Chapter 14 Day One/One Day #3
Theodora found herself without words, so she leaned forward and pressed her lips to Catherine's in a gentle kiss that lingered.
"I've been wondering something," Theodora said, head tilting. "Literally everyone else calls me Theo. Why do you always use my full name?"
"Initially, it was to irritate you," Catherine said, as a small smile touched her lips
Theodora pinched Catherine's side, eliciting a small yelp.
"Stop," Catherine laughed. "I wasn't finished." Her expression softened. "It began that way. But now it's for the same reason you started writing me those sticky notes, I suppose."
“And what reason was that?” Theodora asked, drawing Catherine onto her lap. The piano bench creaked softly as she wrapped her arms around Catherine’s waist.
Catherine's gaze lifted to meet hers, something vulnerable flickering in her eyes.
“Because it was something that was just ours.
When you wrote those notes, your words were only for me.
And when I say your name—" she paused, her fingertips tracing the line of Theodora's jaw, "—I'm speaking a language no one else shares with you. It’s a version of you that's only mine. "
* * *
Later, they migrated to the living room, where the light had shifted to afternoon gold. Catherine retrieved an old DVD from her collection, a black-and-white romance from the forties, the kind she could recite from memory and still find herself watching to the end.
They arranged themselves on the couch. Theodora stretched along the cushions with Catherine tucked against her front, one arm wrapped around her waist, their legs tangled together beneath the throw blanket Catherine kept draped over the arm.
The position was comfortable immediately, like their bodies already knew how to fit together, and Catherine settled back against Theodora's chest with contentment that felt almost dangerous in its completeness.
The film's opening credits rolled across the television screen, strings swelling with romantic grandeur.
Catherine felt Theodora's chin rest on top of her head, her breathing slow and even, her hand splayed across Catherine's stomach, fingers slightly curled, like she was holding something she didn't want to put down.
On screen, the leads met in artfully composed shots, their chemistry immediate and tragic in the way only old Hollywood could achieve.
But Catherine found herself watching Theodora more than the film.
She could see her reflection in the darkened television during scene transitions, the way Theodora's mouth curved when familiar dialogue played, how her eyes tracked across the screen with affection for a story she clearly knew by heart.
When the grandmother character appeared, Theodora's grip on Catherine tightened, and Catherine heard her breathing change in ways that suggested emotion held deliberately in check.
The musical score shifted to an achingly beautiful passage, strings and piano interweaving in ways that made Catherine's chest burn with the kind of longing only certain music could produce.
Without conscious thought, her fingers began to move against Theodora's forearm. Not playing exactly, but echoing the piano line from the score. Catherine felt the music resonate through her body the way it always had, with that quality of perfect composition that made her want to find a piano and play until her hands quivered. But with Theodora’s warmth surrounding her and the comfortable sense of being held, the yearning felt less sharp than usual.
They watched the rest of the film in comfortable silence, occasionally commenting on the more exaggerated moments or laughing at dialogue that hadn't aged well.
Theodora's fingers traced absent patterns on Catherine's stomach, and Catherine let her own hand rest over Theodora's, their breathing synchronized, bodies relaxed against each other.
When the credits finally rolled, neither of them moved to turn off the television.
They remained tangled together on the couch while the afternoon faded toward evening, golden light shifting to amber then gray.
Catherine's fingers twitched occasionally against Theodora's arm when she heard beautiful passages in the film's score, but the movements were gentler now, less urgent.
Just acknowledgment of what she'd been and what she'd lost, softened by the reality of what she'd found instead.
* * *
As evening settled over the apartment, Catherine cooked dinner while Theodora set out to make brownies with the determination of someone who had watched one too many episodes of the British baking show Catherine recommended.
They worked together with easy coordination, the boombox played faintly from the counter, an easy soft rock station that Theodora had tuned to, and Catherine found she didn't mind the intrusion of noise into her usually silent kitchen.
Catherine positioned herself at the cutting board with her chef's knife, blade catching the fading light as she began working through the vegetables.
Beside her, Theodora worked on the brownies with chaotic enthusiasm.
She'd found Catherine's apron, pristine white with delicate embroidery, and put it on over her borrowed clothes, though it did little to protect her from the flour that dusted her cheeks and forearms. She measured out ingredients with the careful attention of someone following a recipe for the first time, occasionally dipping her finger into the batter and sneaking tastes when she thought Catherine wasn't watching.
"You're going to get salmonella," Catherine observed, not looking up from her cutting.
"Worth it." Theodora licked chocolate from her finger with obvious satisfaction. "Besides, I'm a doctor. I'll know the symptoms."
"That's not how medicine works."
"Close enough.”
