by Sandy Lowe
She was petite, a sprite of a woman, with fine, honey-blond hair that fell sweetly about her face if she went too long between cuts. She had sky-blue eyes, an adorable button nose, and a subtle cleft in her chin. London didn’t care a fig for fashion, yet she had a style all her own. A pared-down look built on faded jeans, crisp oxford shirts, and supple leather boat shoes. It didn’t take much to imagine her aging in place on the farm, working the land, season after season.
In childhood, London and I were next-door neighbors; as undergrads, we were roommates. Now, while pursuing graduate degrees, we rented crappy apartments in the same low-rise complex on the outskirts of Midtown. We were constantly immersed in one another’s lives—unless I was in the throes of a romance. Most of the time, though, we moved seamlessly from bingeing on Orphan Black in London’s place, to gobbling up snacks in mine, to fleeing summer’s heat on the fire escape outside our bedroom windows.
I hated that she hadn’t been able to join me that summer. And her absence didn’t go unnoticed among the wyldwomyn. I was peeling potatoes on my assigned shift when Terra said, “I haven’t seen London Woodruff this year.”
“Yeah. She had to attend some training on a major tech update at her job. It almost killed her to miss out.”
“She’s special, that one—really special. I hope you know that her size is just a trick of light.”
I stopped working and turned toward the weathered dyke. She was studying me with a speculative look, and something in her posture suggested I didn’t quite measure up. “What do you mean—‘trick of light’?”
“You see London as tiny, easy to overlook. But actually, she’s enormous.”
Apparently Terra was talking some new-age nonsense about London’s “spirit.” While plainly conveying that mine suffered by comparison. I met her gaze with my haughtiest look. “There’s a reason she’s my best friend, you know.”
“But is it the right reason?” Terra asked over one shoulder, as she left to fetch more potatoes.
“What the hell?” I muttered to the empty kitchen. “Of course it’s the right reason.” And just then, I longed to have London’s reassuring presence at my side.
Still, if she’d been there, I might never have spoken to Nicola over a breakfast of stale granola and green tea, initiating a conversation that engaged us all day. At the concert that night, cool breezes seemed to blow in good fortune. A million-zillion stars winked above the backcountry fields. And maybe the moon shone down on me with special favor. Because as the last note died away, as the last spotlight dimmed, Nicola kissed me. And kissed me. And kissed me.
I’d paid extra to bunk in a cabin, but it came equipped with roommates. So Nic and I dragged her ratty tent and paper-thin sleeping bag down a hill, as far from everyone as possible. And there we did our best to pretend we were the only people alive. More than alive—soaring, effervescent, dancing among the planets. I’d never had sex like that; I’d never known there was sex like that. After we collapsed, I spent the few remaining hours just listening to Nicola breathe. Because those fireworks were the final hurrah. The festival was over. We’d leave in the morning.
At eight, we downed a hasty meal, then Nic kissed me good-bye, and to hell with onlookers. I found the shuttle bus for my group but didn’t expect to see her again—I didn’t even know where she was from. And since I’d never been the most popular dyke at any ball, my expectations weren’t irrational. On the long ride home, I told myself it was enough to have shared that extraordinary interlude with her.
But Nicola texted me a few days later. I was surprised to learn that she lived in a northern suburb of St. Louis, only thirty minutes away. That night we met at a bar in Soulard, then wound up in my bed. Soon afterward, she was claiming a lot of my time. I was never sure I had her complete attention, though. I’d noticed Nic noticing other women, and sometimes when I suggested getting together, she’d say she was busy. Period.
One morning I called hoping she’d join me for a night of outdoor theater. But I got no take—and she offered no explanation. I was seriously bummed. I could go to the play alone or invite a friend. Share a bottle of wine and the picnic supper I’d planned for Nic with someone else. Try not to think about how the seductive Ms. Sevier was spending a perfect June evening. Especially when she could have been at Shakespeare in the Park with me.
