begot | SALTBURNT

i'll have a little tea, if you'll have some with me?
i'll leave the door open, just come in when you get here.

[ And she does as promised — the door to her room is cracked open just so, opening into a room that's been tastefully appointed, off-white walls transitioning into wood paneling and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Amy sits in the middle of it all, knees tucked up to her chest on a broad coach. She brightens as soon as she spots Gwen, getting up and crossing the room to pull the girl into a hug. ]

Gwen! Thanks for coming.

[ As she steps back, she lets her hands fall, careful not to jostle the tea the young woman's carrying. ]

Sorry, I just— it felt like it maybe wasn't quite a conversation to have over text.

[ Gwen's never really thought about how easy it is for her to navigate her older coworkers and supervisors--or maybe easy isn't the word, but she understands how it works. Knows she has to work harder to be taken seriously, knows there's often resentment. Even the weirdness with Elias is, she thinks, at least in part because of her age. He's not taking her seriously, either.

But she's not used to having older girlfriends. Greer was the first, and that's its own exciting tangle of new feelings. With Amy... Gwen's touched she's being treated like an equal, really. That's not a given, even in a place like this.

She has the tea in a takeaway tray, so she manages a half-hug back without spilling. ]

No, I totally understand. [ Gwen pulls Amy's cup out first, pressing it into her hands. ]

Thanks for trusting me. [ Earnest, serious. ] I know it's...weird, to be surrounded by strangers here. But I do think of you as a friend.

[ Amy, on the other hand, can't really say she'd ever gone out of her way to makes friends outside of her peer group — when was the last time she'd talked to a teenager before this? But age is less of a factor, here — except for the grown men fucking girls young enough to be their daughters, judgment she'll pass in private — and Gwen is sweet, smart, old and young in varying measure. Someone people would like. So— ]

Oh, Gwen. [ Amy's voice wobbles on the vowel in Gwen's name. ] Me, too.

[ She takes the proffered cup gladly, nudging the door to her room closed before nodding toward the sofa. ]

I was an only child, [ she says, as she takes her own seat, tucking one leg underneath her. ] But — I always wanted a sister. I guess that's part of why I—

[ The words break into a shaky laugh — like she thinks she's being silly, like she's feeling a little more vulnerable than usual because of what they're about to talk about. ]

Thank you for listening. I, um — you're sure it's okay? I know it's— it's not really a fun story.

[ Gwen sits beside Amy on the sofa, hands warmed on her own cup of tea, knees turned toward her so she can really listen. A small quiver of a smile, feeling the effect of Amy's tenderness between them. ]

I have two younger brothers. I love them, but-- I always wanted an older sister, growing up.

[ Gwen shakes her head quickly, at the question. ]

I promise it's okay. Whatever you're comfortable sharing, I'm happy to listen.

[ I always wanted an older sister. Light, for a moment, in Amy's eyes. Gladness.

It doesn't disappear, not completely, when she twists, resting one elbow on the back of the seat, her hand hanging down, just waiting to be called into articulating motion. ]

Is— is Peter your first boyfriend?

[ She sounds a little apologetic, quickly clarifying, ] Have you ever broken up with a boyfriend before?

[ Gwen takes a sip of her tea, considering. ]

Peter's my first serious boyfriend. I broke up with my middle school boyfriend freshman year, but-- [ That particular gap in experience does embarrass her, just a little, the tip of her nose going pink. ] Definitely not the same.

Then I hope you'll never have to know the feeling I'm about to describe to you.

[ Frank and earnest — not at all judgmental of Gwen's inexperience, instead glad that she has someone she cares for and who cares for her in turn, that she hasn't been hurt this badly before. ]

It was good, for a while. But I guess I was ... standing on an ice floe. When I couldn't see the edges of it, life was beautiful. But every day, it was melting a little bit. He saw me less and less. Nick. He—

[ Amy pauses, her gaze falling to the cup in her hands. ]

We moved to take care of his mom. Do you know, he never even asked me what I thought? Of course I'd go with him, but— I wanted him to ask. To care about what I thought. I even used the last of my savings to buy him a bar. But he still didn't really see me. And, away from my family, my friends, the place I'd grown up, I felt like I was just getting smaller and smaller and smaller. Like I was disappearing.

[ Here, she looks back up, her blue eyes red-rimmed. The perfect picture of sadness, of a woman made so small when her presence here in this house — away from him — is warm, lively, vibrant. ]

I wanted to work on it. On us. But when I tried to talk to him— [ her voice breaks as she elides the point — he put his hands on me ] —I hit my head so hard, I could see stars. And I could see it in his eyes, that he—

[ The tears that well in her eyes finally spill over, and her breath stutters. She seems as scared, now, recollecting what had happened, as she must have been in that moment. ]

—he wanted to hurt me more.

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