On Second Thought

by C. Spencer

  “And what would you say?”

  “When I get back, we’ll have drinks. I’ll buy. And I’ll show you my ring.”

  Thinking Elizabeth is going to kill me, but do I care? “Do that,” I say.

  Because my lungs are filling with the scent of TGIF as I dive across the seat to grab my bag, then hop the curb, hoping to quell this influx of nerves. Yet failing. Catching that echo of an old piano until her door sucks in, and I’m accosted with way more skin than a girl could possibly handle with any sort of composure.

  And let’s just say that I don’t.

  Or, I should say, I didn’t, during the next however many hours during which I could scarcely muster up enough eloquence to break that awkward silence, let alone hope to impress. And after…how long had it been? But all I could think to say was, “Hi.”

  And she said the same.

  And I said, “How’ve you been?”

  “Good.”

  “Good,” I said. Half confident, half trembling.

  But she kissed me, and well, that was it. It’s when I backed her up inside. When I reached behind to kick shut the door. Then pressed her up against it, feeling my way down. It’s when the best part of our evening began just as easily as my bag slipping to the floor.

  Because I was thinking about her call or something like that when she led me along this hall with tall walls in bare feet just past this and over there, where I kept glancing. I kept peeking. Into the next room with every turn—everywhere I’d never been. As if I might find something that would tell me a little more about her. Even though I never did.

  Until she was at the fridge, peering in, bent, glancing back, grinning in that way, in that narrow galley of a kitchen. Until she was leaning beside me, hair loose, tousled, and I caught that scent. Her rosemary mint, it tickled my lip as twilight streamed intermittently through the swell of another curtain.

  And wearing that, when something more conventional, more conservative would’ve sufficed, something buttoned or zipped. Or jeans like me, loose. There were so many other options. But instead she chose that skirt, which I could easily hike if I wanted to—even as she stood beside that counter popping tops off bottles, then handing me one.

  Before I felt that taste lingering on her tongue.

  “You must do this often,” I said, but my heart was racing.

  “What’s that?” And she kept on.

  “Invite girls over to your digs…then seduce them.”

  Because where had my mind gone? I was talking then about neighbors instead, that somber tune they played, their drowning us out. Even as that chair went crashing against the floor, as I backed her up, as we pressed against the table, as she fingered along its edge, and my heart rushed. As I lifted her. As she climbed up. Watching her flush-faced as she drew me higher, that wrist slack over its lip as I found my way down. Raising hips to the sound of her sigh, her trembling, her knees lifting. Then bracing her down with my arm when she wouldn’t stop shifting.

  Chapter Eleven

  101 Conversation Starters

  Madisen

  Were this any other weekend, I would be spreading butter along with wild blueberry jam on my sourdough toast, then making my way out, where I could sit in the still breeze, a glint of sun peering through those leaves, planning out my day. Anything but this. Because Saturdays are my errand days, my get it done before noon days, shopping before cleaning, then everything else.

  But I’ll accomplish none of this.

  Instead I’m entertained by a brisk beam of sun now shifting its way across her lips as we figure out just how highly irresponsible two adults can be when wrapped in little more than our own exhausted euphoria.

  “So how well do you know your neighbors?” she says.

  My neighbors are far from neighborly. There are fences framing courtyards that are hardscaped and adorned in potted plants. And in the span of three or maybe four steps out, we latch car doors and tune radios without a single How’s it going? or even a Good morning.

  “Why do you ask?” I say.

  “Because we left that window open,” she says.

  All night? And, sure, I’m mortified, I mean, how loud did I get last night? Though I do manage to crawl across and snap the latch, as if that would do me any good. “I love how you laugh about this,” I say as I slip back into bed.

  “So you had a good time,” she’s saying. Then she tugs me down. “No harm in that.” And I’m really getting into her consoling, like almost to the point that it’s working, when I hear that noise—thinking What is that? And she’s grabbing her phone from the table and shutting it down. “Nobody heard a thing,” she says, “I promise,” as her palm slow dives under a pillow.

  And who knows how long we stay this way?

  Or what time it is when we make our way downstairs. I only know it’s cool once the air settles into that heavy kind of dense you wish would just pour.

  “I wouldn’t call it that,” she’s saying. “More like insurance. But what about you?”

  “So when you think someone’s ready to leave, you just—”

  “Secure the next,” she says.

  “Sometimes?” I say.

  “That time,” Rae says, laughing in this way, and I’m suddenly furious or jealous or—who knows?—slightly devastated. “Which isn’t what you think.”

  “And that’s how you justify it,” I say, “overlapping?”

  “She was polyamorous,” Rae says.

  “So you’re seeing this girl who was polyamorous,” I say. “Which means you could see other people. And how does that qualify as overlapping?”

  “She wanted to be more involved in the other people part.”

  “And were you ever,” I say, “involved?”

  “You should see the look on your face,” she says.

  “It would matter,” I say, recoiling.

  “Would it? Listen, it was her way of saying We’re through. Or maybe I’m not the wait-around type,” she says. “Either that or, look, I didn’t even know she was. So tell me about yours.”