After wrapping up my tasks for the day, I biked to the U library, where London worked. She was terrified modern technology would destroy that venerable institution, so I often checked out stuff just to help with statistics. When I entered, she was doing some nameless thing at a computer. But as I closed the gap between us, London looked up. Instantly her helpful librarian expression morphed into a sunny smile. “Hey, Ali!”
“Hey, yourself. How late are you working?”
“I’m just about to clock out. Why?”
I leaned across the counter, batted my lashes, and lowered my tone to vamp level. “Could I interest you in a picnic supper, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and me?”
“Oh, yeah! Give me five minutes to wrap up.”
I watched London close down for the day, thinking about her devotion to the job. She knew everything about literature, including exactly what I should read at a given moment. A few years back, I’d dropped a Stieg Larsson novel on the checkout counter—I wanted to know what all the fuss was about.
London shook her head. “You’ll be sorry.”
We indulged in a playful tug-of-war before she gave up and scanned the book. Unfortunately, she was right. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo was way too graphic for my taste. Crazy, I know; everyone my age has a stronger stomach and a greater appetite for violence than I do. When I returned the book, London was kind enough not to lord it over me. She did make me check out Slaughterhouse Five, though. A penance for failure to heed, I thought.
A week later, I took back that novel, too, smugly reporting that I didn’t like it. London just smiled, renewed it without asking, and told me to try again. The second time around, I recognized the truth: The damned thing was brilliant. So brilliant I couldn’t shut up about it. And London was right when she suggested I check out recordings by Rodrigo y Gabriela. I fell in love at first strum but would never have found the duo on my own. Sometimes London seemed almost telepathic—at least where I was concerned.
The night we went to Forest Park for a hit of culture, London was preoccupied. We finished our picnic supper before she asked, “Who’s the latest heartthrob?”
I supposed she’d seen Nic coming and going. And of course, she couldn’t have missed my departure from our usual routine. I looked around before answering. The sunset was spectacular. The audience lounging on that velvet lawn was jovial. The green show featured lively Renaissance music. And a trio of jesters combined expert juggling with witty repartee. It was hardly a night for bitching. But after two glasses of wine, all bets were off. I poured out my heart about Nic—the attraction, the uncertainty, the anguish.
London listened without interrupting, although I knew her face so well she really didn’t need to speak. When I finally wound down, she asked, “Is Nicola good for you?”
Was she? I hadn’t given that much thought. Nic made me laugh. She encouraged me to try things I’d never imagined. She was certainly good for me in bed—just thinking about that made me blush, because London was watching while I replayed Nicola’s best moves. Still, there was that frustrating elusiveness, a hint of a darker side. I sipped more wine before admitting, “I’m not sure.”
London drew her knees close to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, so I knew she was trying to hold something back. Finally, she said, “That’s a lot of emotion to invest in someone who sounds slightly sketchy.”
Thankfully, the play started so I didn’t have to respond. And I took heart during Act One when Lysander told Hermia, “The course of true love never did run smooth.” Exactly! Who was I to expect otherwise?
Yet London’s words lingered long after I was in bed, staring at the water st
ain I used as a Rorschach test. Why had I let myself get so involved with a woman who kept a huge part of herself sequestered from me? And why couldn’t I have a relationship with Nicola that was as carefree as my friendship with London?
I asked my sister that question the next day. Bette has ten years and twenty IQ points on me. And she’s overly fond of exercising her right to free speech. As expected, she offered an unsparing answer: “Look at your crushes in high school—before you realized you were a lesbian. Assholes, all. Then there was that lunatic hand model in your sophomore year of college. And the Wiccan priestess, or whatever, last year. You gravitate toward sexy topped off with crazy. I don’t know why you conflate romance with danger and uncertainty and a high probability of heartbreak, but that’s your history.”
Did I associate romance with danger? Maybe—Bette had made a good case for that. I decided to test her theory when Nicola suggested staying with me for a week. Which was stellar—until day three. As we returned from yoga class, Nic startled me by racing to my mailbox, then flipping through the contents. I raised my eyebrows at her cheekiness and promptly reclaimed my property. But she was leaning over my shoulder while I ripped open an envelope containing a quarterly check for college expenses.
