On Second Thought by Antigone Unbound

Part I

I did the right thing. Yep, that thing I did was the right thing, cuz I'm a right-thing-doin' kinda gal. Maybe if she just kept chanting that to herself it would become her theme song, thereby drowning out the Greek (or was it Sapphic?) chorus in her head.

She had been speechless when Oz reappeared at Giles' house. She had listened to him talk all night, never broaching the most important subject. She had stood dumbly in front of Tara, watching those fathomless blue eyes summon up yet more courage and compassion as she reached out and stroked away Willow's tears. And then, finally, she had acted. She had chosen. She had gone to Tara's room after that surreal day and given her the extra-flamey candle and told her that she was giving Oz another chance.

Would it have been easier if Tara had cried? Or shouted, or done anything besides look at her with that understanding and that resignation? As she watched Tara brace for the news, body huddling in on itself slightly as if trying to ward off a blow, the incongruous conviction slid into her mind: Tara never, ever got the Christmas gift she really wanted. She never asked for it, she probably never even thought too long about how much she'd like it, that's how convinced she is that the very best things aren't for her. And here she was again, nodding as if it had been a foregone conclusion that Willow would pick Oz; that she wouldn't get what she most wanted because Tara Maclay wasn't one of the people that life smiled on, wasn't one of the people that life took much notice of at all. And it made Willow cry even more, standing in that dimly-lit room that had harbored so many hours of such closeness that it made her throat ache to think of them.

Had Tara heard her say that she loved her, too? That it wasn't a matter of loving Oz instead of her; that she had to know if this story should have a different ending because its first ending had been so inconceivably wrong? Had Tara heard the very last part-that Oz needed her more, needed her to keep the wolf at bay for good? Willow doubted it. She could already see Tara's mind closing down to her, turning its vision away from the first-person plural to begin building a new reality in which Willow wasn't there, not really.

Tara hadn't said any such thing, of course. She had assured Willow that she would still be her friend; told her that she hoped she would be happy. And she had said all those things without stuttering, as if her grief had eclipsed any other emotion. So for the second time that day, Willow offered herself up to Tara's arms, sank into the warmth and the softness and finally turned her face in toward the curve of Tara's neck and rested her lips there, unmoving. Tears-hers? Tara's?-slid haltingly over her cheek and rested against her lips. And Tara, once again, had comforted her, brushed her thumb over Willow's face and whispered, "It's all right, Sweetheart. It's all right." Willow's heart ripped another slice wider-Tara had never called her that before, and now she would probably never call her that again.

We've never even kissed. But I love her. I know I love her. And she wanted to kiss Tara at that moment-not to comfort her, but because she couldn't bear the thought of never doing so, of never feeling those soft lips, that could curve and twist with newfound delight and ancient heartbreak, press into her own. What she really wanted, in an absurdly selfish or perhaps masochistic way, was for Tara to take her face in her hands and brush her hair back from her face, look deep into her eyes and then kiss her. Kiss her and tell her that she was making a mistake; that she, Tara, needed her too. She wanted Tara to say, with her quiet power, that their story wasn't finished either, that she knew Willow craved the wild, sweet promise of that story as much as she did. But such a thing would have been presumption itself, and Tara seemed not to be afflicted-or blessed-with that trait. So in the end, it was Tara who pulled away from the embrace of the person she loved most-and Willow knew this, in her soul, to be true-and said, "You should go. This is hurting you too much."

Trying to force some steadiness into her voice, Willow replied, "You too, I know."

"No." The flat certainty in Tara's soft voice caught her off-guard. "The hurt won't really sink all the way in until you leave." She raised a hand to Willow's anguished remorse. "Don't. God, don't apologize. I got to float roses with you. I got to hold your soul close and safe when you went to the Nether Realm. Those things are mine to keep...But you're not. Which is why you should go."

