Waking Up in Omaha
"When I had you book the rooms, I assumed Ava and I would each need a room and Damien would sleep on the bus. I didn't know you would be joining us, Marcus," Deborah had never been so sharp with Marcus in front of Ava before.
"Look, Damien and I can sleep on the bus. It's no big deal," Ava tried to be the peacemaker in their dysfunctional work family.
"Don't be ridiculous, Ava." Deborah's scowl ended her attempt at peacemaking. "You can share my room and the boys can figure out their dilemma themselves."
The Queen of Sin City wasn't getting her beauty rest until they figured it out. The three staff members knew this and would ultimately do whatever was necessary to keep Deborah happy. If not happy, at the very least keep her from making the rest of the tour pure hell.
"You can sleep on the floor," Marcus said rudely to Damien who simply shrugged his shoulders and wheeled his bag in the direction of their room. Marcus and Deborah shared a look and, truly, if looks could kill, Marcus would be six feet under somewhere in Omaha.
Deborah and Ava walked in silence to their room, a suite according to the brochure in Ava's large, clammy hands. She hoped that Omaha's definition of a suite included a couch so this night would bring them as little awkwardness as possible.
"Here we are," Deborah said, stepping aside to allow Ava the privilege of using the key card and opening the door.
"A sofa, cool," Ava breathed a sigh of relief.
"We are grownups and there is no reason that a California king bed can't be slept in by both of us," the blonde stated it as if it were a fact. Ava was not about to interrupt with the many reasons. "Besides, that couch looks like it wouldn't fit Damien and you are several inches taller than he is."
Ava was back to not breathing. A million images flashed through her head, the most prominent of which was the sex-ish dream she had about Deborah the morning of DJ's birthday party turned engagement dinner and wedding day.
"I am going to shower," Deborah wheeled her bag with her into the bathroom and closed the door.
Shit! Ava groaned. If she had been able to focus, she might have developed a pretty good list of all the ways she could make a total mess of this. Grabbing for her phone, she typed out a frantic text to Kiki:
Deborah and I have to share a hotel bed tonight. Remind me that my sex dream was really only about Carol?
She's hot, sista. Enjoy every minute of it and tell me all the details. Kiki was not helping. Kiki had never been helpful on this topic.
You are not helping.
Ava groaned yet again. At least the sound of the shower running would prevent Deborah from hearing all the groaning Ava was doing. Otherwise, she might have perceived it to be something else happening altogether. Perhaps if she got under the covers and pretended to sleep, all of this would be fine come morning.
But did you really want me to? Deborah is hot, Kiki responded.
Ava had been trying to come up with a joke to play her panic off as something calm and unbothered, but she was at a total loss. She stared at her phone for quite some time when the bathroom door opened and out of a cloud of steam stepped a pajama-clad Deborah Vance. The writer felt her stomach twist and oxygen escape her lungs. She always found Deborah the most attractive when she was without a wig and makeup.
"All yours," she announced.
"What?" Ava said aloud, realizing too late what Deborah was referring to.
She gathered her things and bumbled her way to the bathroom where she was immediately hit by the smells she associated with Deborah—bedtime lotions and serums, shampoo, the remainder of her daytime perfume. Sitting on the toilet, she put her head in her hands and talked herself out of screaming.
It was going to be a very long night.
…
"Do you think Damien is on the bus?" Ava asked, her voice coming out unintentionally loud in the dark, silent room.
She was lying on her back, staring up at the ceiling. She had been since climbing into bed. Deborah had turned away from her, blankets only pulled as high as her waist. Ava hated that she knew Deborah would pull the blankets up to her chin at some point in the night when her body temperature dropped. She remembered it well from their nip/tuck retreat.
"Marcus is going through something. I suspect the breakup with the water cop is taking its toll. However, he doesn't need to be rude to Damien," Deborah answered at a much quieter decibel level than the question had been asked.
"I didn't know they broke up," Ava felt momentary sympathy for her colleague. Breakups suck. "They were cute together."
