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It's that Alabama kind of hot, the type where the cicadas are quiet and the heat seems to sink into your very bones. Ruth's room is stifling, in every meaning of the word that Idgie can think of; the curtains are drawn closed, trapping whatever heat was already there in the room and letting more seep in through the seams. The air is thick, and damp, and Idgie feels sweat beading on her forehead already.
The lamp at Ruth's desk paints the room in a sickly shade of faded yellow, Ruth's seated silhouette splashed against the wall behind her. Her hair hangs across her face, knotted; somehow, Ruth still makes it look elegant. Idgie almost drops the glass her momma gave her on the way up the stairs, water sloshing over the rim and onto her sleeve.
It takes six steps to cross the room, but Idgie does it in three, and then stops short. Ruth has always been delicate, but Idigie has never been afraid of breaking her before. She puts a hand on Ruth's shoulder and frowns; Ruth's dress, soaked through with sweat, seems to mold to Idgie's palm and between her fingers.
"Ruth?"
"Idgie." Ruth's voice is barely a whisper, forced out from between cracked lips. It's been a week since they came back from Valdosta, and Idigie would be damned surprised if Ruth has eaten anything, the state she's in.
Idgie sits back on her haunches, moving her hand to rest against the terrible, scratchy fabric of Ruth's dress. She pushes the sweating glass into Ruth's hand, tracing small circles over Ruth's thigh with her thumb. Ruth's hand shakes as she brings the glass to her lips, and Idgie silently curses Frank Bennet to hell.
"There's a baby," Ruth says in-between sips of water.
"I know."
"I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do about that, Idgie."
Ruth looks off into space, eyes glazed, like she's searching for an answer that she isn't sure is coming. Her hands shake, and Idgie feels the tension flow through he and gently pries the glass away from her, holding Ruth's hands with one of her own and pulling a handkerchief out of her back pocket with the other.
Idgie's heart breaks all over again when Ruth flinches away from her reach. It hurts – physically, almost – how slow she has to be, brushing the cloth across Ruth's forehead, and down the bridge of her nose, and over the still-tender bruise Frank last left on her, wiping away all the sweat and grime and tears the last week has brought.
"Do you want me to leave?" Idgie asks, cool fingers brushing against Ruth's hand, and Ruth shakes her head slowly, as if she's trying to clear it and give an answer all at once. Idgie tugs at the hem of Ruth's dress. "It's too damned hot for this, Ruth."
"I have a sun dress in one of those boxes."
Idgie stretches, and stands, and offers her hand to Ruth. They both know Ruth will take it. Ruth's head spins, and Idgie automatically shifts her stance to support her.
"Zipper?"
"And buttons."
"Damn," Idgie mutters.
"I do wish you wouldn't curse, Idgie."
"And I wish you wore easier clothes to get into." Idgie flushes, and fumbles with the buttons, and Ruth can't help but smile because all of a sudden Idigie is sixteen again and it's that summer and Ruth can pretend that she never left. But then she feels the weight in her stomach moving, and she bites her lip to keep the tears from coming.
"Up." Idgie taps Ruth on the shoulder, and Ruth lifts her arms, and Idgie pulls that wretched dress up over her head and tosses it across the room.
"Better?" Idgie asks, grinning that grin that both irritates and flusters Ruth.
Ruth snakes her arms around her already swollen belly, the damp fabric of her shift cool against her forearms. "Better," she says, and finds that she can't look Idgie. She's staring, and for the first time Ruth really is ashamed.
"Hey." Idgie's voice has gone breathy, the way Ruth imagines her own would sound if she could think of the right words to force out. Calloused fingers brush against her chin, tilting her face upwards, and for a moment Ruth is reminded of Frank. But these hands are smaller, gentler, and she makes herself look at Idgie just to keep the ghosts in the past.
"Don't you worry now. I'm gonna take care of you, and that baby."
Ruth's head feels light again. "But it's Frank's baby, Idgie."
"The way I see it, that's your baby."
"But-"
"Don't you argue with me, Ruth Jamison. I love you, and that baby is part of you, and I'm going to figure out a way to make it all work, promise."
Ruth has never been very forward (that always was Idgie's forte), but just then she feels much less the preacher's daughter and more simply Ruth, and so she grabs Idgie by the arms and kisses her solidly, right on the lips, the way she wanted to do that summer years ago.
Idgie is soft, and warm, and tastes like honey suckle and whiskey. She's gentle, so much more than anyone really expects her to be, and she treats Ruth like something precious, not to be broken; nothing at all like Frank, and that makes Ruth love her all the more.
When Idgie takes her to bed that evening, she puts an apology into every touch and kiss. Ruth is hesitant, and nervous, but she's not afraid. It's just Idgie, she thinks, Idgie who charms bees for her. Idgie knows her like Frank never did, knows where to push and where to kiss and how to make Ruth come undone like no one else ever has.
After, Ruth feels spent and warm and comfortable as Idgie holds her, twisting strands of Ruth's hair around her finger like a curler. Ruth turns the words over in her head for what feels like forever before rolling over and putting her chin on Idgie's shoulder. Idgie smiles, and blows the hair out of her face, and gives Ruth that questioning look she's so good at.
"How about a café?"