Welp. Trying something new. An AU! Let me know which part you liked best, and if I should continue!

"Daddy?" Callie prompted, sitting at her father's bedside. "Can I get you anything?" She grabbed the paper cup of water on his side table and angled the straw toward his lips. "Do you want some water?"

Lying down, Carlos just shook his head. "I'm fine, mija. Thank you."

Lucia—sitting on the couch across the hospital room—turned her attention to Callie, her arms crossed. "And where's your sister? Your father has a heart attack, and she doesn't even come home to see him."

Callie shrugged. "I haven't talked to Aria in…a while," she offered cagily. "I don't even know where she is."

Carlos focused on his breathing. Authoritatively, he offered, "She's in France."

Lucia furrowed her brows. "She is? Since when?"

"A few months ago. She said Rich has business there."

"Ay, Rich," Lucia sighed dreamily. She narrowed her eyes at Callie. "And when are you going to find yourself a husband? You really want your father to die before he gets grandkids?"

"Mom!" Callie huffed. "Can we not do this right now?"

"I'm just saying," Lucia insisted, "you're already thirty. The clock's ticking."

"You know," Callie decided, standing up, "I really should get back to the house, shower, and unpack a little. I took the red-eye to get here." She bent down, kissing her father's forehead. "Let me know if you need anything, okay, Daddy? I'll come right back if you want me to."

Carlos waved her off. "I'm fine, Calliope. Your mother didn't even have to call you."

Callie rolled her eyes. "Actually, she did. You had a heart attack and then emergency bypass surgery! That's serious. But I'll come back later to check on you, okay?" She squeezed his hand. "Mom, you'll call me if the doctors say anything new?"

"I will," Lucia promised.

Downstairs, Callie caught an Uber to take to her parents' house, and she spent the entire drive with her head resting on the window, watching the world outside pass her by.

At her childhood home, she let herself in, dropped off her stuff in her old bedroom, and then decided she needed to move. It was already past seven in the evening, and she'd spent the entire day—and half the night—in the hospital with her parents. That was a lot for anyone to bear, especially with a mother like hers.

She walked the mile to the local orchard, relishing in the feel of the summer sun on her bare shoulders. When she got there, she sat on the floor of the grove, focusing on the sun as it began to sink behind the hills. All around her, the tree shadows lengthened, the cool summer breeze a salve against her glistening skin.

It had been years since she'd been home. Almost twelve, she realized. Sure, she'd met up with her family in other places during the holidays, but she had always found an excuse to avoid going to her hometown: she'd worked summer jobs in college and then had argued that she was too busy with work and life ever since then. She'd avoided it like the plague. And she knew why. It was all because of the thing that had happened, right in this very orchard, her final night before leaving for college—the thing she still couldn't get out of her head, no matter how hard she tried.

Unable to bear another moment of sitting and thinking and dwelling on the past, she suddenly took off, running down the rows of trees that extended as far as the eye could see. The landscape made her feel small, and scared, and she was eager to run the length of it, to prove that she could penetrate it—even in a minuscule way. As she ran up the next row of peach trees, she couldn't help but laugh, grateful to feel air in her lungs again—even if it tasted like spoiled fruit. Then, after another minute of running, she collapsed on the ground, her eyes shut and her hands above her head as she worked to slow her breathing.

She didn't know how long she'd lain there when she heard the sound of crackling leaves—something or someone walking toward her. She squinted in the direction of the sound, but the sun was in her eyes, and she couldn't make out anything but a pair of ankles.

"Callie?"

At that, Callie immediately sat up, her head whipping around to face the voice head-on. "Arizona?" Suddenly, she felt like she was underwater: the whole world blurred and she couldn't breathe.

Arizona gave her a hard look—or at least attempted to. "What are you doing here?"

"I…" Callie tried to find her voice as she stood up. Then—defensive—she countered, "What are you doing here?"

"I live here."

Callie's brows furrowed. "You do? Since when?"

"Since a long time ago," Arizona offered vaguely. "Since after you went away."