"They were."
"Has Marcus dated anyone seriously while he has been working for you?" Ava wondered aloud.
"If this is going to turn into Twenty Questions, I'll stop you right here."
"No, I am genuinely curious whether Wilson is Marcus's type or if he has one," Ava said. She hadn't meant to annoy Deborah. It was the last thing she wanted to do.
Sighing, Deborah adjusted the blanket.
"I honestly don't know, Ava."
"I've been trying for months to determine if Damien has a type," she said with a grin, making Deborah chuckle.
"Don't most Damiens have a type?" the older woman asked.
"Well, stereotypically, yes. I try not to apply—"
"Yeah, yeah, I know."
The room went quiet again. Both women were lost in thought, the air conditioner humming softly along with their minds.
Deborah cleared her throat and tapped one of her feet against the mattress before finally speaking. "Would you say that the guy from the Palmetto was your type?" she asked.
"You mean George?" Ava knew that Deborah was aware of his name. Anxious, but willing to answer, Ava thought about it for a moment. She hoped her voice wouldn't crack as she spoke. "No, I would say that most men I have hooked up with have been husky. George was definitely not that."
"I am very sorry that happened," Deborah said with actual feeling.
"Thank you."
The silence returned and seemed to be there to stay until Deborah hesitantly asked another question.
"And in women, what is your type?"
Ava wasn't sure if she had stopped breathing or her lungs had collapsed. This question seemed far less safe than the last.
"Any woman who will pay me attention?" she wryly chuckled.
"You're impossible."
This sobered Ava up and she thought of how to best phrase her real answer.
"Honestly? In women I am far more drawn to personality than any specific physical attribute. My ex was feisty and brilliant. Usually, it's the ability to laugh with her. If she has amazing tits, that's a bonus."
Ava could have sworn she heard Deborah suck in air. She wasn't about to let the silence creep back in without getting to ask her own question. Something about Deborah having her back turned gave Ava courage.
"What about you? Do you have a type?" she hoped she wasn't about to be sleeping on the bus with Phil and possibly Damien.
"A funny, lying, cheating bastard who is inevitably into women younger than me," Deborah's voice had a sharp edge to it.
"Deb—" Ava moved closer and placed a hand to the older woman's shoulder. "I'm sorry."
"No need," she shook her head. It was a bit of a surprise when she reached up to place a hand over Ava's.
"But if you could be with any type of person," Ava whispered. "Not just the kind of person you have always been with, what would that look like?"
Deborah huffed.
"Don't be so obtuse, Ava. I caught the gender neutrality in your question," Deb was pushing back yet at the same time her fingers seemed to be threading through those resting on her shoulder.
"I wasn't trying to be cute—"
"Alright, fine. Someone I can laugh with until my sides ache," Deborah avoided gendered pronouns. "Someone who isn't after me for my money or whatever remaining bit of celebrity I have that might brush off on them."
"That's it?" Ava didn't buy it. "Nothing about their physical appearance?"
"Yes, definitely a much younger ginger with giant hands," Deb deadpanned.
Ava was hurt by the dismissiveness she was being treated with. She pulled her hand away and resumed looking at the ceiling.
"Hey," Deborah turned over onto her back and, squinting in the dark, looked at the woman beside her. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. In a multitude of ways."
"It's fine." Ava wouldn't look at the woman beside her.
"You gave me a serious answer. It is the least I can do to give you the same."
Rolling onto her side facing Ava, Deborah continued to flesh out what to say. She hoped she wasn't about to cause chaos between them.
"Lately I find myself at a loss. I feel like I don't know myself as well as I once did and because of this, something as simple as the type of 'person' I am attracted to is hard to determine. Gender aside, it's complicated. Being able to laugh with that person is the bare minimum."
It was then that Ava felt fingers ghosting over her wrist, tracing her father's watch before settling on skin. Deborah's hand remained there, lightly grazing the hairs of Ava's arm.
