Chapter 2
FEbrUARY: VIVIAN & JAMESON
She hated her birthday. No, she despised her birthday. And of all the months for it to fall on, it had to be February–the last month of winter. On the edge of spring, on the verge of rebirth but not quite there. Dark. Cold. And a bit hopeless.
The only good thing about February was that it was short.
The shortest of the year. Nothing like a good long December, full of hope and cheer and magic.
She loved December. Even the dreadful one they had last year.
It was Christmas, and it was still joyful.
Even if Neve made a production of almost missing her own party.
At the light, as she waited. Jostled by the other pedestrians fighting for a place on the curb, Vivian closed her eyes.
It wasn’t just the cold that seeped in. The gray skies, the awful news, the entire world going insane in the blink of an eye.
Her mind was awash with anxiety, with negativity. With thoughts and fears.
And she had a birthday coming. Which… Ugh. In the big scheme of world events, it was really not that big at all. Small even. Tiny. Unimportant. And yet it was the proverbial straw, and her back had already been carrying a heavy load.
The light changed, and she wiped an errant tear. DeVor, a survivor, an influential figure of means and sway, a generational artist… DeVor had no business sobbing. But Vivian?
As she took the stairs to her townhouse two at a time, desperate to get inside to where it was warm and safe and where the inviting colors and shapes of home meant love and security, Vivian knew having a breakdown in the middle of Upper East Side would be the ultimate indignity.
But as she opened the massive door to her sanctuary, the sight that greeted her was far from familiar. Yet it was out of place, and out of time.
Various strings of fairy lights were strewn from den to office, up the stairs and into the studio. As far as she could see, small round bulbs shone like magic, like hope, like an entire fleet of lighthouses guiding her home.
As she shut the door, a disheveled head poked out from the kitchen. Mahogany tresses spilled over amber eyes, caressing those sharp cheekbones and falling over the angles of the chiseled jaw.
DeVor’s fingers trembled from want of a pencil. Vivian’s from the desire to touch, to caress.
“My love! You’re home early! Margo promised to text me when you were done at the gallery. And my phone has been silent.”
Jamie hid something behind her back, yet took a few steps forward and laid her lips gently over Vivian’s. Warm, soft.
Vivian had no idea how deeply she had been frozen until her own lips almost cracked under the gentle caress.
“I might’ve… not gone to see Margo?”
She phrased it as a question, as if Jamie would be able to divine her mood, her inability to keep an appointment. Her inability to prevent her thoughts from spiraling.
And Jamie did. Divine, guess, sense. She reached for Vivian, tucking a flyaway lock of blonde hair behind her ear, lifting her chin till they were eye to eye.
Then, without a word, she kissed her again.
And that connection, that absence of judgement, that simple act of acceptance finally broke the dam.
A tear slid down Vivian’s cheek, and then another, and then she found herself weeping in her wife’s arms in their light-filled kitchen, mourning something she had never had–something she had dreamed of and had now lost, seemingly forever: her peace.
Jamie held her, kissed her hair, and caressed her back. And said nothing.
After a long moment, her tears subsided as did the sobs. Her heart continued to hammer in her chest, but Vivian made an effort to take a deep breath and lift her face.
Amber eyes, kindness personified, looked at her. Behind her beloved’s face, fairy lights shone merrily. A bit out of place.
“What’s all this, darling?” Even to her ears, her voice was hoarse, rusty.
Jamie guided her to the breakfast nook, warm linen and dark oak, a sensory delight.
As they sat down, the fairy lights strung out in front of them seemed to shine even brighter..
“This is something that Audrey, of all people, came up with.” Jamie’s smile widened at Vivian’s skeptical look. She loved Audrey, but she and Neve had their own dynamic. One that Vivian tried not to think about much.
Jamie chuckled, clearly anticipating the direction her thoughts had taken.
“I understand the compulsion to drag this into the gutter, and I am absolutely certain Audrey did just that at some point, but dear wife mine, that is actually, surprisingly not the objective of the Fairy Lights Project.”
“Shocking, I’m sure. Neve and Audrey, and not the gutter?” Vivian felt a teasing smile stretch her tear-stained cheeks.
