At ten minutes to five, she drove down the narrow, gravel driveway and pulled up to the rustic guest house.  Somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to exit the car.  Bette stared at the small house for the longest time hoping it would disappear and she wouldn’t have to follow through on the things that her heart demanded.  She closed her eyes and when she opened them again, the cottage was still there–quiet, innocent, homey.

Long moments passed and Bette heard the front door open.  Gail came out, never looking up and moved to the garbage bins on the side of the house.  When she turned, she noticed the Volvo.  She stood there, not coming out to the car, not returning to the warmth of her home.  Gail stood and watched and when Bette’s eyes met hers, Bette was graced with the softest smile, before she turned and walked inside.  The door didn’t close.  Second after second ticked by and the door didn’t close.  Bette continued to stare.  In her mind’s eye, she pictured herself there with Gail.  The house beckoned to her, calling out, telling her that there is where she’d find what she’d been missing.  It wasn’t just a small guest house, but a dream of days to come.  She bit her lip.  Could she ever be ready for this step?  Could this ever be part of the life she had planned for herself?  And did Gail want what she wanted.  What if Bette was being a fool?  Bette exhaled deeply and when she pulled her gloves off, she felt how clammy her hands were.  She listened to the sounds of nature—the geese calling to each other, the wind whistling above her, the leaves cracking in the wind.  Another deep breath and she heard her heart; her heart that was pushing her forward while suddenly her head no longer put up a fight.

Stepping out of the car, Bette’s duck shoes crunched against the gravel and hardening snow.  Her mind jumped to some unknown scene in a movie where the protagonist had to make one long, last journey to reach her fate.  She could hear the music swelling and tension building as the heroine made her approach, but then she was back in Guilford, Connecticut, just outside of New Haven.  Bette Porter, a heterosexual art history major and soon-to-be, married, business school student was walking toward another life.  *I am in deep *****, here.  Deep ***** to the max,* she thought.  She told herself that it wasn’t about Ash; not about Daddy.  She was doing this for her.  She had to go inside this house.