Bonnie had never expected to hit it off so well with a coworker on this project. The coworker in question was April Curtis, one of the tech assistants. It had started off with a compliment—on what, Bonnie honestly couldn't recall anymore—and an introduction. It had been the ungodly hour of four in the morning, and they were the only ones working at the time; it made sense that they started chatting.

That chat led to others over the weeks, which in turn led to a series of discoveries—namely, how much they had in common. When the subject turned to food, Bonnie mentioned, almost off-handedly, that she had a fondness for sushi. April's eyes had all but lit up at that, saying that she did, as well, and asked Bonnie if she knew of any good places nearby that served it.

Bonnie did know a good place—Edo-mae on Fifth, a few miles away, and she told April as such. With enthusiasm on par with that of a child on Christmas morning, April thanked her for the recommendation—no, strike that. She thanked her and suggested they get together for lunch some time.

The first lunch had gone fantastically, and they both had a great time, talking about things that had utterly nothing to do with their work—interesting places they'd been, people they had encountered and a host of other topics. And that was before the sushi had actually arrived, at which point the conversation shifted to the meal: what this one was, how that one compared to its counterpart at another restaurant, swapping the halibut for the salmon—and the obligatory dare to try wasabi straight. Both tried; Bonnie failed miserably, which April found high amusing.

As a consolation prize, April agreed to pick up the price of Bonnie's meal, politely dismissing the latter's protests and accepting nothing but a "thank you" in return.

And then it happened. From Bonnie: "I had fun. This was a great idea."

To which April replied: "It was. We should it more often—maybe every week?" She had looked pointedly at Bonnie, clearly expecting feedback.

Bonnie found herself giving said feedback—nodding yes and saying that that would be great.

It did turn into a weekly thing—usually on a Thursday, Bonnie would take her lunch at two in the afternoon, drive to Fifth, sit in the same booth and wait for April. April would arrive, join her, they'd order and chat and eat, both parties thoroughly enjoying themselves.

This went on for three months before one afternoon, Bonnie found herself looking up from her plate, looking at April and wondering if her lips were as soft as they looked, and what they would feel like pressed against her own. The thought made her choke on her Pepsi, and when April asked if she was okay—laying a slender hand on her own, no less!—she barely managed to spit out a lie, something about a meeting she was going to be late to and she would pay for her meal, no she was fine really, see you later…

Bonnie drove back to the Foundation's property with her hands clamped in a vice grip around the steering wheel. Maybe, if she gripped the wheel hard enough, she would forget April's hand on her own, forget how her hands were calloused from a lifetime (twenty-five years) of working on cars, and yet felt so soft.

Bonnie cursed under her breath. She had to quit guilt-tripping herself like this…! She was an adult woman, free and clear and living her own li—

"Who the fuck am I kidding?" she cursed again. Those first years of her life, the first two decades, give or take a few years, spent with her family had really set her up for failure, so far as her romantic tastes went.

It had started innocently enough… or as innocently as being a lesbian could be, coming from an intensely religious household. That should have been the first sign—her entire family (her parents and grandmother) was very active in the church and knew their religion cold, something she'd been dragged along for after she was born. God, when he hadn't completely forsaken Miss Bonnie Shoshanna Barstow, she later decided, had a sick sense of humor like that.

She remembered the first time she'd ever thought of a woman as beautiful. The JC Penney's Christmas catalog, 1967. She had just turned fourteen, and was leafing through the glossy pages, when she stopped on one page in the Ladies' Clothing section. One of the models was wearing a shirt that hit her in what Bonnie knew, deep in her rapidly-becoming-a-young-lady heart, were all the right places. She was a redhead, a fact compliment by the dark green shirt, and had a winning smile Bonnie felt, silly as it was… was just for her.

Her parents had caught her Staring. Like That. She had been in trouble for that for weeks, lots of atonement. Bonnie went through the motions… but couldn't get the model out of her head. She'd never been able to get the model out of her head.

Truthfully, she never Liked boys, finding, much to her horror, that by the time she'd turned fifteen, she preferred the soft curves of her female classmates. There was one who was especially beautiful. But she had a boyfriend and didn't give Bonnie the time of day besides. And Bonnie still had to break herself of her Unholy Tendencies. Her punishment for Staring (copying Leviticus 18:22 and Matthew 5:28-29 until she ran out of pencil) had stuck with her.

