by Dahlia Adler
“You didn’t.” She gulps in a breath of air, and I turn away to pour her a glass of water, giving her a minute to put herself together. “God, I wish you had, but of course you didn’t.” She accepts the glass I give her, but she doesn’t take a drink. Instead, she clutches it so tightly her knuckles whiten around it, and her eyes search my face while her own falls with sadness. “You are so…” Her voice drops to just above a whisper. “I forget everything I’m supposed to be when I’m around you.”
Chills. Everywhere. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“That part isn’t,” she says, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I like you, Frankie. A lot. But I’ve never been with anyone before. And when I am, I need that someone to be…”
Oh. I see where this is going. “Someone your parents would more likely approve of?” I ask tartly. “Someone without tattoos or piercings or colored hair? Someone with solid career goals? Or is it that I also sleep with boys the problem?”
“That you sleep with everyone is the problem,” she shoots back, then pales immediately. “No, wait, Frankie, that’s not what I meant—”
As if I’m going to give her a chance to finish that thought. “I’m so sorry you defiled yourself with such a slut. Don’t worry—that glass has been washed since I last put my mouth on it.”
“Stop it, Frankie. I didn’t use that word and I don’t think that. That’s not what I meant.”
“What do you want, Sam? You wanna test out your Sapphic thesis on me? You think I secretly wanna trade in my lace thongs for keys to a U-Haul? I’m not that kind of queer girl. I’m the slut; don’t you know? I’m the kind who’ll fuck anything that walks because I’m greedy, because I can’t make up my mind. I’m not the domestic gold-star lesbian you’re looking for.”
Samara doesn’t shrink back from my tirade. She doesn’t even blink. It’s infuriating. Her tiger eyes are a little narrowed, maybe, but I’m used to Lizzie’s fire, to Cait’s ice.
Samara Kazarian is a whole other element.
The silence between us stretches into unbearable, and the ire in me fades out with it. My racing pulse is approaching normal when she finally speaks.
“I’m not looking for anything, Frankie. I never was. I just found you. And I don’t want anything that you aren’t. I don’t care who you’ve been with. And I think you know exactly who you are and what you want. It’s one of the things I like most about you. I don’t care if you like girls, guys, both, neither, whatever—I just won’t share you with anyone else. Not like that.”
A weird icy heat prickles at my skin at her words, and I can’t figure out what to make of it. Her honesty is scary and refreshing and hot and confusing and I don’t know what to do with it, don’t know what she expects from me at all.
“And my sexuality is not a Sapphic thesis,” she says, her usually melodious voice dropping so it’s low and gravelly, twisting up my insides even more. “I’m gay, if you need to hear me say it. I’m not embarrassed about it. I’m not questioning. I’m not trying to change it about myself, and I don’t hate myself for it. I will be out someday.
“But when that day comes, I will lose everything. I will lose my family, I will lose my old friends, and I will lose my financial support. The day I come out is going to wreck me, even as I know it’s coming, even though I’ve prepared for it for years. So I’m the one who’s greedy, Frankie, because I won’t go through that alone. I won’t do it without someone at my side who loves me, who has the potential to make up for what I’m losing. And that won’t be a casual thing. It won’t be a person who isn’t monogamous with me. It’s a lot of pressure, I know, and maybe it’s unrealistic. Maybe I’m dreaming of some woman I’ll never find. And it’s lousy luck that the first girl I’m crazy about can’t be that partner. But I’m afraid that if I keep spending time with you, I’ll never find the person who is, and I need to. I need to start my life.”
Fire and ice and an element that is neither snake through my veins and wrap around my throat, my lungs, my heart.
I couldn’t respond if I tried.
She slips on her coat and I can’t do anything but watch as she slides her long arms through the sleeves, clips her long hair into a twist. Then she closes the gap between us, brushes her lips across mine, and says goodbye in a whisper so quiet I barely hear it, so loud it makes the earth tremble at my feet.