Callie gulped, her stomach doing somersaults. And not in a good way. She wasn't anxious—more stupefied. For over a decade, she'd hoped never to see Arizona again. And—for over a decade—she'd prayed that, by some miracle, she would. And now the moment had come, and it was as wonderful as she'd predicted it would be. And as devastating.

Callie shut her eyes for a moment as she worked to come up with the words. "I…I didn't mean to trespass. I'm sorry for that."

Arizona looked at her in disbelief. "That's all you're sorry for?"

Callie worked to swallow the stone in her throat. "No," she conceded. "It's not the only thing." Then, she fell silent.

Arizona exhaled a hard breath. She worked to soften her voice. "What are you really doing here? Not just here, I mean. What are you doing back in town?"

Callie looked down. "My dad had a heart attack last night."

"Oh," Arizona breathed. After a minute of silence, she tilted her head, gesturing toward the house in the distance. "Come on. Let me make you some tea."

As they walked, Callie followed a few paces behind, taking the opportunity to really take Arizona in. The years had been kind to her: her blonde hair shined in the evening light, and she was as slim and slender as ever, with just enough softness to her stomach and arms to make you want to hug her, knowing her body would feel good against yours. Her shoulders were pocked with tiny freckles and, when she turned her head, Callie saw that her face was freckled, too—likely from time spent outside picking fruit. And she was walking fast, but Callie still noted a slight limp in her step, and she wondered whether all her time spent running and playing softball had finally caught up to her.

Arizona shut her eyes for just a few seconds before unlocking the door, mentally preparing herself for letting Callie in. And not just into her house—but into her world again. For so long, she'd wanted and dreaded an opportunity like this. To see Callie's face again. To hear her voice.

Callie looked around the house's interior as she followed Arizona into the kitchen, taking in the vintage furniture, the Easter basket-colored walls, and the big windows that let in natural golden light. It was all just so Arizona. She must live here alone, Callie realized, and—for some reason—knowing that filled her with a sense of relief. "It's a gorgeous house," she complimented, really meaning it.

Arizona smiled as she filled a pot with hot water and put it on the stove, though the smile didn't reach her eyes. "Thanks."

They sat together at the kitchen island, silent and awkward, looking at everything but each other.

Finally, Arizona asked, "Is he going to be okay?"

"What?"

"Your dad," Arizona clarified. "Is he okay?"

"Oh," Callie breathed. "Yeah. He had to have bypass surgery in the middle of the night, but he's awake now. And, as long as he starts taking better care of himself, the doctors are optimistic that he can live a healthy, decently-long life."

"Good," Arizona nodded. "That's good."

"So," Callie began, "do your parents still live in town?"

Arizona nodded. "In the same little house as always. They never left."

"Did you?" Callie pressed. "Ever leave, I mean."

Arizona let out a humorless laugh. "Wow. You really just disappeared and never looked back, didn't you?"

Chagrined, Callie looked down at the wooden countertop, her thumb rubbing along the grain. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

Arizona just looked at her, hoping her eyes didn't reveal her vulnerability. Over the years, the thought of Callie had, undoubtably, brought her pain. But it slowly had lessened, finally becoming only a steady ache, rather than a throbbing torment.

When the teakettle started to scream, she stood up to turn off the heat and pour their tea into mugs. "Mint with honey okay?"

Callie nodded. "That's perfect. Thank you."

Arizona handed her a steaming mug, setting another in front of herself.

Callie blew lightly on the tea, its steam wafting over her face.

Arizona inhaled the scent of mint and shut her eyes, hoping the herb would provide her with some sort of strength—or, at the very least, clarity of mind. With Callie sitting in front of her, she couldn't think straight. She could hardly breathe.

"You own an orchard now," Callie noted, attempting to keep things conversational. "Do you sell the fruit?"

"Yeah. These days, I just farm as a job. It's lucrative enough."

Callie nodded, waiting for Arizona to say more.

"And I know it's a simple life," Arizona added, feeling a little defensive—Callie had gone to Stanford, after all. "But it was a welcome change of pace after Afghanistan. Once I got my feet on the ground again, I bought this place from old Mr. Johnson's kids after he died."

