Skye takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, letting her head fall back against the head rest of the car seat. Slowly, she exhales, and opens her eyes. “Alright,” she says, looking over at Phoenix, who is sitting in the driver’s seat of the Mustang. “Let’s do this.” Phoenix leans across the gear shift and gives her a brief kiss, smearing her lipstick, and climbs out of the car. Taking one last deep breath for courage, Skye opens her own door, stepping out into the bright June sunlight. Skye is sixteen now; she has been dating Phoenix for two years, and, by September, she will have been tutoring her for three. Today is the day she is going to come out to her parents.

She walks to the front door with her shoulders straight and her chin up, but inside her knees are knocking together, and when Phoenix falls into step beside her, taking her hand, she squeezes back, silently conveying her thanks.

The doorbell ring is the same as ever: it sounds like a bird chirping. Skye reflects on how she used to love it when she was younger; now, though, it makes her heart beat fast with fear, and she grips Phoenix’s hand tighter. She hears footsteps—her mother’s, she thinks, because they are fast and clipped, the unmistakable sound of high heels—and the door swings open, revealing a tall blonde woman in pantyhose, a pale green sundress, and, sure enough, white pumps.

“Skye, honey,” the woman says, kissing her daughter on the cheek and pulling the girl into the house. The pearls around her neck clatter as she straightens again, smiling. “And who is this?” she asks, looking at Phoenix.

“Mom,” Skye says, “this is my girlfriend, Phoenix.”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Skye’s mother says, shaking Phoenix’s rough hand with her own manicured one, smiling widely. “Skye has told us so much about you—come on, let’s go out to the patio; you can meet my husband…. Charles!” she calls, pumps clicking over the hardwood floor, “Charles, honey, come meet Skye’s new friend!”

Skye and Phoenix look at each other, and Skye tries to correct her mother, but her voice comes out small and weak, and the other doesn’t hear her. She clears her throat. “Mom,” she says, and then louder, “Mom!”

“Just a minute, honey; I’m making drinks,” Skye’s mother says, voice coming from the kitchenette by the patio door, and Skye glances helplessly at Phoenix, who shrugs. The two go out to the patio, and Skye smoothes her skirt nervously as she sits in one of the pristine white chairs. She realizes, unhappily, that she matches the patio furniture, and wishes that she hadn’t worn all white. Skye’s stepfather coughs, obviously wanting to be introduced, and Skye smiles nervously.

“Phoenix,” she says, “this is my stepfather, Charlie; Dad, this is Phoenix Rose, my girlfriend.” She places special emphasis on the word girl in the hope that he will notice and ask her straight out to explain, but Charlie just blinks and smile genially.

“You can call me Dr. Carter,” he says, shaking Phoenix’s hand.

Skye shifts uncomfortably, glancing inside, where she can see her mother talking to the housekeeper, who is nodding and putting glasses onto a tray. Come out, she wills them. Come out. The patio door slides open, admitting both women, and Skye smiles at the housekeeper. “Hi, Lara,” she says, and the woman smiles back, handing her a drink.

“Miss Skye.” Her voice is thick, with a slight Spanish accent.

“Your English is getting better,” she says.

“I take lessons,” the housekeeper says, “from computer program.” She hands the other three drinks out, then vanishes back inside. Skye sighs a little and sits back in her chair, taking a sip of her drink. Ice water, with a hint of lemon; Skye wishes, briefly, that it had alcohol in it. Maybe that would make this easier. Or at least less awkward.

“So, Mrs. Carter,” Phoenix says, addressing Skye’s mother.

A delicate hand flies up to cover pearly pink lips as the woman titters a little, signalling a polite interruption. “Actually,” she says, her fingers fluttering a little, “it’s Mrs. Wesley. I never changed my name.” She smiles apologetically. “But you may call me Patricia, if you’d like.”

Phoenix’s eyes flicker to Skye, who nods shortly. “Okay,” she says slowly, “Patricia…what do you do for work?”

Patricia titters a little again. “Oh, I don’t work, dear,” she says, and pauses to take a sip of her drink, patting her lips with a napkin afterwards. “Lara’s just here to take care of the house.” She laughs again. “Though I always did say that I shop for a living, didn’t I, Skye, honey?”