I sleep like crap that night, all the things I should’ve said and all the things I wish she hadn’t turning over in my brain. I believe her when she says she wasn’t judging me for sleeping around, but it doesn’t matter—she’s right; I do. And I fucking enjoy it. Being a queer girl at Catholic school meant a whole lot of skulking in the shadows, especially when I was hesitant to bring anyone home in case my mom was having a bad day. After a decade of that, it’s liberating as hell to be somewhere I can do who I want, when I want, where I want.
But…
I forget everything I’m supposed to be when I’m around you. I’d felt those words all over my skin last night, and the more I think about them, the more I think they’re every bit as true for me. I’ve been getting sucked in to quiet nights of pizza and movies and games of “Is she or isn’t she” that I swore I left behind in junior high.
Fuck that.
Sleeping late seems to be out of the question, so I dedicate the morning to primping. I add a few more colored streaks to my hair with my pastels, put on as much sparkly eye shadow as I can get away with during the day, and thread as eclectic a collection of earrings as possible through the six holes that line each ear. I pull on a low-cut black top that perfectly displays the matching roses tattooed below my collarbones, skinny red jeans that make my ass look fanfuckingtastic, and my favorite studded ankle boots that add a couple of inches to my curvy legs. Finally, the lip gloss that I’ve learned from past experience whispers “taste me” louder than any other.
I look good.
(The better to fuck “everyone,” my dear.)
It might be a little bit much for class, but again—zero possession of the shame gene. It takes all of two seconds before I spot a girl in Gender Studies checking me out. I wink in return, and unlike Samara, she doesn’t blush; she just gives me an even more brazen onceover and then looks back down at her notebook, so that I could not be more sure we’ll be flirting after class. (Spoiler alert: we do. Her name is Natasha. She’ll be at XO on Friday night. What a coincidence—I will too.)
Next up is Studio, during which I have zero thoughts about whether Samara would be impressed by my current painting, whether she’d gaze upon it with the same reverence she did at the show. She’s definitely not in my head when I drag Abe, Sidra, and our friend Lili out to Happy Hour for two-for-one margaritas (sans tequila for Sid). And when we go out to a movie afterward, and my elbow brushes Abe’s on the armrest, I’m definitely not flashing back to the night at the concert when mine and Samara’s did the same.
So with Samara so completely and one hundred percent out of my mind, I definitely do not expect to come home to Lizzie and Cait sitting at the table in my apartment, looking so serious I wonder if they’ve been sent to tell me I’ve been expelled. I do not expect “Sit down, Francesca,” to come out of Lizzie’s mouth. And I do not expect “What happened between you and my roommate?” to come out of Cait’s.
“Nothing—”
“Bullshit,” says Cait. “You don’t really think I don’t know how much you two have been hanging out, do you?”
“And please spare us the whole ‘we’re just friends’ thing,” says Lizzie. “It’s just sad at this point.”
“You two sure seem to think you know a lot.”
Cait narrows her eyes at me. “Well, I couldn’t get her to say a single word last night, and when ‘S&M’ came up on her playlist, I’m pretty sure I heard her crying.”
A lump forms in my throat at the thought of Samara being that sad, about me of all people. Her fucked-up family making her cry? Not cool, but at least it’s expected. Me? How the hell did that happen?
Still, there’s no way Samara told Cait that I was behind her tears. She would never. “What does have that to do with me?”
“I don’t know,” Cait admits, “but I suspect you do.” She takes a deep breath. “Look, I know she likes you, okay? I hate it, but I know it. I’ve been watching her crush on you get worse and worse since the day you met, and apparently Lizzie’s been seeing the same on your end. If this isn’t really about you, then I’m sorry, but…it is, isn’t it?”
Since the day we met? Holy shit. I don’t even know what to say to that. Cait doesn’t exactly have killer instincts when it comes to romance, so if she’s been noticing it, that…definitely says something.
Finally, I give up and nod. “Fine. Yes. We’ve been…getting closer. And there may have been a kiss—that’s it.”
Lizzie’s eyebrows shoot up. “Why’s that it?”
