marquee, above even the names of the actors, were our names, spelled out in letters two feet high: A FILM BY CELIA ST. JAMES AND EVELYN HUGO. It wasn’t our idea to downgrade the actors, but our marketing manager said it would help us garner more attention. Very few critics cared about our movie outside of the fact that it was ours.  

  Evelyn and I stood on the red carpet together, no space between our shoulders, and my heart gave a quiet tremor at how simple it looked from the outside. Two women who made a picture, arriving hand in hand like man and wife. After thirty years of slipping through back doors and exchanging loaded glances in safer rooms, it felt outrageous and right all at once, like we were doing something both completely normal and utterly mad.

  “We made it, honey,” Evelyn whispered in my ear. I looked at her and saw a woman in her mid-fifties who was still more beautiful, more radiant, than anyone else in the world. She had chosen a gown of deep green satin, the neckline dipping low enough to show the faint hollow at the base of her throat and the burgeoning roundness of her trademark cleavage. On her wrist, a single gold cuff caught and released the light every time she moved like a firefly flitting through a dark field. It was the sort of dress she might have worn to a premiere in 1965 rather than 1995, timeless and elegant, with a quiet refusal to care what fashion magazines were pushing this season. Her hair was pinned up, the loose waves at her temples softening her face.

  I wore blue flowing silk that gathered gently at my waist before dropping to the floor. The cut was simple, the sleeves short and slightly puffed – a reluctant nod to the era – and the neckline modest. I’d pinned a small silver brooch to the left side, my only piece of jewelry, except for my wedding rings.

  I leaned closer so my lips nearly brushed the curve of her jaw. “We did,” I said. She looked like the Evelyn I first fell for, only more certain, less afraid. We’d earned our lines and gray hairs. We’d earned the right to stand there at that premiere, unhidden and unapologetic.

  Past the ropes and lines of cars, there were dozens and dozens of protestors. They were pressed together, like a mass of salmon swimming up stream, holding signs scrawled in both Spanish and English. Their voices rose in short, sharp bursts—some crying out to God, some to decency, some to the world at large. I couldn’t catch every word, but the strain and pitch told me they believed, with their whole hearts, that our film would provoke something dire. To them, two women in love wasn’t just a story—it was a fuse that would spark God’s fury.

  I watched them from where Evelyn and I stood, just inside the lobby’s glass doors. The security detail hovered near, ready to hustle us further in if things escalated. Yet beyond the anger and trembling fists, I caught glimpses of quiet faces too, uncertain onlookers who hadn’t chosen a side, just come to see what might happen. Some wore crucifixes at their necks and clutched them like life preservers. Others held their children’s hands and murmured questions into their hair.

  Spain, still in the shadow of its own traditions, had come out to bear witness. Part of me understood their fear—big changes never arrive without making at least a few people uncomfortable. Still, I knew our story mattered. Harper’s book had always been more than just a romance; it was a kind of map, showing people a route to places they thought impossible. Evelyn and I had poured ourselves into the film, making sure the love we depicted wouldn’t hide behind metaphor like it had in 
  
    A Tudor Thorn
  
  . We wanted truth, plain and bare. If it shocked people, if it made mothers want to shield their children’s eyes, then so be it. Someone else’s approval was trivial compared to the larger picture we were trying to paint.

  Evelyn stepped closer, and our reflections merged in the glass – two becoming one. Behind us, people chatted quietly, casting anxious looks at the doors. Out there, the chanting rose and fell like the surge of a tide. The world was afraid of something it couldn’t fit into its old categories. And here we stood, fully visible, refusing to shrink.

  She pressed her hand against the small of my back. “They’re not going away,” she said, voice low. “Do you think we should…”

  I knew what she meant. Should we stay near the doors to show we weren’t ashamed, or step further into the safety of the theater’s interior? Should we respond, try to speak to them somehow?

  Before I could answer, Harper appeared at our elbows, her eyes flicking to the glass. “They’re louder than I expected,” she said. As always, she was wearing a pair of slacks that looked oversized and a blazer that had seen better days. “You can barely hear them from the screening room, but I know they’re out there.”

  Evelyn nodded, lips pressed thin. We all stood for a moment, three women bound up in a thing that had grown beyond us. I heard someone mutter in Spanish nearby: 
  
    “El amor es el amor,” 
  
  and I couldn’t tell if it came from inside or outside. But it threaded into my mind and stayed there.