Theodora turned to check something on the counter when a song she apparently loved came on, her voice joining the chorus with the same off-key enthusiasm she'd displayed that morning. Catherine smiled, letting the sound fill spaces that had been silent for too long.
But then she reached for the olive oil and felt the kitchen tilt slightly around her.
Not dramatically, just a subtle shift in perspective that made her grip the counter's edge.
The dizziness passed quickly, her vision clearing after a few seconds, but it left behind awareness of exactly how unsteady she felt.
"You okay?" Theodora asked, pausing mid-stir to study Catherine's face.
"Yes." The word came out clipped, defensive. Catherine softened it with a smile that felt stiff on her face. "Sorry, it’s just been a long day, you’ve worn me out."
A wonderful day, she didn't add. The best day she could remember in years.
Theodora returned to her brownies, apparently satisfied with the explanation, and Catherine felt guilt join the panic in her chest. Not just for lying, but for what she'd realized in that moment of dizziness.
Last night, the blackout, the candles, the desperate need to finally cross the distance between them, she'd gone straight to bed with Theodora. She’d let herself be pulled into the bedroom and intimacy and the consuming distraction of being wanted.
And she'd completely forgotten to take her medication.
The recognition hit with cold clarity. More than a year of rigid routine, the same dosage every night, never missed, never delayed, and she'd skipped it entirely because Theodora had been kissing her and nothing else had seemed to matter.
Catherine set the knife down and turned toward Theodora with manufactured casualness. "I need to use the bathroom. Can you watch the vegetables? Don't let them burn."
"I'll try my best."
Catherine walked from the kitchen with steps that suggested complete normalcy. She made it to her bedroom, closed the door behind her, and only then let the facade drop.
Her hands shook as she quickly crossed to the en-suite bathroom, pulling open the medicine cabinet with more force than intended. The orange prescription bottle of lamotrigine sat exactly where it always did, right side of the top shelf, label facing backwards.
She grabbed it and twisted the cap open, fingers fumbling slightly with the childproof mechanism.
One 500mg pill fell into her palm, small and white, utterly innocuous in appearance.
She stared at it for a moment, trying to calculate.
She'd missed last night's dose entirely. And she hadn’t taken her one for this evening.
That meant almost thirty-six hours without medication, longer than she'd gone since the initial diagnosis.
Her neurologist’s cautions lingered in her mind, a quiet reminder that skipping doses came with consequences she couldn’t afford.
One pill. That's what she was supposed to take.
But one pill would only bring her back to regular dosing; it wouldn't account for what she'd missed.
The logic felt sound even as a small voice in the back of her mind suggested this was exactly the kind of decision-making that led to problems. But she was already here, already compromised, already at risk.
Two pills would compensate, would bring her levels back up faster, would make up for the lapse.
Catherine shook a second pill into her palm before she could talk herself out of it. She swallowed them down with water from the bathroom sink, the bitterness coating her tongue before it vanished. Then she replaced the bottle, closed the cabinet, and stared at her reflection in the mirror.
She looked pale. But she straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, forced her expression into something resembling normalcy.
This was fine. She'd taken her medication and compensated for the missed dose.
Tomorrow she'd take her pill as soon as she woke up.
She would be more careful going forward.
Everything was under control. Everything was fine.
When she returned to the kitchen, Theodora had moved from brownies to watching the vegetables with intense concentration. She glanced up at Catherine's entrance, her expression brightening in ways that made Catherine want to kiss that smile over and over.
"I didn't burn them," Theodora announced with pride. "Though I may have over-stirred."
"That's not really possible with vegetables."
"Then I did it correctly through sheer luck."
The radio had shifted to a different song, something slower, with an acoustic guitar and a woman's voice singing about love and loss and the ache of wanting someone you couldn't have.
Inappropriate for their current situation, given that Catherine currently had exactly what she wanted standing in her kitchen with flour on her face and chocolate batter smeared on her lip.
Catherine crossed to her and wrapped her arms around her waist from behind, pressing her cheek against Theodora's shoulder blade. Theodora made a small sound of surprise, then relaxed back into the embrace, one hand coming up to cover Catherine's where they rested against her stomach.
"You okay?" Theodora said softly.
"Yes, darling." Catherine closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of Theodora's borrowed shampoo, the chocolate from the brownies, the vegetables cooking on the stove. "I just want to hold you for a minute."
"Well, hold away,” Catherine could hear the smile in Theodora’s words. “I'm not going anywhere."
The promise settled into Catherine's chest, and she held Theodora tighter, anchoring herself to this moment, sunset light and cheesy radio music and the smell of dinner they'd cooked together.
Held onto it with both hands and all her strength, determined not to let fear or medication or her own damaged body steal what they'd finally begun to build.