“Because she gave me a fucking ultimatum—all in with her, or we’re done.”
Lizzie and Cait exchange a look. “So?” Cait prompts.
“What do you mean, so?”
Lizzie snorts. “You know you’re head over heels for this girl, right? You are all in, Francesca, whether you like it or not.”
“I am not!”
“Oh, yes you are.” Cait folds her arms. “Mase was at Andi’s concert, you know. He’s been trying to stay friends with her, not that she’s really interested. He was sitting in the back and he saw the two of you all over each other.”
I open my mouth to state that we were not all over each other, but Lizzie steamrolls right over me. “You think I haven’t seen all your sketches? You think you didn’t mention Samara a thousand times when you were telling me about your show? You’re every bit as smitten as we are, and you’re just too stubborn to admit it.”
“When’s the last time you even hooked up with anyone else?” Cait asks. “Honestly.”
I scrub my hands over my face, thinking of the last time I was at XO and made out with Racquel. Of how different it felt, how conscious I was of the missing spark. How I didn’t want to take it any further even though we almost always do. Taking a deep breath, I force out the thoughts that have been plaguing me since Samara dropped her ultimatum—even longer, if I’m being honest with myself.
“Look, my father upended his entire world when he was around my age, because he made a life decision when he was too young to be sure of his path. He thought he knew happiness with the priesthood, only to meet my mom and discover that his truest happiness lay elsewhere. And I’ve never felt like he regrets that decision—or me—but I know he still misses it all the time. I know he hates that the men he studied and served with aren’t part of his life anymore. I just…I don’t wanna have to fuck up my world—or hers—to get my happy. I wanna know it when I see it. Until then, I’m having a great time on my way there.”
“Are you?” Cait asks, more delicately this time. “Because lately, it seems like all your great times are with my roommate.”
“She definitely does seem like your happy,” Lizzie agrees. “You can tell I’m serious because I didn’t even make a gay pun there.”
“Ew, you are serious.” I look down into the depths of my mug. “You really think I should give this a shot?”
“Say you don’t,” says Lizzie. “If you went out this weekend, would you even want to be with anyone else? Or would you just be thinking about her?”
I cannot even believe the words—the truth—popping into my brain right now. “I’d sooner stay in and think of her, if you know what I mean. Which is gross. I sound like you two.”
“Well, I probably wouldn’t have said it with a masturbation reference, but the point still stands,” Cait concedes. “Welcome to the life of the enamored. It’s cozy over here, and filled with foot rubs!”
“I hate it,” I say, and even that is a lie. A foot rub from Samara sounds fucking glorious.
“You’re so full of shit.” Lizzie grins and throws a pretzel from the bowl on the table at my face. “Get out of here, go tell Samara you were being an idiot, and get the girl.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“As much as it pains me to invite a scenario in which I will definitely start finding your thongs all over my room again, I’m pretty sure it is that simple.” Cait takes a sip of water. “She likes you, Frank. You like her. She’s not your teacher, she’s not dating your roommate—or anyone else—and you have no fraught and confusing history. This is the dream.”
“But what if I can’t?”
“Can’t what?” they ask simultaneously.
“Can’t…girlfriend? What if I suck at it? What if I drag her out of the closet because we think we have some magical spark and then we crash and burn in a week and I’ve fucked up her life for nothing?”
I wait for them to say I’m being dumb, that I’m not gonna fuck up, but of course the one time I want them to yell at me, they’re both silent. “Wow, no response, huh?”
They look at each other, then back at me. “It’s not like we don’t have faith in you, Frank,” says Cait. “It’s just that the ‘coming out’ stuff is beyond our realm.”
“Yeah, we’re kind of…”
“Painfully straight?” I fill in for Lizzie.
“Hey, I have made it adamantly clear to Connor that if we’re still together for his 30th birthday, I’ll gift him a threesome.”
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize,” I say dryly. “Hold on a sec while I bestow you with this rainbow crown.”
“Don’t make me throw another pretzel at you. I hate wasting.”