“Lend me a thousand, Ali? It would really help. I’m a little short for my rent.”
Though her breath was warm at my ear, it sent a chill down my spine. Maybe Nic was joking—I hoped she was joking. Shaking my head, I stashed the check in my bag. “Nicola. This is scholarship money. I couldn’t make it through the semester without it.”
“Don’t you trust me to pay it back?” Said snidely, with a stormy, unfamiliar vibe on the side.
Hoping to defuse the tension, I mustered a self-deprecating smile. “Just consider me ridiculously neurotic, okay?”
To my horror, Nic snarled, “I consider you a lot worse than that!” She slammed her boot at one wall, where a size eight hole promptly materialized. Then she flung my door open and punched her fist through it. Stomping down the corridor, she yelled obscene insults all the way to the elevator. And just like that, the intoxicating dyke I’d been mooning over for months vanished.
I was shocked. Shaken. Proud of myself. And very, very scared. I pulled out my cell to call Dietrich, the building supervisor. “It’s Ali in 3-B, Dete. I’ve got a problem.”
He arrived practically before I’d pocketed my phone. Wiggling his fingers through that jagged hole, he growled, “Cheap damn hollow-core doors!”
“That’s not all,” I said, waving him inside, pointing out the damaged drywall.
“Jesus, Ali! this’ll have to come out of your deposit. Did you have a drunken party? ’Cause I didn’t get the invitation.”
“Not even,” I said. “If I pay for a better door, a real one, will you install it? Along with some extra locks?”
Dete looked me up and down. “Did that bastard hurt you? Do you want I should call the cops on him?”
“Not a him. And no. I just need a decent door—and to have my head examined.”
“You’re on your own for a shrink, but you’ll have the door before I go off duty. The drywall repair’s a few days of work. The mud has to set up before I paint.”
“Whatever it takes, man.”
Despite a new door that would have done Fort Knox proud, I lay awake that night worrying about Nicola. What if she came back? Broke a window by the fire escape and charged inside? Created a scene? Threatened me?
At midnight, I pounded out a text to London: Are you awake? Can I sleep at your place?
Yep & yep.
So I scrambled into clothing, then used my key to enter London’s apartment. She was sitting on her futon beside a stack of pillows and linens, looking like a drowsy Peter Pan. Hair all mussed. Wearing shorts and an Indigo Girls T-shirt. Cuter than cute.
I plopped down on the other end of the futon and began filling her in. “I’m not seeing Nicola anymore. She’s batshit crazy. And you’ll need a new key to my place…”
Before leaving for class the next morning, London walked me to my door, one floor below hers. And she insisted on prowling around my tiny apartment to make sure nothing was amiss. At first I smiled indulgently, wondering how a half-pint like London thought she could have faced down Nic. But there was iron in her posture, anger in her eyes, and that search was beyond thorough. London even looked taller just then. What had Terra said at Wyldwomyn? “Her size is a trick of light…Actually, she’s enormous.” In a flash, I saw what Terra saw: someone who would protect and defend me to the death. What had I done to deserve such loyalty?
London’s laughter broke through my trance. Gesturing at the usual disorder in my apartment—which looked much like your basic crime scene—she said, “No one’s here. It must have been an inside job.”
“Very funny. But thanks for everything…as always.”
*
Days passed without a word from Nicola, then week after peaceful week. Yet I missed her—how fucked up was that? Still, I suspected I’d gotten off lucky.
One desolate day, I dropped in on London at the library. The instant she spotted me, she disappeared into the stacks. On her return, she handed over a book. “You should read this—in case Nic comes back.”
My eyes widened when I saw the title: The Sociopath Next Door. “That’s harsh.”
“Read before deciding…”
I shoved the hardback across the counter. “Not interested. Really—it sounds like a bridge too far.”
London sighed, then stuck the book on a cart for reshelving. “Your loss.”
“Oh, well…Are you up for dinner this Saturday?”
“Sure. My place? I’d like to try a new recipe.”