Still… it was an uphill battle against guns when all you were armed with was a wood sword. She tried dating a few boys, honest—nice boys, ones her parents liked. If only she could feel the same way her parents and the boy did. The names and the faces, the hobbies and the likes and dislikes… they all bled together. They were all the same. They and the disgust she felt at being with them—holding hands, kisses… She gave up in high school, after giving the male she was putting up with (she refused to call them sweethearts or boyfriends) a black eye for feeling her up.

She'd gone home, locked herself in her bedroom and wept, hating herself. To feel male hands—rough and careless, looking for a good time and nothing else—on her body was a new form of torture. She didn't even like them…! Taking a deep if shaky breath, Bonnie closed her eyes and did a little creative imagining. If another young woman had slid her hands between Bonnie's sweater and skin, over the swell of her breasts, would she have minded so? The thin smile that shaped her lips said, No, not at all.

The thought frightened her as much as it thrilled her—to express that sentiment, to turn herself over to the desire so deeply rooted in her heart of hearts, would earn her a one way ticket to Hell. Previously, she'd dropped a subtle hint, describing a fake classmate who Liked girls. The précis of the conversation had been if Bonnie turned out Like That she'd be thrown out of the house so fast it would make her head spin. She had to keep quiet. She had to fix herself.

She never fixed herself before she graduated high school. College was where things took a turn for the… interesting, but ultimately for the better (at least in Bonnie's eyes). Between her classes, talking to her roommate (who was like her, romantically speaking) and a lot of soul searching, she was first able to apply a term to her preference for females. Lesbian was a word not spoken in her house; it was often replaced with Them. Or Sinner, depending on the context.

The bigger discovery, though, was that Bonnie… was okay with this. She remembered the moment quite clearly—sitting in the library, head bent over her books but not really reading them, when the realization finally set itself: I'm a lesbian… and I'm okay with that. She had almost wept with relief.

The feeling didn't last. She had thought, a little foolishly, that after jumping through the series of hoops that made college what it was and later securing a very comfortable job with the Foundation, she would feel confident enough to tell her family about her sexuality. And for a few minutes at the Thanksgiving dinner table, she did.

Her confidence was shattered—swiftly disowned, hastily gathering her remaining possessions from her old room while her mother screeched that God awful Leviticus in her ear. The drive to college had been one of the longest in her life, and much of it was spent in tears. That's what I get for being honest, she thought bitterly.

It was this experience that shaped her attitude toward her sexuality more than her upbringing had. She built fortified walls around that part of herself, making her unapproachable—men were swiftly dismissed, which was fine by her. It was when she encountered an attractive woman that she hated herself—panic reflexes kicked in, and she denied her attraction or deflected anything that could be interpreted as a romantic overture. Later, looking over the events with a clearer head, she would kick herself, damn herself to a lifetime of being alone and guilty imaginings.

Then April came into the picture. April and her damn sushi. …Beautiful, charming, talented April. Bonnie smiled at her mental image of April, smiling and full of life and wonderful, and always able to make Bonnie laugh after a long day. However, much to her sheer disappointment, April was very much off-limits—that is, straight. Bonnie winced as she recalled one Thursday afternoon, seeing April in the Edo-mae on Fifth parking lot climb out of a car that was not hers and was being driven by someone else, a male in his late twenties. April had stepped around to the drivers' side, talked to him for a second… then leaned down to kiss his cheek before waving goodbye and joining Bonnie inside.

"So… who was that?" Bonnie had asked casually, nodding toward the retreating vehicle. This was the week after wondering what kissing April would be like. She only came back to keep up appearances—if she started avoiding April and their Thursday tradition, she would be quickly found out, paranoid as the notion was.

"Hmm?" April looked out the window, then smiled as she played with the edge of her paper placemat. "Oh… that's my boyfriend, Tyler."

April had an uncanny knack for making Bonnie choke on her soda, or want to, anyway. April had a boyfriend? Her heart sank at the realization, but she hid it behind a smile and chatter and California rolls.

That was it then. Once again, God played a trick on Bonnie Barstow—get her nice and comfy with the idea of finding a nice girl, one who had honestly appeared to like her, and get her close enough to a much more pleasant coming out experience… and rip it out from underneath her. She really needed to give up.

So what the hell was she doing sitting in that same booth at two o'clock on a Thursday waiting for April? She was either crazy, stupid or a glutton for punishment. Or possibly all three. Still, she idly sipped her Pepsi, playing with the petals of the fake lily that was on the table and glancing up at the clock. It was two-thirty, and April was late.

April Curtis was never late.