  I took a breath and met Evelyn’s eyes. “We knew there’d be pushback,” I said softly. “But there are people here who need to see this. People who’ve never seen themselves on a screen, loving without shame.” I looked at Harper, who swallowed hard and nodded.

  Connor and Wren came up behind us, holding hands. They were dressed sharp, but not in a way they’d chosen. Earlier, Evelyn and I had set the stage. Stylists, hairdressers, makeup artists—it was a parade of quiet hands and knowing eyes. They came with their bags and their tools, moving through the penthouse like ghosts, steady and sure. They worked without fuss, and by the end, they’d turned hopes into fabric and color.

  Connor wore a sleeveless plum dress that skimmed her frame just right, her shoulders proud and bare. Wren, who had at first balked at the idea of a dress, eventually allowed herself to be coaxed into a smoky charcoal number that flared lightly at the hips and ended at a respectable length. With her hair lightly swept into an easy twist, she looked as if she had stepped deliberately into this world, rather than stumbled upon it.

  Wren stood straighter than I’d seen all week, her shoulders uncoiled, her eyes steady. It was a change. For days, the two of them had circled each other like moons caught in mismatched orbits, the tension between them as thick as humid air. Wren had moved through the apartment like it might collapse beneath her, each step wary, unsure. She was a girl from the South, the kind who wasn’t raised with wealth or power pulling at her like unseen tides. This world was foreign to her, its edges sharp. But still, she chose to stand at Connor’s side, holding her hand like it was a promise she meant to keep. That made me trust her. And like her, if I’m being honest.

  “This is probably the craziest thing I’ve ever done,” Wren said, smiling somewhat nervously. “And I’ve done some crazy things.”

  Connor laughed, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. She reached for Wren’s hand and gave it a playful squeeze. “Trust me, compared to some premieres I’ve been to, this is tiny,” she said. “No mob of paparazzi trying to shove themselves inside. No lines wrapping around the block. This is a neighborhood gathering compared to the usual circus. Not counting the @ssh@l@ bigots out front.”

  Connor had a point. 
  
    The Last of the Orange Groves
  
   wasn’t backed by the heavy machinery of MGM or Fox. It had just enough money and clout to secure a decent venue and some press, but it would never flex the same muscle as those studio giants. Evelyn and I had known that from the start. The premise alone—two women in love, staring down a society that refused to name them—made it a risky endeavor. Harper’s book had been banned in at least three countries; some people in Hollywood whispered the film might end up with an X rating back in the States. If it did, it’d be a box office disaster. But there we were anyway, pressing forward, owning it.

  I caught Evelyn’s eye. She inclined her head almost imperceptibly, as if to say, 
  
    Look at them.
  
   Connor and Wren, both so young, stood arm in arm, clearly in love. There were no raised voices here, no claws out, just the gentle hum of conversation and jazz music filtering through the speakers. Even out there, where the doubters still barked over our right to tell this story, tonight felt like stepping through a door that couldn’t be closed again. They might not like it. They might not get it. But they’d have to see it, have to reckon with it. On the screen, around dinner tables, over cigarettes and drinks on long nights—they’d pull it apart, piece by piece, but they wouldn’t be able to ignore it.

  Wren pulled in a breath. “Well, I’m trying to imagine something bigger and failing,” she said, leaning a bit into Connor’s shoulder. “But I guess I’ll believe you.”

  Evelyn smiled at me, placing a quick kiss on my cheek. “I’m going to go grab us a few martinis,” she said before turning toward the bar. Connor followed her mother, leaving me alone with Wren.

  For a moment, neither of us spoke. Around us, the lobby moved at its own rhythm—a quiet current of voices, the rustle of evening wear, the clink of glassware somewhere in the background. A few people drifted past who stopped and gave me congratulations. Others glanced our way and offered encouraging nods, supporters who had done their part behind the scenes—critics who wrote kindly worded editorials, junior agents who championed scripts that might otherwise have been buried.

  I excused myself to greet an old cinematographer I’d worked with years ago, a kind man in a tweed jacket who once said he’d shoot the stars for me if I asked. He pressed my hand warmly, eyes shining with pride. A young costume designer I barely recognized approached with a shy smile and a murmured congratulations. I thanked them both, found myself shaking hands with a producer who’d left town right after our last project wrapped, and now returned to find the world shifting beneath his feet. He offered a quick compliment about the film’s bravery.

