Bette commented, “Lucky tomorrow’s Sunday.”

“And you don’t have to work?” I asked hopefully.

“I was going to say that I could do most of my work in bed.”

I then proceeded to make a smart comment about how she did some of her best work in bed and was promptly ordered to be quiet. But by this time, I didn’t think that I’d ever be tired, or that I’d ever want to budge from where I was lying, or that I’d ever really like the idea of getting out of bed at all.

“Okay,” I said, yawning. Maybe I was getting tired after all. “You tell another story.”

“I don’t have any others.”

“Oh, okay, I guess you’ve told every story there is to tell,” I said sarcastically. I rubbed my eyes to make them focus, but all they really wanted to do was close.

“I think I did.”

“What made you so interested in art?” I suggested sleepily, closing my eyes for a moment. I fought to keep them open when she didn’t say anything and I lifted my head to take a look at her.

Bette looked uncomfortable. “That’s not an interesting story.” Or one she wanted to tell me, obviously.

“Okay, fi-” I yawned again. Damn. “-ne.”

Bette smiled. “Someone’s tired. Come on. My eyes are sort of closing, too.” She pulled her arm away from me and rolled onto her side. I scooted further onto my side of the bed. Bette pushed the sheet along with me, draping it over my body. “You take the sheet,” she whispered.

“Okay,” I mumbled against the pillow. My vision seemed blurry now that I was tired and Bette’s face was hovering above me and it made me sleepier, made me smile. She was so nice sometimes.

“Okay?” Bette kissed me on the forehead. “Okay. Good.”

I yawned again. “Not that tired, though.”

Bette chuckled. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” I smiled at her. She was pretty.

“Well, you’re doing a half-decent job of acting like you’re tired, then.”

I looked at her hair, spread out on the pillow, and her tired smile, and her dark eyes, and suddenly I was very awake.

Oh, no.

*****.

I sat up in bed quickly.

No… bad. This was bad.

“You okay?” Bette mumbled, eyes closed.

No. No, I’m not. “Uh, yeah,” I said quickly. “I’m just gonna… go to the bathroom.”

“Okay.” She barely got the word out before she seemingly dropped off to sleep.

I sat, stunned, for a moment or two, and then climbed out of bed, moving toward the bathroom. I lingered in the doorway and watched her sleep for a moment. I felt warm and stupid and awake and confused.

There was no way I was in love with her.

No.

I backed into the bathroom, closed the door, and threw the light switch on. I cringed at the bright lights, looking at myself in the mirror. I studied my reflection, looking for something. Anything. Different. New.

Because if I had let myself fall in love with Bette Porter, I was crazy. And you’d think craziness would manifest itself physically, you know?

But I looked the same. Stupid hair sticking up all over the place. Boring brown eyes. And I seemed the same. I mean, except for that whole thing where I felt like I was in love with Bette. Other than that, I mean.

I had to be just ***** losing it. This wasn’t possible. I had been specifically trying to not fall in love with her.

This was, I decided, the worst thing. Ever.