Bonnie had distracted herself with the menu and chewing on her straw when the restaurant door opened and closed, as if by someone in a huff. Rapid footfalls and suddenly, someone was throwing themselves in the booth seat across from her. "Sorry I'm late…"

Bonnie looked up to greet April—and paused. She had never seen April on an off day, but apparently, this was it—hair swept up into a hasty ponytail and very disheveled, eyes rimmed in red and puffy, no make-up to speak of and clearly fighting back tears as she rummaged through her purse for a small hand mirror and checked her reflection. "God, I'm such a mess…"

"April, what happened?" Bonnie asked, concern shaping her features.

A server stopped at their booth before April could reply. "Need a refill, Miss Barstow?"

"Just leave the pitcher, if you don't mind," Bonnie replied without looking away from April.

"Sure thing, Miss Barstow." The server left the pitcher and a second glass and straw for April before making a quiet, discreet exit.

"April, what happened?" Bonnie quietly repeated, laying her hand on April's.

"That… that damn Tyler…" she managed, still trying to fight back tears.

"Oh my God, did he hit you?" Bonnie hated to assume, she really did, but there were only so many things…

April chuckled darkly. "No, but he's enough of a slimeball that it wouldn't have surprised me if he had tried."

Feeling her concern mounting, Bonnie slipped out of her seat and slid into the booth next to April, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. What in the hell was going on…? "What do you mean?"

"I give him the best two and a half years of my life," April answered bitterly, "and then I find out he's cheating on me!"

Bonnie lifted her eyebrows at this, but remained silent to let April continue to talk. This constituted telling Bonnie everything (sleeping with a woman in the office who may or may not be pregnant at the moment), and recounting all the insults and names they'd thrown at each other before throwing him out of her apartment—overall, a very messy breakup.

"I'm sorry you had to go through all that, April," Bonnie quietly soothed, gently squeezing her shoulder.

"No fault of yours," April dismissed with a wave of her hand. She took a sip of her drink and chuckled darkly again. "Guess this is what I get for trying to date men."

Bonnie quirked an eyebrow. Even as emotionally rattled as April appeared to be, the statement didn't quite follow. "I'm sorry, I don't follow…"

April looked over at Bonnie before waving her hand vaguely. "My relationships with men rarely end well," she mumbled.

"I… still don't follow." Well, that was a lie—Bonnie had an idea of where this was going…

"Hmm?" April looked over at her before explaining softly, "I've dated men and women before. Turns out I just have better luck with ladies." She gave a hollow, humorless laugh.

Bonnie's heart gave a little jump at that fact. "I didn't know that," she mumbled weakly before feeling the strong urge to introduce her face to the palm of her hand. Smooth, Bonnie. Real smooth.

"I didn't want to make you uncomfortable," April replied, reaching up to pat Bonnie's hand.

Bonnie nearly laughed at that as she turned April's face to hers with two fingers. For a moment, April seemed almost confused by the gesture. Bonnie had something comforting to say just then, but she forgot what it was. She was able to come up with a replacement: "It doesn't make me uncomfortable." Without really registering the action, she leaned down and brushed her lips against April's cheek.

April gave a tiny start and pulled away, looking at Bonnie with utter confusion. For a moment, Bonnie was worried she'd offended April in some manner.

Her worries disappeared when April leaned in and, very softly, pressed her lips to Bonnie's. That first bit of curiosity, of wondering what April's lips felt like, was answered: they were every bit as soft as she had imagined. Bonnie felt her eyes widen for a moment… before she closed them and felt the world fall away.

They stayed like that for several long, wonderful moments, breathing and heartbeats in nearly perfect unison, before they broke apart. For a moment, Bonnie felt very, very happy.

Then years of conditioning kicked in, and her calm facial expression disappeared as she slipped out of the booth, mumbling something she didn't even catch, laid money for the drinks on the table and left the building in record time.

What hurt wasn't the fact that she had kissed April. No, the part that wounded her was that April had looked legitimately happy up until Bonnie pushed her away.

Bonnie spent all night berating herself, replaying the scene over and over in her head, each time coming up with a different, better reaction. She also spent a fair amount of time cursing her family and her luck, mostly for being born into said family.

She showed up for work on Friday ready to talk things over with April, apologize and better explain herself… only to find April's work station empty. According to another tech, she was on vacation for a week—but she did stop in late last night to drop something off.

Curious, Bonnie stepped into her office and flipped on the lights. Sitting on her desk in a terra cotta pot was a lily of the valley, young and green. She walked over to inspect it further, delicately touching the white blossoms.

Suddenly, she noticed a small piece of white paper sitting in the pot, almost tucked into the soil. Bonnie carefully removed it, brushed away the dirt and unfolded the paper.

Written in a looped, feminine hand, was simply, Thanks. Love, April.