So Willow stepped forward once more and pressed her lips to Tara's cheek, hearing her almost-lover's breath catch in her throat, and then long, graceful fingers sank gently into her hair; until finally she stepped back and walked out of the room. Back to her dorm; back to where Oz was waiting for her.

~~~~~~~~~

That had been over a week ago. When Oz had left, all those months ago, she had been more devastated than she could have imagined. Being away from Tara, though, was such a different kind of pain. This person that she loved-she was so close; she was a 3-minute walk away...two, if you ran, which Willow kept imagining. At any point in the day, she could have told you where Tara was, what she was doing. And at night, too...She knew the thick crimson comforter that warmed her body, and she knew the faded pillowcase covering the pillow that Tara had rested her head on for untold nights, back to before her mother had died. She knew the sage-scented candle that Tara liked to burn every night, leaving it as the last flicker before letting darkness take over. She knew that Tara always started out the night on her side, and always ended up on her stomach. She had spent so many nights there, sharing the same bed and trying to calm the ache she felt because she hadn't been ready, hadn't been sure. And Tara had only smiled at her in the dark, taking her hand and kissing it. "If it happens, it should happen because you just can't not do it," she'd said, six days before Oz returned.

And Willow, ever suave, the femme fatale cum Strunk and White, could only say, "I think the phrase 'can't not' is maybe-"

"Acceptable. The use of two adjoining negative terms can be used to convey particular emphasis."

"OK, Miss Scored-Higher-Than-Me-On-The-SAT-Verbal...So, moving on...I think the phrase 'particular emphasis' is maybe-"

"Yes, it's probably redundant. So let me rephrase that. If we ever kiss, and if we ever make love, it should be because you feel like you'll just collapse into a big ol' puddle o' wetness if we don't start stroking each other within the next ten seconds." Through her amazement at hearing Tara speak so...lasciviously (and it was clear that Tara loved this amazement), Willow felt something ripple low in her belly at hearing Tara just say the words "wetness" and "stroking."

I feel that way now, she thought, twelve days after the last night she had lain there with Tara. When I think about you, I feel like I'm going to collapse with wanting you so much.

And this sense of incompleteness ...how hard it made everything. She felt it right down to her breathing: It never felt as if she were getting enough air. It was as though her body had come to expect another being there with it, working in unison, working in tandem.

"Go see her," Oz had told her, two days after her decision.

"But I know how you...I mean, how it affected you to find out that I had feelings for her." Why didn't I say "that I was in love with her"? To protect him? Or me?

Or maybe to protect Tara...

"That's my problem, Willow. And it's my responsibility."

"Well, technically, it becomes the problem of anyone who wanders into your personal space in those particular moments." She tried to smile, knowing that only the most generous of judges would give her a passing grade on the effort.

"You're saying that Tara would be in danger. Willow, I know. That's why I think, at least at first, I should lock myself up when you go to see her."

"Oz, I know how hard you worked to keep the wolf from coming out..."

"Willow, I'll take the small-case safe over the bold-type, all-caps sorry. I don't need to show off my self-control if someone else has to foot the bill."

"I'll think about it." That was all she said. But she had phoned Tara that afternoon, feeling her pulse sledge-hammer its way from her fingertips on the buttons up to her heart and on into her throat. When Tara answered, she couldn't even speak. There was a slight pause, and then: "Willow?"

This voice that she had taken for granted for months now felt like some rare gift, a shower upon a parched earth.

"Hi, Tara," she finally managed, hearing her voice careen into some new upper register. I sound like a soloist for a castrati choir. "So, uh...how are you?"

There was another brief pause, then Tara replied, "I'm OK. Willow, I'll be fine. I hope you know that."

She thinks I'm calling out of sympathy. The thought almost made her laugh. "I know that, Tara. I'm not doing an extra-credit charity project for Psych. class." She knew Tara was smiling on the other end of the phone. Of course, she couldn't know that. But she did.

"Willow, there is no higher grade than an 'A.' Unless you decide to restructure the entire alphabet, I should hope you wouldn't be doing extra credit work for any class, ever."

"Well, no. No alphabet restructuring at this time...Although, if you ask me, 'X' has way too much time on its hands...And doesn't 'C' just basically time-share with 'K' and 'S'? But that's not really-Well, it's not really relevant to any conversation anywhere, I suppose. No, it's just...I just needed to talk to you, Tara."

"Are you OK?" The words tumbled out, and Willow closed her eyes-Tara was worried about her. One of the few requests she had ever made was asking Willow to call whenever she got back from patrolling.

"I'm fine, Tara. I just miss you."

Silence again, this time for several seconds. Finally, a small voice whispered, "I miss you too, Willow."

"Can we get together? Maybe have coffee?"

"Is that...I mean, is that OK? With Oz?"

"Tara, he suggested it. He knows I miss you." Just not how much. "I'd really like to see you. I-I need to see you."

Tara paused, and then said, "How about the Espresso Pump? Tomorrow? At 4?"

So they had a coffee date, ordered mochas and biscotti while Oz locked himself in his old cage. She got there ten minutes ahead of time, ever afraid of messing up somehow, but also to watch Tara's arrival. And then, when she saw her...Funny-with all the knocks I've taken from the legions of the undead, my stomach's never registered a kick like this. Tara was wearing a suede skirt and an over-sized blue silk shirt, a rope belt knotted loosely around her waist. Her hair was tumbling down around her shoulders, and as she neared the table a gust of wind blew a few rogue strands into her eyes. She reached up absently and brushed them back, tucking them behind her ear. I want to do that, Willow thought, and actually clenched her left hand inside her coat pocket. When Tara was standing before her, she rose and without a mental glance at all the various greetings she had imagined, pulled Tara into her arms, falling into the scent of her hair and her skin and into the soft strength of her body. No matter what happens from this point on, I have to have this in my life. I can't go without holding her.