“Shocking, indeed. And yet. Here we are. In fact, I know soon Vi will be stringing fairy lights for Chiara. And Arabella will be paying some unsuspecting handyman to do the same for Renate. The stringing, not whatever follows.”
They dissolved into peels of laughter and Vivian’s heart soared. Nobody but this woman, this gentle, kind soul, could ever bring this much light into her life. And now, quite literally, with sparkling bulbs on green strings.
“So if not for sex, why all this then?”
Jamie held her tighter, the shine of dozens of lights reflected in her eyes
“The idea is simple, which is very un-Audrey-like. And I’d know, after writing three books together, simplifying Audrey is my middle name.
But what these are meant for is joy.” Jamie’s throat worked, and the same emotion overcame Vivian.
“Every time something joyful happens, or you just feel happy, you string another fairy light on.”
Vivian took a closer look at the little bulbs in front of her.
“There are way too many of them, Jameson.”
Jamie shook her head.
“There needs to be many more. We are both alive. Against all odds, we met. How the hell did that even happen? In this city of millions of people, I saw you. And you saw me.”
Jamie kissed her cheek, a habitual gesture that occurred whenever Jamie was on a roll, telling a story, and something sharp snapped inside Vivian, an ice shard twisting one last time before melting.
“And then,” Jamie went on, “You agreed to go on a date with me. How does that not warrant a fairy light? Three of them, in fact. And then the bar? That one alone will probably power up the entire Christmas tree at the Rockefeller Center.”
Vivian felt the blush creep up her neck and fought valiantly to keep a straight face. Jamie kissed her cheek again, wiping away any lingering embarrassment, filling her with that very joy and maybe a little anticipation.
“You saw me. Really saw me. My lies, my mistakes, my clumsy attempts to right all wrongs, and you saved me. Those are probably tens of bulbs. And we are together, married, in love, happy. That’s an entire string.
We have so many lights to hang, so many memories, so many events that have led us to today. And here’s one more.”
Jamie opened her palm, revealing a light bulb, and reached for the lowest branch, deftly attaching it. It shone bright, quickly falling into a slow blinking rhythm with the rest, becoming one.
“And what is this one for?” Vivian ran a finger over the sharp edge of Jamie’s jaw, imagining her lips following soon.
“It’s your birthday.”
“Tomorrow, not today.” Vivian felt tears threaten again. What was it about her birthday that made her weepy?
“It’s February. An entire month that is yours and yours alone.” Jamie’s face was all elation.
“I hate it.” Vivian felt the pout in her voice, unconcerned about her lower lip sticking out.
“I know, and I hate that you do. How can you hate February? It’s so short.
So tiny, you barely feel it after the eleventy weeks of January.
You come back to life in February after no wine, no food, and the ridiculously grandiose plans of damn January.
One returns to oneself. To yoga pants. To lazy weekends.
To cheese platters and Pinot Grigio. To frappuccinos and indulgence.
One abandons the structure of a planner.
One sets aside the good pen because it’s too good and returns to the tried and true favorite. ”
Jamie held her hand, their fingers intertwining.
“February is for returning to oneself. To one’s true self.
It has just enough days to snap out of the unrealistic expectations of December 31st and the over-idealistic personality we assume as we make our resolutions.
But February is also the one to validate the very resolutions that have survived the immense monotony of January.
February makes those accomplishments real. ”
“You should write all that down, darling. There’s an essay in there somewhere. “On the virtues of February.” It could be in the New Yorker.”
It was Vivian’s turn to kiss Jamie’s cheek.
“I wasn’t finished, love. In fact, I have not yet touched on why February is the most important month of them all.”
Vivian lifted an eyebrow. Jamie smirked.
“It’s the month that gave me you. That gave the entire world you. DeVor was born. But most importantly, my Vivian was born. Isn’t that reason enough to adore February?”
Vivian bit her lip to hide her own smile.
“When you put it like that…”
“Is there any other way to put it? In a world that’s on fire, we have a sanctuary. For ourselves, for our love. We have friends who would drive a getaway car and help us bury a body.”
“I assume you don’t mean Neve, cause she would just hire someone to do the dirty work.” Vivian winked conspiratorially.