"Oh."

A simple exclamation, a single syllable that sums up the awkward situation so perfectly. Neither of them expected to find company behind the rectory at St. Michael's church. Each of them went looking for space to be alone, space to escape their demons, space to breathe.

They size each other up, not as enemies but as women. Leah is cut like glass, sharp and angular and deep. All wild hair and skin and shape, totally alive. Beside her Rosalie is a concrete watercolor – pale and wavy and sensuous. Feminine.

A beating heart. A body that could make any man regret what he'd lost.

Each has what the other wants.

They glare, until Leah finally concedes and holds out a pack of Virginia Slims and a book of matches.

She smiles darkly. "Do leeches even smoke?"

Rosalie yanks the pack from her hand with enough force to rend steel. She breaks off a match with much greater tenderness, and strikes it against her own creamy wrist. "So," she says conversationally, her voice laced bitterness. "Why are you out here?"

Leah takes a long drag and exhales into the bright evening air, watching the smoke fade against the dimming sky. "I don't like weddings," she mutters simply. Images of bridesmaids dresses and garters dance an angry tango in her head, partnered with pictures of Emily and Sam and the family she'll never get to have with him. "What about you?"

Rosalie ignites the tip of the cigarette, but doesn't bring it to her lips. She twirls it nimbly between two long, perfectly manicured fingers, watching the flame smolder and grow and devour. Ash flutters down to land on her pale hand, but it doesn't burn. She brushes it away.

"I don't like funerals."