  “My ménage à trois?” I laugh.

  “Was there?”

  “No!” I say.

  “Deal breakers,” she says. “I mean deal breakers.” Which might be something we should, I don’t know, go into more at some point, or not. Since I’ve never really thought about my own—just worry about hers. “Because isn’t this situational?” she says.

  “Situational?” I say.

  “Overlapping, I mean, it’s not black-and-white.”

  “But it’s not right,” I say.

  “It can be,” she says.

  “Why is this so disconcerting?”

  “The only thing I’m saying is, look, there are times when it does make sense,” she says, adding this rather intense gaze. And if I didn’t know any better, I’d think she might be questioning me as opposed to the other way around. “I’m referring to situations where you dive in too quick, not knowing what you might’ve gotten into—that’s all.” Which might be why that knot in my stomach churns. “When you get too serious too soon before ever really knowing who they are. Or when they change that drastically midway.”

  And who would not read into this?

  Because next I’m hearing Andi, and I’m thinking Slip it in. Like, now.

  I mean, talk about timing. So once she finishes up, I say, “What would you like to know about me?”

  “Just the important stuff,” Rae says.

  “But what’s important to you? I’ve been curious about that.”

  “Have you ever,” she says, “overlapped?”

  “No, the absolute worst you could do,” I say, “is betray someone’s trust.”

  “Well, how long have we known each other?” she says. “Not long.”

  “In lesbian terms, we should be celebrating some sort of anniversary today.”

  “Would that be paper,” she says, “or cotton?”

  “I think it’s our trip to the dog shelter anniversary,” I say, “whe
re we adopt a stray.”

  “Well, I don’t do lesbian terms,” she says. “Nor do I expect to know all there is to know about you right away. So I really don’t mind if you’re holding something back. Aside from, well—”

  “Aside from what?”

  “What would you like for lunch?”

  “You’re asking me about lunch?” I say, wondering how I’ve gotten so sidetracked. “I’m open to whatever you are.”

  “Then how about grilled and smothered in cheese…not vegan? Where could we go? Say, pub cuisine. Then after, we could hit that market on Burnside on our way home.” Home, I think. Why does that sound, I don’t know, so perfectly wonderful? It all sounds so perfectly wonderful coming from her.

  We don’t broach any of those weighty topics along the drive. But it’s not superficial, either. And after the heat of our day, as we step inside this air-conditioned pub, as I catch my reflection in a mirror, after realizing how I look, as if surfacing from some sort of night and, well…

  To think we left that window up.

  As our host walks us back to the table along this winding path until we’re hidden against this endless stretch of brick, which divorces us from the main dining area. As Rae comes up from behind and grips around my waist, and we’re walking that way. And she’s pulling my chair. Where it’s quiet, aside from that music, which is low and slow and unrecognizable.

  As I’m trying to recognize that unrecognizable and she opens her menu with, “Social justice advertising.”

  “Where do you come up with these topics?”

  “Elizabeth,” she says, “who’s having it out on Facebook. She despises companies that hijack a cause.”

  “You mean like Nike and Gillette?” I say.

  “I mean like Nike and Gillette and McDonald’s, with their gay coming out commercial.”

  “Advertising is the new religion,” I say as I scan four pages of menu clipped to a board.

  “Advertising is the new activist,” she says. “And corporations are people with thoughts and beliefs and views…and where do you draw the line? Do we start shaving our legs with Gillette to support the cause?”

  “Aren’t they still gendered, pink and blue?” I say, glancing just in time to catch her gaze from above the menu. “Have I said something wrong?”

  “You say nothing wrong,” she says.

  “I say everything wrong.”

  “I just don’t usually meet people who think the way I do,” she says before silence. Then we’re both back to our menu. “But remember those milk ads and that mustache?”

  “I thought I could look like Lara Croft,” I say, “or Kate Moss.”

  “As if Kate Moss drinks milk,” Rae says. “Mac versus PC. Iconic.”

  “No, Calvin Klein.”

  “Again, Kate Moss,” she says.

  “I love Kate Moss,” I say.

  “She’s a hot mess.”

  “She’s a hot mess who sold every perfume he ever made.”

  And we share something again, this look which feels, I don’t know, settling? “I think it cheapens a cause,” Rae says, “when they tout morality through a product brand—for monetary gain, to up their stock.”

  “But they always have,” I say. “Corporations always have. Think Coca-Cola. As if hippies were all about peace, love, and high fructose corn syrup.”

  “You’re so right,” she says. “Caveat emptor.”

  “Caveat emptor,” I say. “It’s not worth the fight.”

  But back to lunch options, which sound too amazing right now. That and…déjà vu. Glancing up only when she sets her menu aside with, “Such the look you’re giving me.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “You reminded me of someone.”

  As she bends across the table. “And that’s a good thing, right?”

  “Absolutely,” I say. Grateful when the waiter breaks in with our water. So I thank him. Then order a mimosa, as does Rae. And when he leaves, she prompts me for more.

  “It’s nothing,” I say because we can’t go there.