There was a lot to unpack in what Arizona had said: first, that old Mr. Johnson—the orchard's previous owner and the town's resident curmudgeon—had died, and, second, that Arizona had gone off to war. Of course, Callie knew that she came from a family of Marines. But her brother, Timothy, had died fighting while they were still in high school, so Callie never imagined Arizona would want to fight in the same war. She looked at her, dumbfounded. "You went to war?"

Arizona nodded, her lips pursed.

"Wow," Callie articulated, processing. "I had no idea."

"I know," Arizona acknowledged, an edge to her voice. "How could you? You weren't here."

"Arizona…"

Arizona felt her stomach lurch at the sound of her name in Callie's mouth, but she forced herself to stand strong and keep her expression neutral.

Callie perused her face, her eyes soft. Wanting to give some sort of explanation, she offered, "I was scared."

Arizona chuckled darkly. "And I wasn't?"

"It was different for you," Callie insisted. "You already knew."

"Didn't you?" Arizona challenged.

"Yeah," Callie sighed. "I guess I did. And that was what was so terrifying."

Arizona nodded—certainly not agreeing with Callie's decision, but at least recognizing that she had her reasons. "So, how long are you staying?"

Callie shrugged. "My dad's really sick. It's going to take him some time to recover, so I think I'll be here for a while—the summer, at least. Maybe longer."

"Won't people miss you?" Arizona pressed. "At work…and stuff?" She knew she was fishing, and she hoped Callie wouldn't notice.

Callie smiled at her—perhaps more generously than she deserved, Arizona acknowledged. "No. I'm an English teacher, so I have summers off, anyway."

Despite herself, Arizona was glad to learn more about Callie—even though she wished she didn't care. "High school?"

Callie nodded. "A Catholic high school back in San Francisco. I started working there after Stanford, and I've been there ever since."

"So, you'll be here this summer and then you'll go back to California?" Arizona guessed, trying to mentally prepare herself for Callie leaving. Again.

"I don't know yet," Callie admitted. "This will always be home, you know? Maybe I'll find a reason to stay."

As they said goodbye, Arizona offered a weak smile. "Let your dad know I'm thinking of him."

"I will," Callie promised. "And Arizona?" She turned back to look at her, taking in that freckled face, those bright blue eyes—trying to commit it all to memory. "It was really good to see you."

Arizona had planned on baking a peach pie that evening, but—after seeing Callie—she just couldn't find the energy to do it. Instead, she collapsed in her bed and shut her eyes.

It had felt like a lifetime since she'd seen Callie. On good days, Arizona almost had been able to forget she'd ever existed at all. More often, though, thoughts of Callie lived in the back of her mind, cobwebbed but always there, a constant reminder.

They'd been best friends once, after all. More than best friends. But, then, there had been that night in the orchard that had changed everything. And then Callie had left. And Arizona had seen the war. And she'd lost her leg. And the trauma of that, the long physical and emotional recovery, the near giving-up—Callie had missed it all. She'd left. And it felt like a part of her was still gone.

Eventually, Arizona dozed off. A little after 5a.m., though, she found herself wide awake and unable to fall back asleep. With a sigh, she sat up and donned her prosthesis, deciding she may as well be productive. She grabbed a few baskets from the garden shed as she headed for the trees, determined to spend her morning picking fruit to sell at the farmers' market that following Sunday.

She strode through the grove, the predawn a misty navy blue, and took a deep breath, inhaling the moisture in the air, its earthy scent. As she continued to walk, she looked at the ground, trying to discern which footsteps were her own and which were Callie's.

It was funny, she realized—and not in a ha-ha way, but in a curious, peculiar way—that Callie had come to the orchard on her first evening home. Sure, they used to walk through it together as teenagers, despite old Mr. Johnson's threats and menacing hunting rifle, but that was years ago. And then, of course, they had come to the orchard on that final night—but why would Callie want a reminder of that?

Needing a distraction from her own thoughts, she rode her bike to her childhood home after eating breakfast. Her parents were, if nothing else, predictable, and Arizona was grateful for that. She knew they'd be home. She knew her mother had fried her father two eggs for breakfast. She knew her father would be on the front porch in his Adirondack chair, watching the neighborhood kids run up and down the road as he read the newspaper.