“When have I ever turned down food? Especially if it’s your cooking?”
“Bring dessert,” she said.
That night, the word sociopath rolled relentlessly through my mind, so I jumped on Google. Where I found a bajillion articles describing that bizarre breed. Sociopaths were typically charming—but their charisma was merely a façade in service to selfish ends. They were dishonest, manipulative, calculating, unreliable, and often dangerous. They were also incapable of genuine love. Which sounded frighteningly familiar. And apparently, my hunch was correct: I’d gotten off lightly when Nic disappeared, because sociopaths were usually as hard to shake as they were vicious. Deeply depressed, I shut down my laptop. If Nicola Sevier wasn’t a sociopath, I wasn’t a drama major. And as an actor myself, why hadn’t I realized she was a phony?
*
Over dinner with London that Saturday, I told her what I’d learned from the Internet. She shot me an infuriating I-told-you-so look.
“You think you know me better than I know myself!”
“We’ve been in each other’s back pockets since infancy. I know what you eat for breakfast, what you take for a headache, where you hide your chocolate when your nephew visits. I could probably guess what you sing in the shower.”
Unbidden, a fantasy flitted through my mind: London in the shower with me. Soaping my back. Turning me for a kiss. Kissing me lower, then…And lower… I felt heat gather in my core, race upward, knew my face must be scarlet.
Thrusting my chair back, avoiding her eyes, I scooped up our plates. London followed with the breadbasket, the butter dish. I didn’t face her again until my cheeks were cool. “If you don’t have to study, I could stay for a movie.”
“Great. I’ll straighten the kitchen while you check Netflix. Find something funny, okay?”
Which was perfect. Right then I absolutely couldn’t have risked anything with a hint of romance. So I scrolled through dozens of options—all of which seemed to have an amorous aspect. I finally settled for a Jeff Dunham special and cued it up, but London was still banging around the kitchen. As the scent of melting butter wafted into the living room, I plucked a chunky photo album from a stack on her coffee table. And who but London—whose favorite word was “tangible”—would own actual albums?
If I
teased her about that, she’d just say: “I like real things, Ali—handling something from a precise place and period. I like the sense of age, of passing time. You don’t get that with digital storage.” A memory of the wyldwomyn rose up—that gang of happy hippies. No wonder London fit in so well with them…
I flipped open the book. And there it was: our entire childhood, arranged in chronological order. London and me in diapers, grinning at one another through the chain link fence that separated our backyards. London, stepping off the school bus on our first day of kindergarten, with me close behind. Both of us duded up for Halloween—me as Miley Cyrus during her sparkliest teen years, and London as Justin Bieber.
Eighth grade graduation followed, with London displaying a first-place plaque from some essay contest. Then dozens of hideous high school photos. Going solo to dances. Sharing pizza with our first loves—me making googly eyes at Hal Hudson, while London pretended she wasn’t totally bonkers over Kirsti Sullivan. Even though their clandestine infatuation had lasted forever, had almost splintered our friendship. I didn’t figure out London’s fascination with Kirsti until senior year. And I didn’t follow in their footsteps until I was a college freshman.
When London entered the living room, I snapped the album shut and tried to regroup. But I was having trouble getting past visions of Kirsti in her arms, of their first exploratory attempts at sex, of the pair becoming progressively more adept on sleepovers and campouts. Thoughts I’d never allowed myself to think back in the day.
London plunked two beers and a bowl of popcorn on her coffee table, then dropped down beside me. When we reached for handfuls of the buttery stuff, I brushed her fingers. The same fingers that had made love to highbrow Kirsti Sullivan. For years. Why couldn’t I get that thought out of my mind? Kirsti was long gone from our lives, attending college on the East Coast, last I knew. Like London and me, she was probably closing in on a master’s degree. And London never, ever mentioned her. I didn’t even know if they’d parted amicably. Or if they’d suffered from that separation. Or whether she was still in love with Kirsti. A permanently broken heart might explain why London was a loner throughout college. But I didn’t know, had never even wondered. Self-absorbed much? a silent, sardonic voice inquired.