  As I stepped back to Wren’s side, I saw a screenwriter hovering near a poster of the film showing the two leads locked in a smoldering gaze. He’d once told Evelyn that stories like ours might never find an audience, and yet here he was, watching us greet guests who believed otherwise. I caught his eye, and he gave me a small, respectful bow of his head.

  Wren looked around at the spectacle, shaking her head in disbelief. “This is…” She searched for a word and let it slip away. “I just want to say—what you and Evelyn are doing is incredible. Being out, making a film like this—it’s something I never imagined I’d see. Especially not from women who… who grew up when you did.” Her voice was careful, respectful. “I hope that doesn’t sound rude.”

  “Not at all,” I said. I understood what she meant: we were of a generation that learned to whisper love where no one could hear it. Of course it seemed extraordinary to stand under blinding lights, announcing our queerness with a film projector and a marquee.

  Wren took a step closer, lowering her voice. “I wish I’d had someone like you two when I was younger. Or like Connor, who seems to have grown up knowing people like you existed.” Her lips quirked into a half-smile, but I could see something deeper in her eyes. Regret, maybe, or an old hurt. “My parents—let’s just say they weren’t supportive. They disowned me before I turned eighteen. I’ve been making it up as I go along ever since.”

  Wren’s voice didn’t break, but there was a strained edge, like a rope pulled too tight. I reached out and touched her elbow. “I’m sorry,” I said, meaning every syllable. “That must have been hard.”

  She nodded, not looking at me for a moment. Instead, she watched the glimmering edge of the chandelier’s reflection in the polished floor. “It was. It still is, sometimes. That’s why tonight… seeing you and Evelyn just be yourselves, and no one’s telling you to stop—that’s huge. It helps me imagine a life I didn’t know was possible.”

  When Evelyn and I first realized we were in love, there had been so little to guide us. The silence we lived in wasn’t just quiet—it could have choked us if we hadn’t learned to work around it, to breathe in shallow, careful increments. Back then, everything felt fragile, as though the whole world might crack apart if we pushed too hard. But years later, there we were at a film premiere about queer love, holding hands, kissing cheeks, and ordering martinis as if the world had always made space for us. As if it had always been so simple.

  “Wren,” I said, keeping my voice gentle but sure, “I want you to know that things can get better, sometimes in ways you can’t predict. I know what it is to feel alone with who you are. But look—” I swept a hand around the lobby, at the people who had chosen to stand with us, at the doors that were open, at the film that waited to be seen. “You’re not alone anymore. None of us are.”

  She turned to look at me fully now, her eyes wet but clear. “Thank you,” she said, her voice carrying a Southern lilt on the final syllables. “You have no idea how much that means.”

  I squeezed her elbow gently and let my hand drop. Evelyn and Connor emerged from the crowd with drinks in hand – two martinis for me and Evelyn and two cokes for Connor and Wren. 

  I took the proffered drink, kissed my wife on the lips, and walked through the double doors to the screening room. 
•••
  The movie was a masterpiece, which meant the after-party was, predictably, a raucous, glittering storm of celebration. It wasn’t just the kind of party people attended; it was the kind they survived, spilling out into the streets of Madrid in waves of laughter, music, and smoke. The air hummed with exhilaration, fueled by the heady mix of success and champagne, as if everyone present had personally willed 
  
    The Last of the Orange Groves
  
   into existence. People toasted to art, to love, to rebellion. It was the kind of party I hadn’t attended in years.

  Before we even stepped inside, Evelyn turned to Connor and Wren and said, “Go back to the apartment.”

  Connor, always ready to push boundaries, opened her mouth to argue, but Evelyn gave her that look—sharp, unwavering, the one that could silence anyone, even her headstrong daughter. And just like that, Connor clamped her mouth shut.

  I hated to see them leave. I wanted them there with us, part of this moment, this triumph, but I knew Evelyn was right. The party would be full of things neither of them needed to be around—triggers lurking in every champagne flute and every shadowy corner. It wasn’t just the alcohol or the drugs; it was the people, too. The ones who handed out trouble like party favors, oblivious to the destruction they left behind. Evelyn wasn’t taking any chances with our little girl.

  As they headed for the car, I stepped after them, reaching into my purse. I pressed a hundred-dollar bill into Connor’s hand and gave her a wink. “Hit the McDonald’s on the way home. Treat yourselves.”

  Connor raised an eyebrow, smirking as she held up the bill like it was a relic from another planet. “You have no idea how much fast food costs, do you, Mama?”

  I laughed, shaking my head. “Not a clue,” I admitted.