And, sure enough, there Daniel was, sitting on the front porch as Arizona made her way up the road and caught his eye. "Morning, Dad."

Daniel smiled at her, mellower in his retirement. "Morning, darlin'. It's been a while since you've visited us."

Arizona bent down to kiss his cheek, and he kissed hers back. "I know. I figured I owed you a visit."

"Your mother will be glad to see you. She's inside."

Arizona made her way into her childhood home and found her mom in the kitchen, doing the dishes. "Hey, Mom," she tried to smile.

Barbara turned away from the sink and met her eyes. "Arizona!" She took a few steps forward and wrapped Arizona into a hug.

Arizona gratefully accepted it, melting against her mom's warm body.

A few seconds later, Barbara pulled away and carefully inspected her daughter's face. "You look pale." She touched her forehead, feeling for a fever. "No fever…" she noted. "What's wrong?"

Arizona shrugged dismissively. "I'm fine. I just wanted to come see you."

"Did you eat?" Barbara worried. "I could whip you up some eggs." She nodded toward the backyard chicken coop. "We found three under Loretta this morning!"

Arizona laughed a little. "I'm not hungry, Mom. Like I said, I just wanted to come see you."

Barbara tucked a strand of hair behind Arizona's ear, still watching her carefully. She knew how much Arizona was like Daniel—they were both so guarded, so stoic, so hesitant to ever ask for help. "You know we're here for you."

Arizona nodded. "I know."

"If you need or want to talk," Barbara continued, "we're here to listen. You can tell us anything."

Arizona wrapped her arms around her mom once more. "I know."

That afternoon, Callie went back to the hospital to see her father while Lucia drove home to shower and try to sleep in a real bed for a little while.

"Hey," Callie smiled as she walked into the room. "How are you feeling today?"

"Sore," Carlos gruffed. "But fine. I don't always need someone to stay with me, mija. You can go if you have things to do."

"I don't have anything to do," Callie admitted. "And, even if I did, I'd rather be here with you."

Carlos reached for her hand, assuring her, "I'll be able to go home sometime in the next few days. Then, things will be more normal."

"Then, Mom and I can put you on that low-fat vegetarian diet your doctors recommended," Callie reminded him.

Carlos rolled his eyes. "What's the point of living if I can't eat anything?"

Callie chuckled. "You can eat anything you want, as long as it's healthy."

Carlos frowned, then changed the subject. "So, it's been years since you've visited home. Is there anyone you want to catch up with while you're here?"

Callie shook her head. "Not really, no."

"What about Arizona?" Carlos suggested, perking up. "You were like sisters when you were younger! She bought that orchard out on Creek Road a few years ago, you know. I see her selling peaches at the farmers' market, sometimes. She's such a sweet girl."

Callie nodded stiffly. "She is."

"What ever happened between you two?" Carlos asked.

Callie felt the color fade from her face. "What…do you mean?"

But, to her relief, Carlos didn't seem suspicious—only curious. "You didn't keep up after high school," he clarified. "Did you just grow apart?"

"Yeah," Callie lied. "We just grew apart. Nothing more."

That night, though, Callie was reminded of how much more than "nothing" had created the chasm between them. It hadn't been nothing, what had happened. It had been everything. Which, of course, she had already known. But, that night, she had a dream, and it reminded her of how big this thing really had been. In the dream, it felt so real—as if it were happening right then, in that moment, for the first time, all over again.

In the dream, they were eighteen-years-old again, sneaking a bottle of her father's rum out to the orchard on her final night home before leaving for college in California.

Callie felt her whole body thrum. It was as if bubbles were spreading through her veins. "I think I'm drunk," she decided. "I feel the way a hummingbird looks when it's hovering above a lavender bush. Is that what being drunk feels like?"

"How should I know?" Arizona laughed. "Neither of us have ever had a drink before tonight. I feel it, too, though. Kind of…bubbly." She stood up, strode over to a tree, and picked them each a peach.

Callie watched as she brushed off the peaches' fifth with her thumb before tossing one to her. She watched as Arizona sat beside her, grazing the other peach's fuzz with her lips.

All around them was the saccharine scent of fallen fruit. The pulse of cricketcall. The grass swaying in the August breeze.