She ran her hands from the warm expanse of Tara's shoulders down to the small of her back , where her fingers gripped reflexively, pulling Tara more tightly against her own belly. This shirt is the only thing between my fingers and her skin, and it's so thin... She could feel Tara swallow against her neck, her breath shallow against Willow's skin. Then Tara pulled back, hands resting lightly against Willow's upper arms. Willow looked at her closely, and could see now that Tara wasn't fine, wasn't within a 5-days' drive of fine. It was her eyes, of course; Willow had never known anyone with eyes so expressive. Now those eyes looked darker than she had ever seen them, and her lids were rimmed in red. She's in so much pain, and I caused this. Without thinking, she curved her palm against Tara's cheek and grazed her thumb over the dark shadow beneath her eye.

"Tara." It came out as a whisper, because she knew she couldn't say the name aloud, not yet, without crying.

Tara pressed her lips against Willow's palm, closing her eyes briefly, and then took Willow's hand in her own and guided it down to their side. She squeezed it once, and then let it drop.

She's not mine to comfort. The realization fell like a rock into her belly.

"C'mon, let's get that coffee." Tara's voice was low but steady, and she turned to walk toward the counter.

How can I not touch her? How in the goddess's name can it be right that I'm not kissing her right now? But she said none of this, and simply followed Tara in silence.

And their time together...She thought later that Dickens had said it for her: It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. (And I thought I was indecisive...) Even through the pain, the connection was still there, still vibrant. They made an unspoken agreement not to focus on their separation or the reason behind it. They only spoke of it briefly, when Willow asked Tara to tell her, honestly, how she was doing.

"Willow, what good will that discussion do? OK, I can tell you that I hurt beyond the scope of all known adverbs. But I'll live. It's my job to take care of that. And some day, we can talk about your relationship with Oz like real friends would. But right now, we have this time together and, oh God, I just want to see you smile."

Willow was silent for a moment, then said, "I get that. I just don't ever want you to feel like you have to hide things from me, or that you have to...I don't know, protect me from how you're feeling."

"And I appreciate that. But trust me-this is best for me, at least right now."

"Do I get to tell you how miserable I've been since Tuesday?" As she blurted out the words she knew that a bigger person wouldn't have said them. What good could that do? And unlike Tara, she had a choice in her unhappiness. But Tara only gave a small, lopsided grin.

"You realize, of course, that that's a rhetorical question since, in the asking, you told me what you were asking permission to tell me."

"Nothing gets by you, does it?" And for the first time in three days, she managed to smile without feeling as though her face would shatter.

For the next three hours, they lounged on the unspeakably ugly couch in the corner, laughing and gossiping and basically being as near each other as they could without actually sitting in each other's laps. Willow gave Tara a brief update of recent days' slayings ("Oh my God, Tara, this thing had, like, neon orange mucus-easily the most disgusting naso-sinus-related demon I've seen") and Tara gave Willow a new spell she had discovered that would let her keep up to four textbooks aloft simultaneously and even turn the pages for her as she took notes. Willow would scale heretofore-unimagined summits of cross-referencing. And if, during all of this friendly conversation, she happened to lean in more than she perhaps needed to; if she made sure that her hand, resting on the back of the couch, touched Tara's hair any time she leaned back; if she kept her right leg curled under her left until she lost all sensation in both just so that she didn't lose contact with Tara's thigh...well, those were luxuries she was content to allow herself.

Finally, Tara looked at her, eyes clouding over, and murmured, "I should go, Willow. I have-"

"Women in 20th-Century Literature-'The Clitterati,' to use your phrase. I still can't believe you took a night class."

"It's a great course. And when I signed up for it, I thought I might meet some cute women." Both of them smiled slightly, knowing that Tara had met the woman she most desired in a Wicca group, not a classroom.

"You know, I think I'm gonna stay for awhile. Still a little java in the bowl." More to the point was the fact that she couldn't feel her legs and didn't want to drop like a stone if she tried to stand.

"OK. Willow ..." Tara dropped her gaze, just for a moment, and then looked at her squarely. "Willow, as hard as it is to see you, it's nowhere near as hard as not seeing you."

Thank you, goddess. She wants to see me again. And we can hug hello again; maybe we could meet in her room, just for privacy, and we could sit on her bed 'cause that's really the most comfortable place, and if she's tired I could rub her back and-

"Willow? Are you OK?"

"What? Of course. Why?"

"Well, you just sort of zoned out. That, and your face got all flushed."

"Oh-I, uh...I'm fighting off a cold, I think.

"Well, make sure you take Echinacea, and drink your juice." Tara's voice lowered slightly. "You never think about these things." And then she leaned over and pulled Willow close for a far-too-short moment before standing.

"So the dialing of your phone number, again, as done by someone not unlike myself, wouldn't exactly distress you?"

"I'd put that in the understatement category."

"Good." Watching Tara move away, resenting the students who walked into her line of vision, she imagined loosening the rope belt and unbuttoning the silk shirt very slowly and very deliberately. And she realized that, once again, Tara was all over her.

Continued...