“Just talk to her about it,” says Cait. “Tell her what you’re afraid of. If Mase and I had done that sooner, we’d have gone through way less hell.”
“Tell her I’m afraid I can’t commit to one person? Won’t that make her feel like shit?”
“Not any more than whatever you said to her last night, judging by how she looked this morning.” There’s an edge to Cait’s voice now, and I realize I’m hitting the limit of her patience. She didn’t want me going for her roommate, and I guess this makes a pretty good case for why not.
But I did go for Samara, whether I meant to or not. Because I couldn’t stay away. Because I do like her. Because I want to at least try. There’s a reason I risked Cait’s ire in the first place, and that reason is five-foot-seven, reads more books in a week than I do in a year, looks obscenely hot in yoga pants, and takes in the world around her in a way that makes me want to experience something new every single day.
I want her, and I’m sitting here with pretzel salt on my face.
“You look like you’re having an epiphany,” says Lizzie.
“I might be.”
Cait reaches into her bag and hands me her dorm pass. “Go. I’ll stay at Mase’s tonight. But Frank?”
“Yeah?”
“Honesty. Do it.”
I realize this is the closest I’m gonna get to having Cait’s blessing, and I don’t wanna fuck things up with her any more than I do with Samara. It’s now or never, and though that thought chills me, imagining ending this night with her definitely counters with a warming effect.
I wrap my fingers around the pass Cait hands me, feeling the edges cut into my palm, and glance at Lizzie. She gives me a surreptitious thumbs-up, and I can’t help smiling. I’m gonna do this. I’m actually gonna do this.
And I have a ten-minute walk to figure out how.
• • •
By the time I reach Wilson Hall, my brain is a swirling mess of thoughts, and I’m desperate to see Samara’s face to settle them. I race up the stairs to the sixth floor, heart pounding against my ribs as I near the door of room 612. I can’t remember the last time I felt terror like this, but it’s the good kind. The stuck-on-top-of-the-ferris-wheel kind.
I think.
I barely even feel the wood of the door under my knuckles and then she’s there, surprise on her face, her long honey hair swept into a high ponytail that drapes over one shoulder. One bare shoulder. She’s w
earing a tank top and yoga pants and oh fuck she’s so gorgeous I think I might just combust.
“Frankie? What—”
That’s all she gets out before I cup her fine cheekbones in my palms and press my mouth to hers. I don’t tease this time, and I don’t have to—her lips are soft and warm and every bit as eager as mine. A gentle touch with the tip of my tongue is all it takes for her to open up, and she tastes of honey and lemon and sweetness and home.
The sound of hinges squealing open down the hall makes us jump apart, and she steps aside without a word to let me in, then closes the door behind me.
“So, what was that?” she asks slowly, crossing her arms.
I take a deep breath and meet her gaze head-on. “That was me making sure you’re a good enough kisser to make up for the fact that I won’t be kissing anyone else.”
Those soft, plump lips twitch into a little smirk. “And? How’d I do?”
“I should’ve done that the second you made that fuckhot speech.”
The smirk relaxes into a full-blown smile that melts me into a puddle on the floor. “You should also probably do it again right now.”
I can’t argue with that, can’t do much of anything but close the space between us and taste that sweet mouth again. I reach up and pull the elastic from her hair, inhaling the citrus scent of her shampoo as it drifts around her shoulders, burying my fingers in its softness as we kiss and kiss and kiss some more until we’re both breathless and losing our balance. Then we laugh and pull apart, and she fills us both glasses of water from the sink in their kitchenette.
“So, we’re doing this,” she says, only a hint of question in her voice.
I swallow hard as I accept the drink, forcing myself to keep my eyes on hers. “I really want to try. But…this is new for me, Sam. I really want to be what you deserve, but I need some time to make sure I can be. I can’t have you throwing your life into upheaval for me just yet.”
She takes a long sip of her water, and the narrowing of her eyes over the glass makes me wonder if she’s washing me out of her mouth. “So what does that mean?”