Skye smiles, but it’s painful, and she drops the unwanted expression as soon as polite, glancing down at her lap, where her fingers have twisted her napkin into a sweat-stained white wad. Her fingernail polish on her pinkie is peeling, and she picks at it, eyes darting towards her stepfather as he clears his throat again.

“I’m a chiropractor,” he says. “But Skye probably already told you that.” He takes a measured gulp of wine, raising a blond eyebrow at Skye over the glass.

“Actually…” Phoenix says, “we don’t really talk about family much, so it never came up.” Her tone clearly states You didn’t warn me, and Skye winces slightly, her hand tightening on the delicate stem of the glass she holds.

Taking another sip of ice water to steel herself, Skye opens her mouth to speak again. “Phoenix and I talk about us, mainly,” she says. “Where we’re going, and all that.” She wills her parents to understand; but, of course, they don’t.

Skye’s mother blinks. “Where you’re going?” she repeats, then laughs. “Oh, that’s right; you two applied to universities this year.” She smiles. “So, which school will you be attending, Phoenix? You already know that Skye leaves for Harvard in the fall, of course. Are you going there as well?”

“I’m not going to college,” Phoenix says, “but yes, I’ll be living with Skye in Boston.”

“What are you going to be doing there?” Skye’s stepfather asks, his hand tight around his wine glass.

“I’m going to be working in a car repair shop,” Phoenix says. “I built my own 1988 Mustang out of spare parts, but I never really did any good at the computer part of the course in school.”

“Ah.” Charlie takes another drink of wine.

“But,” Skye says suddenly, “university isn’t what I was talking about, Mom. I was actually referring to the future between Phoenix and myself.” She reaches for the other’s hand, sitting on the coffee table between them, and squeezes it tight. “We’re dating. Phoenix is my girlfriend.”

Shatter. Skye’s mother’s wine glass crashes to the patio deck, while Charlie tightens his grip on his own, the vein in his forehead pulsing.

“What?” Patricia says, her voice high. “Skye, what are you saying—?”

“I’m telling you that I love Phoenix,” Skye says. “We’re in love.”

“You’re lying.” Charlie’s voice is low, in contrast to his wife’s. “You can’t be in love with her; she’s a girl.”

“Oh, and what am I?” Skye asks, knowing it’s not what her stepfather meant; she wants to force him to admit his intolerance out loud.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it!” Charlie bellows. Skye goes cold.

“Then what did you mean?” she asks.

“Honey, you must know that this is wrong,” Patricia pleads, voice getting progressively higher. “It’s just not natural—”

“So therefore it’s not right?” Skye shouts, on her feet now, free arm swinging wildly out to her side, ice water slopping over the side of her glass. “Well, guess what, Mom,” she says, her voice trembling, “the game’s up. I know you don’t love Charlie; you married him for his money, just so that you could go out and shop all day. So let’s all give a toast to how right you were!” She throws the rest of her drink in her stepfather’s face, and slams her empty glass down on the coffee table. Her sandals slap against her heels as she runs towards the patio door, pulling Phoenix along.

“Miss Skye?” the housekeeper calls, sounding shocked. “What happens?”

“Tell my parents I’ll be back in August to pick up my things, please, Lara,” Skye says in Spanish. “If they need to reach me, I’ll be living with Phoenix at her house.”

“Of course, Miss Skye,” the woman says, but she still looks surprised. “But what—”

Skye shakes her head. “I can’t tell you,” she says in English. “But thank you.” She kisses the housekeeper on the cheek and grabs her purse from where she’d hung it on the banister. “Just give my parents the message, alright?”

She hurries out of the house, Phoenix following. It’s a struggle to get into the car, because her vision is blurred by tears, but she finally manages it, and clambers into her seat, yanking her seatbelt across her lap and doing it up.

It’s the final-sounding click that does it. Skye starts to cry, first only a little bit, but soon she’s sobbing, face buried in Phoenix’s chest as the other strokes her hair silently. Slowly, Skye stops blubbering so badly, and pulls back, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue pulled from her purse. “I’m sorry,” she says to the other. “I know it makes you uncomfortable when I get emotional.”

“Hey,” Phoenix says, touching the back of her hand lightly, “hey. Stop beating yourself up over it; it’s their own damn fault if they can’t accept you for who you are.”

Skye smiles shakily, fingers trembling as she does the snap on her purse up again.

Phoenix grins. “That’s better,” she says, and kisses her girlfriend full on the lips.