“Gem!” Celeste grabs my arm so I don’t crash onto the floor. The sudden change in momentum makes me careen toward her. She grabs me before we hit each other, but not before my lips almost graze hers.

My eyes widen. Hers do, too. Celeste has gorgeous eyes, a rich, mocha brown that are several shades darker than mine.

I drop my gaze to her red-painted lips.

If I were sober, I would have pushed her away and wiped my mouth in disgust. If I were sober, I’d have even thrown salt behind my back.

But I’m not sober. And in this one moment, I really want to kiss Celeste.

So I do.

9: Celeste

When Celeste first got Gemma’s email, the last thing she expected to happen was for she and her ex to be pressed against each other, lip-locked while a local band scream-sang “Jingle Bell Rock.” But life’s full of surprises.

Gemma’s lips are warm and impossibly soft, just the way Celeste remembers them being. Even the flavor of the beer is familiar, since Blue Moon was always Gemma’s favorite. Celeste is pretty sure the last time she tasted Blue Moon, it was on Gemma’s lips, too.

Celeste lets the kiss go on for longer than she should, but she pulls away before their tongues can touch. Because she is not French-kissing her ex. Not now, not ever.

Fortunately, San Francisco is one of the gayest—if not the gayest—cities in America, so no one in the bar looks twice at them. But Celeste tenses up anyway, out of habit. The consequences of growing up in a highly homophobic family.

“Gem,” Celeste says. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Huh?” It’s clear from Gemma’s voice that she’s definitely not all there at the moment.

Luckily, Gemma’s able to sit herself back down in her chair. But she slumps forward and rests her head on the table soon after that.

Celeste sighs. In retrospect, she should have known better. Gemma was a lightweight when they last drank together, and apparently that’s not something age and experience can help with. Or at least, it’s not for Gemma.

Celeste can’t blame Gemma for mentally checking out for the night. Although she’s glad they got everything out of the way, her heart still aches from the stress of digging up the past.

Celeste wishes she could order another drink—or two. But of course, she can’t, because someone has to make sure they get home safely. To someone’s home. Probably her own. Or, at least, her Airbnb here in SF.

With Gemma so incapacitated, Celeste has no other choice.

When their rideshare driver arrives, Celeste lifts Gemma up from her chair. Luckily, Gemma’s pretty petite, so she’s able to princess-carry her without any issues. Why make a drunk girl walk when Celeste can carry her and avoid any more falls?