Since Paulina's husband's death, she'd insisted Bea share her bed. I don't sleep well alone, Paulina told her, the bed is too empty. This was fine. Bea wasn't particular about personal space, and she had no strength to deny anything to her grieving best friend. That night, Paulina left the lamp on once they'd put her children to sleep and both gotten into bed. The room was still unfamiliar, though they’d been at the house several weeks. The bedframe creaked when they shifted and the windows shuddered at the slightest breeze outside. "What do you think about staying here?" Paulina asked, looking down on Bea who was already sinking into her pillow. Bea's chest went tight. Stay here. This place, so far from home, with Paulina and children who missed their father. "What do you mean?" "I mean staying on this island." Before Bea could respond, Paulina rushed on. "Not necessarily here at this house, though the kids love it. There's a cute neighborhood close to work and it's not far from the school. I think peaceful living is good for me — for them — after everything." Bea swallowed, chewed on her thoughts for a moment. "You don't want to go back home?" she asked. "Maybe some time. But I think, for now, this is good." She looked at Bea again, eyebrows moving into a frown. "But I mean... if you want to... Of course you wouldn't have to stay here with us. But I'd love it if you did. If you wanted to. Stay with us." Lacing her hands across her stomach, Bea stared at the ceiling. There were cracks in it, in many places in this old house. A family heirloom left empty for too long. She worried that one day the cracks would split across the whole thing and the home would come crashing down and bury all of them, her, the kids, everyone, beneath the bricks. "I don't know," she said. "I'd have to think about it." "Of course." Paulina turned off the lamp quickly and burrowed under the covers. Bea turned over, facing the wall. After a moment, Paulina's arm came around her from behind. Their bodies connected slowly. First the arm, then their legs, the flannel of Paulina's pants hissing quietly over Bea's bare calf. Paulina's front against her back. Her soft stomach, her breasts. And then, finally, Paulina's nose buried in Bea's neck. Locked tightly together. And like this, Bea supposed, she took the spot of Paulina's dead husband. Not Bea tonight, but a placeholder. She did not mind.
Camille Clarke is a Midwestern writer currently living in the South. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Five on the Fifth, Nightingale and Sparrow, Jellyfish Review, and others. Her special talents are racking up fines at the library and forgetting she made tea. Find her on Twitter as @_camillessi.