  “Who’d I remind you of?” she says.

  “Long story,” I say.

  “But we have all weekend,” she says. And why does she always do this?

  “It was just someone I spent a lot of time with,” I say, “for a while, which wasn’t technically necessary. More like a client. And she just so happened to say the same thing you did. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who thinks the way I do, or something along those lines. That’s all.”

  “You’re not as harmless as people may think.”

  “Don’t read between the lines,” I say.

  “Am I?”

  “I’m talking about a long, long time ago when I was so wrapped up in myself. You wouldn’t have recognized me,” I say. “You could say I wanted her business, and I got it.”

  “That’s what I thought,” she says.

  “But not in the way you think.”

  “No?” she says as our drinks arrive.

  “What time is it?” I say.

  “Two thirty,” she says. “So tell me.”

  “Ask me something else,” I say.

  “You would, though,” Rae says, “wouldn’t you?”

  “Have you?”

  “Possibly.”

  “You’ve slept with someone to land a job?” I say.

  “So you did,” she says. “Don’t you think that’s unethical?”

  “We were just two people.”

  “So to answer your question,” she says, “I haven’t slept with anyone to land a job. I’d be more afraid to lose that job over it.”

  “I’m sure you could,” I say, “and I’d never do it again. But she was oddly interesting. And had it not been a client, who knows? I would’ve enjoyed knowing her. It sort of broke my heart. And as you might imagine, I don’t feel comfortable talking about it—for obvious reasons. So why don’t we change the subject?”

  “To what?” she says.

  “If she was straight,” I say, “would that stop you?”

  “If it was you,” she says, “no.”

  “And if she lived miles and miles away?” I say. “Would you wait?”

  “That all depends.”

  “Would you wait for me?” I say.

  “Yes,” she says.

  “How about…”

  “What?” she says.

  “Would you date someone with a child?” I say, taking a deep breath.

  “All right, not expecting that one,” she says. “Have you?”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Well, neither have I,” she says.

  Later we swing by the market, where Etta James is having “A Sunday Kind of Love.” I pick up what I need for the week, adding a bottle of prosecco (make that two) along with Florida orange juice sans pulp. And by the end of the day, we’re stepping onto the terrace, barefoot on tiles, accompanied by my perfect attempt at mixing up a few more drinks at home for the two of us.

  Thinking it’s not the first night I’ve been out here entertained by more than just muffled jets overhead, those dark notes drifting from their piano, with the sky and its glow, turquoise, clear, that unsettled haze. Yet this feels like a first.

  With that scent of moisture in the air, but cooler now, relaxed, as she gazes in that scholarly way, fingers woven between knees, making her seem so held together. Even now, with that touch of apprehension about her.

  So I ask, “Is everything all right?”

  And she says, “Yeah. Why do you ask?”

  “And so what were you thinking just now?”

  Then she says, “Who’s to say?” And while she doesn’t exactly go on, it’s enough to hold me entranced by the sound of her voice. “It’s not always a bad thing,” she says, leaning in. And still I can’t turn away.

  As she peers into the night, into her glass, into that window on the second floor—then down to a potted plant. Until she’s back to me again. But how long have I been watching her like this as I ponder last night with my
skirt hiked up at the table? Those slow lips against mine. Her breath as it touched my skin and parted my legs.

  It’s that same sound, just still. Just silent and loud like that, since I’m drowning in thoughts. As her knee keeps nudging against mine.

  As she devastates me. Because what would she like me to say? That I want to stay right here wrapped up in this every single day? With my heart racing—from what? From a knee that can turn my every last nerve upside down. That I’m terrified. That I haven’t stopped thinking about her. That life, that work—that everything on every day has become such a huge sort of intrusion anymore.

  As the cooling hum of twilight settles in and I hear, “Tell me about family, then. Kids,” casually like that, as she’s edging off the chair. As she sets her glass down. And it makes that sound. “Have you ever thought about that?”

  And I guess you never really think about those things you do when you feel cornered, uncomfortable. But they all seem magnified now. My face as it warms, my arms as they slip into one another. Our distance.

  They’re shutting the window now, turning on air. It’s loud. And all I can hear is the hum of a motor. My heart racing. Or maybe it’s the clicks of cicadas, as she waits for my response.

  “Are you always like this?” I say.

  “What’s that?”

  “Proposing barefoot over mimosas?”

  But that laugh is far from shy. “Is that what I’m doing?”

  “Why not tell me about yours?” I say.

  “What, family?” she says. But does she even need to? She didn’t even need to do that to let me know I’ve gone too far.

  “I’ve said too much,” I say.

  “You never do,” she says.

  “I always do,” I say.

  “No, you don’t.”

  “But you never bring it up,” I say.

  “Since there’s nothing to bring up,” she says.

  “Because we’re not there yet?”

  “Because of a lot,” Rae says.

  “Because you’d rather I not know,” I say.

  “Because they don’t want me,” she says. “They don’t want me. Which means I’ve thoroughly impressed you.”

  “You’ve thoroughly impressed me,” I say.

  “I don’t think I have.”