As Callie ate, Arizona stared at her face, all her inhibitions falling away like sand. She reached out, brushing away some peach juice that was about to drip down a tan chin.

Callie looked up at her, suddenly stilling mid-chew.

"You, um, were dripping," Arizona explained, her cheeks flushing red.

"Oh," Callie smiled, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. "Thanks."

A few minutes later, Callie was leaned back against a tree with Arizona's head resting on her lap, their mouths still sticky. She ribboned a stray blonde curl around her fingers. "I think we did pretty well this summer, honestly."

Arizona looked up, repositioning herself on Callie's thighs. "With our summer list? I know. We got summer jobs at the diner, tried our first cigarettes, bought our first lottery ticket-"

"And last," Callie laughed.

"And last," Arizona agreed. "And now, we're getting drunk for the first time." She sat up and took another swig of rum before offering it to Callie, who made a face as she gulped it back.

Recapping the bottle, Callie sighed. "I wish you were coming with me to college. We could've been roommates."

Arizona scoffed. "Callie, there's no way I would've gotten into Stanford. My parents wouldn't be able to afford it, anyway."

"We could probably help," Callie offered.

Arizona rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "No way. I've never liked school. Why would I willingly pay to endure more of it?"

Callie frowned. "I guess that's a good point."

Arizona shrugged. "You'll come visit me all the time, anyway. And maybe I can visit you. Oh! And we can write each other letters, the way people used to."

"That would be cute," Callie conceded. "I'm just nervous. We've never, like, not been together before."

"You're ready," Arizona insisted, playfully flipping chestnut hair. "Especially now that we've gotten all our 'firsts' taken care of."

Callie smiled at the jokey gesture, her eyes perusing Arizona's face. Under the light of the moon, her skin looked alyssum-white, her shoulders almost glowing.

Arizona grinned at her, and Callie felt the strange urge to dip her tongue into her dimple. She bit her lip, her finger coming up to trace Arizona's knee, drawing little circles on her bare skin. "You know," she began, her voice lowering, "there's one 'first' neither of us have done."

Arizona's head snapped up. "What?" Instantly, she knew what 'first' Callie was talking about. The big 'first.' The ultimate 'first.'

"Well, we haven't!" Callie insisted. "And I don't really want to go off to California a virgin."

Arizona tried to chuckle, sobering up at the implication and mere possibility of something happening between them—something she'd wanted so badly, for so long. "You want us to go find you a guy to hook up with?" she offered. "Anyone would jump at the chance to be with you, trust me."

Callie shook her head. "I don't want it to be with a stranger, the first time. It should be with someone you actually trust, right?"

Arizona gulped. "Right."

"And I…I trust you more than anyone." Instinctively, Callie licked her lips.

"Callie…" Arizona felt her breath catch in her throat. And, then, her heart was machine-gunning in her chest, and she couldn't hear anything else. Just that pounding in her ears.

Callie continued to draw patterns on Arizona's leg, slowly edging toward her thigh. She met cloudy baby blues, her own eyes earnest and open-wide. "You don't want to?"

"I…" How could Arizona say it, what she wanted to say? The truth: I've loved you for so long.

Callie nudged her shoulder. "Come on. I know we're just friends, but we love each other, right?"

Arizona nodded.

"So," Callie raised an eyebrow suggestively, "do you want to?"

"Y-yes," Arizona shuddered out, deciding to be honest. What did she have to lose except everything? "Let's do it."

On impulse, they began to lean toward each other, their lips hovering a hair's breadth apart. Finally, Arizona closed the distance, allowing their lips to brush. Callie hummed at the syrup-sweet taste of those lips, the warmth of Arizona's mouth—and the sound made Arizona shiver, her hand coming up to cup Callie's cheek.

As Arizona pressed closer, their breasts brushing, Callie felt her body begin to buzz, and—this time—she knew it wasn't because of the rum. She dropped her hands to Arizona's lithe waist, pulling her closer, their bodies becoming a swell of heat, their breaths a hurricane…

Callie woke up out of breath, sweating. Full of want. The want had always been there, she knew. It had never left. And now—having seen Arizona again—it felt stronger than ever.