Deborah Vance or at least Deborah Vance's ego would be too threatened if Ava turned to face her. She wanted to look into her eyes, but Ava knew better. She held her position and let the feeling of the fingers on her skin be enough.
"It's a lovely watch," Deb hummed, knowing its significance.
Without Ava saying anything, Deborah returned to her position with her back to the writer. Trying to think of something to say that she wouldn't trip over, Ava instead ran out of time. Deborah was done sharing the moment. But the silence allowed Ava to hear a sniffle. She listened carefully to make sure her ears weren't deceiving her. Another sniffle.
"Deb?" she asked with genuine concern.
"It's nothing," the woman explained it away. "Go to sleep, Ava."
Rolling on her side, Ava knew the risks of pushing too hard when Deborah was particularly vulnerable.
"It's not nothing to me," she whispered. This seemed to cause an actual sob to escape. Dammit, Ava, she thought to herself. Scooting closer, she reached out and rested her hand in as non-threatening way as possible on Deborah's silk-clad hip. It usually required major compartmentalizing to ignore the feelings that came with touching the woman, but not now that she was worried about her.
"I can be so cruel," Deborah voiced.
"Okay…?" Ava wasn't following.
"I didn't believe you when your father had a stroke and maybe if I had and we didn't fight, you would have been on an earlier flight. Maybe you could have said goodbye."
This all hit Ava with the force of a speeding train. Of all the places she thought she might discuss her dad's death, lying in bed with Deborah was not one of them. She wasn't prepared for the grief that surfaced or the underlying gratitude she still felt for Deborah's arrival at the service.
"God, sometimes you are decidedly not an asshole," Ava's throat constricted with tears. "Have you been blaming yourself?"
No response is often the most enlightening response.
"Deb…"
Throwing caution to the wind, Ava pressed her body to Deborah's back and dropped her hand from hip to belly. She felt the tensing of muscles as she did so, but knew they would relax after the initial shock of being touched.
"Even you couldn't have controlled the flight schedules that day and before you tell me you could have sent me on your plane, first of all, I would rather have not had the stress of Marcus losing his mind on top of my mother not having much left to lose of hers."
Deborah sniffled at this and after wiping away a tear, draped her arm over Ava's. She threaded their fingers together again and caused Ava to lose track of what she was saying.
"And secondly?" she asked.
"Hmm…?" Ava found herself suddenly distracted by the way their bodies fit so well together. Just as their comedy had from day one.
"You said 'first of all'… Come on, Ava, keep up."
"Oh," Ava had to rewind a bit to think about where she had been meaning to go with what she was saying. "If I had been on a plane the second my mom called to tell me, he wasn't there anyway. I'd rather remember us talking about him visiting and arguing about the Red Sox. In the end, that wasn't him."
"He sounds like he was a good guy," Deborah meant it.
"He was. But you shouldn't feel guilty about this, Deb. Please stop. You coming to his funeral was everything to Nina," she spoke with sincerity.
"And to you?" Deborah asked, rolling her eyes at how desperate she sounded.
"I forgave your slapping me, didn't I? It got me back on a plane to the godforsaken desert. And now here I am in Omaha. I think you know what you coming to his funeral meant to me."
She wanted to make light of it, but couldn't. For two women who lived in a world of humor and levity, their lives were quite dark.
"I'm sorry, Ava."
It was inevitable that mere mention of the slap would evoke yet another apology.
"I know," she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Deborah's cheek. "We never have to speak of it again."
They stayed in that position for elongated minutes, minutes of quiet reflection and eventual relaxation. At some point they dozed off. When Deborah woke to her alarm just after five, she was on her back and Ava's head was on her chest with an arm draped over her midsection. Allowing a soft smile to grace her lips before gently moving the lanky woman off her, Deborah stepped into the bathroom and tried to focus on the day ahead. Waking up in Omaha was only excused by the fact that going to sleep in Omaha had been rather pleasant.
-finis-