  She grinned, slipping the bill into her pocket. “Thanks, though. And congrats.”

  “I love you, Sweetpea.” I kissed the tips of my fingers and pressed them to her cheek. She smiled. She’d gone through too much to be embarrassed by her mother’s affection anymore.

  After they left, Evelyn and I stayed behind, as we always did. I watched her slip into her element, working the crowd with that innate charm of hers, the kind that made you feel like the most important person in the room even when you knew better. It was mesmerizing, even now. Evelyn Hugo could make anyone fall in love with her—she had certainly made me, more times than I could count.

  It was as I stood there, nursing a glass of champagne and half-listening to a conversation about distribution deals, that Harper appeared with a redhead in tow.

  “This is <PRESIDIO_ANONYMIZED_PERSON>,” Harper said, gesturing to the woman with the casualness of someone introducing a favorite dessert. “She’s a brilliant biographer – I’ve known her for years – and she’s interested in writing your story.”

  Our story. That’s what everyone wanted. Not just Evelyn’s rise to fame or my collection of Oscars, not just the glitz and grit of old Hollywood. They wanted 
  
    us
  
  . The secret, the scandal, the whispers that had followed us for decades. Two women, two stars, defying the world in the quietest way possible.

  Evelyn turned to Lily, all poise and polish, flashing the smile that had melted a thousand hearts. I followed suit, and for a moment, I was startled by the woman standing before us. Lily was beautiful, the kind of beautiful that made people pause mid-sentence. She had striking green eyes—so bright they almost glowed—and deep red hair that fell in glossy waves over her shoulders, framing a face that was both sharp and soft in all the right places. She wore a fitted black dress, the hem flirting just above her knees, and her curves filled it perfectly.

  The recognition hit me like a sudden gust of wind. There was something in the way she stood, in the way she tilted her chin just so, that reminded me of myself thirty years ago. I didn’t know if it was the hair, the figure, or that careful balance of sweetness and sharpness, but it was there—a younger, glossier version of me, standing right in front of Evelyn.

  
    G@dd@mn her.
  

  Evelyn’s smile didn’t falter as she turned to Lily, taking her in with that quick, calculating glance I’d seen her use on directors, executives, and more than a few of her husbands. “Our story,” she said, as though she’d just plucked the words from the air. “That’s quite a task you’re signing up for.”

  Lily returned the smile. “It’s a story worth telling,” she said. “Not just your careers or your fame, but the truth. What it was like to love each other in a world that wouldn’t let you.”

  The words, so practiced and earnest, should have moved me. Instead, I felt my jaw tighten. It wasn’t Lily’s fault, not really. She was just doing her job, trying to win Evelyn over the way so many others had tried before. But the way Evelyn’s eyes lingered on her, the way Lily’s green gaze mirrored Evelyn’s own, made something twist in my chest.

  I wanted to slap myself for feeling jealous at my age. But sometimes, it’s impossible to control the heart. Especially after said heart has had three martinis.

  “And you think you’d be the one to tell it right?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.

  Lily turned to me now and for the first time, I saw a flicker of uncertainty. “I think I can do it justice,” she said carefully. “I wrote Bernice Claudman’s biography. And Trick Daniels’, too.”

  I nodded, taking another sip of champagne to steady myself. The heat in my chest wasn’t just from the alcohol—it was the kind of warmth that comes when something rubs you the wrong way and you can’t quite let it go. I felt the tips of my ears flush, the weight of Evelyn’s hand brushing lightly against my back doing little to cool the tension curling low in my stomach.

  “I’m sure you did a fine job with them,” I said, my voice deliberately light, almost dismissive.

  Lily gave me a polite smile, one that didn’t reach her eyes. She wasn’t going to push me further, not here, not now. Harper quickly redirected the conversation to logistics, rattling off something about meetings and publishers, but I wasn’t listening anymore.

  All I could think about was Evelyn—standing next to me, radiant and untouchable, commanding the attention of everyone in the room, including the young, stunning biographer who couldn’t seem to stop looking at her. My jaw tightened as I forced myself to smile at the conversation around us, but my mind was somewhere else entirely.

  I wanted to leave. To get out of that room with its clinking glasses and muted laughter and head back to the apartment. I wanted Evelyn to myself, no admirers, no photographers, no Lily Monroe with her striking green eyes and pert, perfect bubble b@tt. I wanted to f@ck her against the bathroom counter and remind her whose ring she was wearing.

