But she had simply wanted it so badly that she surrendered to the fantasy. She began to live her life as if love were really possible. She began to hope, and that was the biggest mistake, hoping that this woman she loved would love her back, love her enough to be with her, make a life with her. She could remember every look, every touch, the music they danced to, the love they made, all of it, so much intensity of living and loving crammed into such a brief moment in time.

And in this moment, as she lit yet another cigarette and took a sip of cooling coffee, she knew that all those rationalizations and platitudes about having good times as if it were enough, all the words she used to try and soothe the hurt feelings of the girls she left behind … she knew how hollow and meaningless they were.

The pain was raw, every nerve felt exposed, and her skin ached with it. She felt emotionally naked and it frightened her that she had no toughness to hide behind. It hurt to breathe. Her eyes hurt from blinking back tears; she hadn’t cried in years and now she could barely stop. Those thoughts and memories kept roiling inside her mind and no amount of head-shaking could dislodge them. This was unbearable and she didn’t know what to do. The emotional off switch she had relied on for most of her life was gone. She couldn’t shut down, shut off. She could only hurt … and hurt … and hurt … as if her heart had been ripped out and torn to bits.

As she slowly fell to her knees, a cry of anguish building in her throat, the Shane McCutcheon everyone knew … tough, punkish, together, invulnerable … dissolved in the intensity of her grief, her sobs bringing Bette and Marina running outside. But Shane was beyond their comfort, beyond words, beyond excuses, beyond the fairy tales of true love and happily ever after. She gave herself over to the crushing sorrow, knowing that grief had made of her a woman with no emotional skin, no reserve, no defense against its pain.

-x-

Cherie poured herself another drink, stiffer than the last. She looked up to see Clea walk by the table, shooting her an accusatory glance. Somewhere off in the distance, a siren wailed. Or was it the voice of grief? She gulped her drink and reached for the bottle again. There was no anesthetic for her, no absolution either. There was only the hope of oblivion as she drank herself unconscious.