One evening in early February, as the existential crisis formed in my head, I drew myself a bath, stealing one of the lavender bath bombs I’d bought Kennedy as a move-in present. After situating her bath pillow on the opposite side of the faucet, I dimmed the lights, lit a few candles, and submerged into the warm, foamy water. I’d never taken a bath before. At least not with a pillow, bath bomb, and warm water. My kind involved buckets of ice and almost made me cry from the pain. I realized then that I had been missing out on the luxury and calmness of a bubble bath. No wonder Kennedy always had one on Sunday evenings to combat the Sunday Scaries.
I closed my eyes, but I couldn’t turn my brain off. Every part of me under the water was relaxed. I dipped under the purple foam, hoping the silence would flick my brain off. Being underwater used to be so therapeutic. I didn’t hear anything. It was just me and my thoughts. And when my thoughts were the only thing I could hear, being underwater was like throwing myself into a small room so I could hear the worst things I thought about myself being screamed in my ear.
I pushed back up and wiped the foam off my face. And lost it. My whole body cracked. I sobbed, letting all those months of holding back worries, doubts, problems, fears, and anxieties into the tub.
I’d grown to hate the sport I fell in love with as a kid, the sport that first sparked my dreams, the sport that taught me resilience, failure, self-control, and motivation. The sport that had given me so much but at the same time had taken everything away. I sat in the tub, finally allowing myself to feel the emptiness I’d been running from since I settled back into reality after the Olympics. I allowed myself to choke on my cries until I had nothing left.
Twenty minutes in, my body still quivered when I heard the front door close downstairs. Kennedy was home, and I didn’t even have dinner ready. I sat up and splashed handfuls of water on my face to erase the puffiness ballooning my eyes.
“Quinn? Quinn?” Each call grew louder as she ascended the spiral staircase and into our bedroom. She knocked on the door and poked her head through the crack. “Quinn?”
“Hey!” I said way too chipper, overcompensating. I wiped my face one last time. “How was work?”
She opened the door and stood in front of the tub. “Work was fine. Very busy but good. What are you doing?”
“Trying out one of these bath bombs.”
She studied my face and cocked an eyebrow. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Were you crying?”
“No. I just got some of this bath bomb in my eye.” I cupped some foamy water into my hands to show as proof. “It’s not tear-free.”
“No duh. It’s all perfume-y and glittery.”
“I’m sorry dinner isn’t ready. I guess I—” Got too carried away crying? “Just enjoyed this too much. Maybe we can order something?”
She waved a hand. “I’m not really worried. Devon and I went out for sushi today and stuffed ourselves, so I’m not starving.” Her stare dipped to where the soap met my breasts right above the nipples. “Plus, food can wait when my girlfriend is naked in a tub.”
I grinned. “Want to join? The water isn’t really warm anymore. Maybe we can draw another? Grab some wine, get another bath bomb?”
“Man, you really know how to take a bath. Let’s do it.”
I was already in new water when Kennedy came back with two glasses of wine. She pulled her shirt above her head, and I sank farther into the water as I watched her strip. She unhooked her bra, and despite the countless times I’d marveled at her breasts, I reached for my wine to replenish the lack of moisture in my mouth. She unbuttoned her jeans, but I still couldn’t peel my eyes away from her breasts. I didn’t think I could ever get tired of looking at her naked, and I still couldn’t get over that I could see her naked anytime I wanted.
Once her clothes were off, she gently glided into the bath, and I hated the foamy water that concealed her nipples.
“Oh, hey,” she said, and her right toes tickled my upper thigh.
“We’ve been living with each other for a month and haven’t taken a bath yet,” I said before taking another sip of wine. “Yet at our first high school sleepover, we were quick to hop in the shower together.”
“Ah, teenage hormones.”
She relaxed her legs against the sides of mine. Water droplets latched on to her neck and the tendrils of hair that didn’t make it into her messy bun. She reached for her wine over the edge of the tub, took a sip, and smiled.
“So, you’re a night shower-er and the occasional bath girl now?” she asked with teasing in her voice.
I ran my fingers through the top layer of foam, drawing a dent of lines and feeling the lightness in the air evaporate. “I wanted to see what the hype was about,” I said, hating that I fed her a lie, but I wasn’t in the mood to talk. I didn’t want to taint our first bath in our first home with a sob fest. I didn’t want to talk about my problems that really didn’t feel like problems. I loved my evenings with her, and I wanted to enjoy a bath with wine and a beautiful naked woman. So I pressed on, “I have to say, I like it a lot better than ice baths.”
“Those sound like hell.”
“The longest six minutes. Plus, pretty naked girls are never involved, so…” Then it was my turn to tickle her thigh.
“I feel like a true adult right now. Taking a bath with my girlfriend after work with a glass of wine.”
“Tomorrow, we’ll be applying for Social Security.”
“Wow, life really does fly in the blink of an eye.”
I splashed her and hit her perfect breasts. “Tell me about your day.”
She sent a wave back at me. “It was really good. I’m excited. Devon and I brainstormed location shots. I reached out to our interview subjects to schedule dates. Oh, and while we got sushi, Devon was asking how I was adjusting here and recommended I join a social sports league. Apparently, those are a thing?”
I shrugged. “I wouldn’t know, but sounds cool. Making new friends as an adult is so hard.”
“I know, and I really need a group of friends. You know, so we can talk about you and go to brunch. Oh, and Napa. I forgot there’s Napa.” She playfully facepalmed her forehead. “Anyways, I looked into it, and there are drinking leagues, competitive leagues, gay leagues, all-girl leagues.”
“What a time to be alive. Sign me up for the competitive lesbian league, please.”
“I think I’m going to do it. The girls league. No analyzing, just doing it because I want some friends.”
“I think it’s great, babe. I can come to your games and flip out at the ref for making bad calls or giving you a yellow card.”
“It’s very rare for the goalie to get a card. I’ve only gotten one, sophomore year of high school.”
“That’s hot. How about you do that again, and I’ll reward you.”
She laughed. “No, Quinn, you don’t want a card.”
“I know you don’t, but I want you to get one.”
“I don’t think I can get away with that in a competitive league. There’s a trophy at the end. That means I need to be on my best behavior.”