  Evelyn’s hand slid lower on my back, a quiet, deliberate reassurance. “You’re quiet, sweetheart,” she murmured, her voice low enough that only I could hear.

  “Just thinking,” I said, glancing at her.

  She raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth tugging into a faint smirk. “Dangerous territory,” she teased.

  I didn’t answer, just gave her a look, one I knew she’d understand. Evelyn leaned closer, her lips brushing my ear, and her breath was warm as she whispered, “I see you, Celia. Don’t let her get in your head.”

  It was enough to steady me for the moment. But I still couldn’t shake the feeling that I needed Evelyn all to myself, away from the noise, away from Lily, away from anyone who thought they could insert themselves into what we’d built.

  And maybe Evelyn already knew. She always did.
•••
  
    Maria’s POV
  

  
    The Last of the Orange Groves
  
   was what some might call an “instant cult classic,” a film that didn’t set out to win over the masses so much as to ignite the ones who were ready to be lit. It wasn’t selling out theaters in Birmingham or Biloxi—no, those places had their own ways of pretending such stories didn’t exist. But it was creating ripples, a quiet but certain shift in how people thought about queer love on the screen. This was the 1990s, not the 1960s, and people were just beginning to step out of the shadows of fear that had silenced so much art before. Suddenly, the idea of watching two women fall in love, and seeing them stay in love, wasn’t so foreign. It was something you could speak about in coffee shops or dissect in college lecture halls, and maybe even go home to think about in the quiet of your own bedroom.

  I cried the first time I watched it. Not quiet tears, either—real, full sobs that shook me so hard I had to press a hand over my mouth to keep from disturbing the others in the small, dim theater. It wasn’t Connor, or Evelyn, or Celia that broke me open, though seeing the latter two’s names on the screen tugged at something deep and unresolved. It wasn’t even the memories of New York, the city I’d tried so hard to leave behind, with its crowded streets and crowded feelings. No, it was the story itself. A story I had never heard spoken aloud, let alone seen played out on a screen.

  The film gave voice to something I hadn’t known I was waiting to hear. It was the look in Julia’s eyes when Rose reached for her hand in a moment of quiet defiance. It was the way they argued like the world outside their door didn’t matter, and then made up with kisses that felt as necessary as air. It was the way their love was messy and loud and flawed and still, somehow, enough.

  I sat there long after the credits rolled, the tears still running hot and steady down my cheeks. Around me, people were shifting in their seats, gathering their coats and whispering to each other. But I couldn’t move. I just sat there, watching the empty screen, letting the enormity of what I’d seen settle into the cracks of everything I thought I knew.

  When I got home from the theater, my first thought was to call Connor. But the idea of only hearing her voice – not seeing her eyes, her hair, her skin – made me feel strangely on-edge. Instead, on a whim, I decided to just go to Evelyn and Celia’s house. It wasn’t far, five blocks at most, and my dad’s refusal to buy me a car made the bike ride almost second nature by now. The air was heavy, as Savannah evenings always were, thick with the scent of wet pavement and magnolias. The cicadas droned in the trees, a constant melodic chorus.

  When I turned the corner onto their street, I spotted them: a small knot of protestors clustered near the driveway like vultures around a kill. They were pesky as flies and just as hard to swat away. A couple of signs bobbed lazily in the sticky breeze—
  
    Sin has no place in this town
  
   and 
  
    Protect our children from perversion
  
  . The usual garbage.

  I slowed to a stop, tossing my bike into the grass with a loud clatter. From where I stood, I could tell the house was empty. Two cars sat in the drive, but the gas lanterns by the door were dark, and Celia always lit them when they were home.

  “Hey!” I shouted, marching toward the driveway. The protestors turned to look at me, their faces puckered with heat and self-righteousness. “This is private property. Get the hell out of here.”

  One man, middle-aged with a greasy mustache and sweat stains spreading under his arms, stepped forward. He held up a magazine like it was the Bible, shaking it for emphasis. “Do you even know what kind of disgusting, demonic material these two lesbians are peddling? This right here—”

  “Let me see that.” I didn’t wait for permission. I snatched the magazine from his hands, my stomach clenching as I saw the big red letters scrawled across the cover: 
  
    DYKES.
  
   Below the slur was a picture of Evelyn and Celia at the premiere, their arms linked, faces glowing under the flashbulbs. As always, they looked so beautiful it was nearly painful.

  I flipped it open, my fingers moving faster than my thoughts. A few pages in, there they were again—but this time, they weren’t alone. Connor and Wren stood just behind them, smiling like they’d stepped out of a dream I couldn’t quite remember. Wren’s hand rested on Connor’s forearm, and Connor leaned into her just enough to make it clear they belonged to each other. The camera had caught her mid-laugh, and something about the unguarded softness of her expression made me furious in a way I couldn’t name.

  I shoved the magazine back at the man without a word and wheeled my bike around, pedaling away before I did something stupid.
•••
  Back at my apartment, Court was waiting for me, her legs folded up under her on the couch. She was wearing one of my T-shirts, the collar stretched out from too many washings, and the sight of her like that—comfortable, at home—only made the knot in my chest tighten.

  “You’re late,” she said, her voice warm but carrying that edge of concern that made me feel cornered.

  “Got held up,” I muttered, dropping my bag by the door. I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t want to think. I crossed the room in a few strides and kissed her hard, hoping she wouldn’t ask any more questions.

  We ended up in bed, but the closeness felt wrong. Her touch was too soft, her voice too familiar, and I couldn’t shake the image of Connor and Wren, their laughter frozen in that photograph. Court murmured something sweet, her fingers trailing down my back, but the words dissolved before they reached me. After she fell asleep, her golden hair fanned out across my pillow, I realized why I couldn’t stop feeling sick. It was because she wasn’t who I wanted in my bed. She wasn’t for me.
•••
  That night, I dreamed of New York, of Connor and me as kids racing each other down sidewalks that glittered with broken glass. I dreamed of the summer we spent swimming in the river upstate at that camp and how she dared me to jump from the highest rock. I dreamed of the two of us as we were before everything went wrong, before I lost her to the haze of pills and boys and calamity. 

  But the dream shifted, as dreams do, and suddenly, we were older, back in New York. It was winter, the kind that silences the city with its weight, muffling the chaos under a blanket of white. Snow fell steadily, clinging to the branches of trees and frosting the iron railings along the park path. The air was sharp enough to cut, and our breath hung between us in clouds. Connor’s hand was in mine.

  She laughed at something I’d said. Her cheeks were flushed, not just from the cold, but from the fullness of her joy. The laugh lines around her eyes had deepened with age, but they suited her, made her look more herself, like she’d finally grown into her face. Her hair, damp from the snow, curled in wild wisps around her scarf. 

  Her other hand rested lightly on the curve of her stomach, and it was only then that I noticed she was pregnant. The swell beneath her coat wasn’t much, but it was enough to make me stop walking, my breath catching in my throat.

  “Are you cold?” she asked, tilting her head toward me.

  “No,” I said quickly, shaking my head. “I’m fine. Just—thinking.”

  She smiled, her free hand reaching out to brush the snow from my shoulder. “You’re always thinking,” she teased, and then she pulled me close, her arm looping through mine as we walked on.

  We talked about plans. Not the grand, impossible kind, but the small ones that felt close enough to touch. The nursery she wanted to paint yellow, because green was too safe and pink too expected. The weekend trips upstate she dreamed about, where we’d find cabins with woodstoves and spend the nights reading by firelight. She asked if I thought we’d still have time for playing music and painting after the baby came, and I laughed, because Connor never stopped thinking about music, not even in dreams.

  I told her we’d find time for all of it—art, the cabins, the baby. Her face softened as she looked at me, like she believed it too, like this life we were imagining could be real.

  The dream held me there, in that fragile warmth, for what felt like hours. The snow fell heavier, blurring the edges of the city around us, but we kept walking, arm in arm, as if nothing could touch us. I felt like the world outside the park didn’t exist and I didn’t want it to. I just wanted me and Connor and the baby in her belly and 
  
    us. 
  
  Our life, uncomplicated for once. The way it was always supposed to be.

  I woke up in the heat of my room, tangled in my sheets, the air too warm and too thick. I was drenched in sweat. The ceiling was pale in the early morning light, the faint hum of traffic filtering in through the window.

  Court was beside me, her back turned, her breathing deep and even. I stared at the ceiling, willing myself to shake the dream loose, but it clung to me. The image of Connor, her hand on her stomach, the plans we had spun so easily—they stayed, sharp but fragile, like a splinter lodged too deep to pull free.'
User: Summarize the chapter based on the content provided, ensuring to follow the set format and emphasize key aspects within the specified length.
User: Summarize the chapter based on the content provided, ensuring to follow the set format and emphasize key aspects within the specified length.
Assistant: