by Dahlia Adler
“Just…a month, okay?” I ask, my fingers clenching my own glass as I struggle to maintain my resolve to do what I genuinely think is best for us both, even though everything in me wants to say “fuck this” and kiss that hurt, wary look off her face. “We do this—for real—but no grand coming out. Not for a month.”
“So for a month, we’re…what? Secret fuckbuddies?”
Oh, how I wish just her saying that word didn’t turn me the fuck on. It makes the part I can’t believe I’m about to say even harder. “That’s the other thing. I don’t think we should…” God, what’s the right word when you’re talking to someone you actually care about? It isn’t going to be fucking, our first time, and “making love” is one of the worst phrases in existence.
Ugh, if Samara is the virgin, why do I keep bumping up against first-timer questions?
“Have sex?” she supplies, as if I’ve asked her the question aloud.
As ever, I appreciate her bluntness. “Yes. For a month.” I reach for her bare ankle, stroking the soft skin with my thumb. “I want to earn you, Sam,” I say softly. “I’m sorry I’m a weak piece of shit, but I swear I’m going to try my hardest not to be.”
“Hey.” She sets her glass on the floor, takes mine and does the same, then cups my face in her gentle hands. “Don’t talk about my quasi-girlfriend like that.”
The word fills me with an unexpected thrill that courses through my veins and propels me forward until there’s no space left between us, nothing to breathe but each other’s exhalations. She falls back on her bed and I cover her, mouth to mouth, breasts aligning with breasts, my hands in perfect position to tease at the skin between her tank top and the pants that mold to her perfect butt like a second skin.
I grip the sheets instead, fighting the urge to take this where I desperately want it to go. Everything for her is new, and I don’t want to rush it, don’t want to push whatever’s happening between us. The thirty days isn’t just for her; it’s for me, too. I’ve never been in a relationship like the one this has the promise to be. I want to do this right. I want to deserve her.
And in one month, I guess we’ll know if I do.
“How do I look?”
“Great,” Lizzie mumbles around the pen she’s chewing on.
“You didn’t even look up!”
This time, she does, plucking her pen from her teeth and laying it down on the course packet in front of her. “You look great, Frank. You always look great. Like, literally always. It’s kind of a dick move, if I’m being honest.”
That brings a quick smile to my lips, but it turns back into a critical frown as I eye myself in the full-length mirror on the wall by the bathroom. “It’s not too slutty?”
“What the fuck is ‘too slutty’? Who even are you right now?” Then a snort-laugh escapes her, and she claps a hand over her mouth. “Holy shit. You’re nervous.”
“Shut up.”
“Francesca Annamaria Bellisario, is this your first real date?”
“Shut up!”
“Holy shit! I can’t even believe Cait’s not here for this. She’s gonna be so pissed she missed this for a stupid basketball game.” Even as she talks, she’s grabbing her phone and frantically texting.
“Oh my God, you are so not helping.” I tug at the neckline of my favorite red sweater, wondering if I should wear something less boobtastic. Will this scare Samara off? Does it look like I can only think about boobs? Or is it too boring? Maybe I should be wearing something in a print?
“Frankie, Christ, you look like you’re gonna explode. Take a deep breath.” I do. “Now twelve more.”
I stick out my tongue, then worry I’ve licked off my lip stain in the process. Then again, if my lip stain does survive the night, I’m probably doing something very wrong. I can taste her already, and her soft, full lips…
Yeah, fuck the lip stain.
“Okay, I can do this,” I declare, smoothing my palms down the hips of my favorite tight black pleather pants. “I just maybe need a shot first.”
“You are not picking up Samara—or driving my car—with liquor on your breath. Go put on those hot studded ankle boots and get your ass out of here.”
“Expecting someone?” I tease, as if Connor’s not here just about every night she isn’t at his grad dorm.
“Not if I don’t finish my homework,” she says, picking the pen back up and tapping the course packet with it. “Even when he’s not my teacher, Connor’s a pain in my ass.”
“They make lube for that, you know.”
“Francesca?”
“Yes?
“Get out.”
• • •
I know Cait’s at the game with Mase, but as I approach the door of the room she shares with Sam, I can’t help feeling like I’m picking up my date for a school dance from her parents’ house. Not that I ever went to any of the school dances Immaculate Heart had with St. Joseph’s, but my mother always says I have a vivid imagination.
Nearly every other time I’ve knocked on this door, she’s answered in yoga attire. I don’t even realize I’m expecting her to be wearing something along those lines until she opens the door and the sight of her in a soft pink lace dress that brings out the natural flush of her cheeks just about knocks me on my ass.
“Hi.” She smiles, and it’s gorgeous, and a little nervous, and it makes me want to kiss her that much more. She’s so girly and sweet, so unlike anyone I’ve ever been with, and it throws me off my game completely.
“Hey. You look beautiful.” I debate rising on my toes to kiss her hello, but her lip gloss is so perfect, I can’t bring myself to muss it up. “You ready?”
“Yup. Just need my purse.” She turns to her desk to grab a small brown leather clutch, and I let my gaze drift over her long, tan legs as she does.
What the hell am I doing? Why did I wear pleather leggings and my great-rack sweater on a date with a girl who wears sweet pink lace? What am I doing on a date with a girl who wears sweet pink lace at all?
“One last thing,” she says. Before I can ask what it is, her mouth is on mine, her tongue teasing me open. I barely have a moment to reciprocate before she pulls back with a brief, gentle tug on my lower lip. “Okay, now I’m ready.”
Oh right—that’s what.
“That was cruel,” I tell her as she locks the door behind us.
“That sweater is crueler.” She tosses her keys in her clutch and looks at me. “Ready for our first date?”
“I think so. I might need another kiss to be sure.”
“Ha ha.” She glances around the hallway to confirm it’s empty, then takes my hand, lacing our fingers and bringing them to her lips. I know it’s meant as a joke, to shut me up, but as we walk to the elevator with the imprint of her hand still burning in mine, I wonder if she can tell that that’s made me tremble more than anything yet.
• • •
Vallarta was Connor’s suggestion—a tiny Mexican restaurant about twenty minutes away from campus—and it’s a good one, simply by virtue of the fact that it’s obviously more popular with his grad student peers than with ours. Neither of us knows anyone in the dimly lit space, and I immediately notice her breathing a little easier when that becomes clear.
Having never been on a real date, I kinda had cinematic visions of how this would go—pulling out her chair, holding hands over the table, feeding each other dainty forkfuls—but judging by the way her eyes keep darting around the room, that wouldn’t be terribly welcome. Instead, I just sit across from her as if I were going out to dinner with Cait or Lizzie, and pick up my menu immediately so I won’t be tempted to do anything stupid with my hands.
“This place is so pretty,” she observes. “You said Connor recommended it?”
“Yup. Apparently Lizzie won’t come here because she insists they put cilantro in everything, but he highly recommended the chicken enchiladas.”
“Sounds good to me. Everything does, honestly. I love Mexican food. Not something I get a
whole lot of at home.”
“You really do not miss it there, do you.”
She laughs. “That obvious? Don’t get me wrong—there are things I love about living in South Carolina.”
“Sweet tea?”
“Exactly,” she says with a smile. “And shrimp ’n grits. Y’all really do not know how to make decent grits up here.”
“On behalf of all northerners, I declare that we are shockingly okay with this shortcoming.”
She shakes her head. “You have no idea what you’re missing.” Her expression grows a little wistful. “And I’ve got some good friends there, still. My two best, Jenny and Louisa, are both at Clemson. They’re not so thrilled with me for leaving. They don’t get why I had to get out of there.”
Now I do reach across the table to squeeze her hand, but of course our waiter comes over right then, and Samara immediately moves her hand out of my reach and takes a chip from the basket he brings instead. Suddenly, my appetite doesn’t feel quite as strong as before, but I take a chip anyway, just because they’re there.
“Are you ladies ready to order?”
I haven’t even gotten a chance to look at the menu, but Samara answers that she is, so I just say I am too and order Connor’s suggested enchiladas. As Sam places her own order, I try to imagine how we look through the waiter’s eyes. Can he tell this is a date? Or does he think we’re just two friends from bumblefuck who came in for some spicy, cheese-y goodness?
It’s pretty clear what Samara wants him to think.
(Which is fine. Thirty days. My idea. Get it together, Frankie.)
“Are they mad at you?” I ask when he’s gone. “For transferring?”
“They were at first, but I think they’re too happy at school to care much anymore. Louisa was abroad for the summer, so I haven’t seen her in ages, but Jenny and I are fine.” She smiles ruefully. “For now, anyway.”
It hits me with a pang that she means “For now, while I’m in the closet.” Truth be told, I haven’t really stayed in touch with any of my friends from home beyond the occasional social media interaction, but when I’m back there, it’s like none of us ever left. I don’t have to be anything other than who I am with them, and I hate that for Sam, it isn’t the same. “Well, now you have fabulous new friends at Radleigh,” I declare. “Trust me, Lizzie and Cait are the best people on the planet.”
“Y’all met freshman year, right?”
“Yup—totally random rooming situation. Lizzie and I didn’t know anyone here when we came, and Cait knew, like, one senior on the lacrosse team from sports camp. The three of us and Matina got grouped by the housing lottery, and the rest is history.”
“Fate’s a pretty amazing thing, isn’t it?” she says with a soft smile.
“It is. First the housing lottery brings me my best friends, and then it puts you with one of them. Fate—or at least one form of it—has done pretty damn well by me.”
Her eyes drop to the tabletop, but I can see her smile widening a little. In the glow of the candlelight, she is literally breathtaking. “You are seriously beautiful, you know that?” I say before I can stop myself.
“Frankie.”
“You are. Do you know how hard it’s been not saying that to you every damn day? I figure now I’m allowed.”
“I guess so,” she says, but her voice is so low I can barely hear it. “And you’re not too bad yourself.”
“Not too bad, huh? Praise of the highest order.”
She bends her head shyly, and I feel a little bad for teasing. She’s new at this, I remind myself. Really, really new. “Hush. You know very well you’re gorgeous,” she mumbles.
Gorgeous. I will take gorgeous. In fact, I get “hot” often; “sexy” too. “Gorgeous” is a pretty rare one for me, and I like it a lot. Especially when it’s accompanied by her appreciative gaze, as it is right now. “Is it shooting myself in the foot if I admit I’m surprised I’m your type?” I ask.
She arches one of her perfect full brows. “What did you think my type would be?”
“More conservative, I guess.” And I may as well admit the other thing that’s been nagging at the corner of my brain since we first kissed. “And more…lesbian.”
Her eyes dart around again, but it’s a small place; it doesn’t take long to confirm no one’s listening to our conversation. “Is this about what I said that night? Seriously, I cannot apologize for my word choice enough, Frankie.”
“I don’t need you to,” I assure her. “It’s not about that. But it is a thing. I mean, I’ve never actually dated anyone before so I haven’t had to deal with it, but the girl who helped my friend Sid realize she was bi wouldn’t date her because she’s also attracted to guys. Some lesbians care a lot about that sort of thing.”
“Well, I promise, I’m not one of them.” Her hand starts to move for mine, then she thinks better of it and takes another chip instead. “But…can I ask you about that? The label thing, I mean?”
“Why I ID as pan and not bi, you mean?”
She nods.
“First of all, you can ask me anything, especially if you lay the accent on thick.”
She laughs. “Oh please, I barely even have one. My mother was afraid it’d make me sound uneducated, so she worked it out of me.”
“Well that is a damn shame, because I think it’s sexy as hell. And it’s not as barely there as you think, either.” I drag a chip through the little bowl of salsa as I watch her squirm. “And pansexual felt like the best fit because I think it’s the most fluid. Lots of people think it just means attracted to more than two genders—which I am—but plenty of bisexual people are too. For me, the difference is more about how gender plays into the attraction to someone, whether consciousness of it is actually a factor or those lines kinda blur.” I haven’t talked about this stuff in a long time, and I have no idea if it sounds weird to her, but there’s no judgment on her face; she’s just listening and nodding. “I don’t care what parts you’ve got as long as you know how to use ’em,” I add with a grin.
She laughs. “If ever I’ve heard a perfect tagline for you.”
The waiter arrives then with our food, and although we don’t feed each other, I do pass over a piece of enchilada, and she forks over a fried clam. “This is so good,” she says after swallowing a bite. “God, I wish I could cook. The only thing I have ever successfully made is choereg—Armenian Easter bread—and that was with my grandmother. She left me her recipe when she died but even if I could find all the ingredients, I’d probably destroy it.”
“The only thing I can make is lasagna, but I make damn good lasagna. The secret ingredient is extra everything.”
“Do I get to try this legendary lasagna someday?”
“That depends. My lasagna doesn’t come cheap.”
“Oh really. What kind of price are we talking?”
I open my mouth to respond, then realize the waiter is watching us, along with a waitress. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch them whisper at each other, and I suspect they’re taking bets on whether we’re there as a couple or just friends. Part of me wants to lean across the table to kiss Samara full on her pretty mouth—shock them and end their speculating all in one shot. But a bigger part of me feels a hot, uncomfortable pressure at being analyzed. Ordinarily, the field of fucks I give about other people’s opinions of me lies fallow as the Dust Bowl, but now all I can think is whether to their eyes, I look all wrong for the sweet, shy, pristine girl in front of me.
“Hey, Frankie, you okay?”
I blink, tearing my eyes away from the wait staff. “Yeah, sorry.” I can’t remember what we were talking about, and I feel like an asshole. “How’s your food?”
She gives me a puzzled look, and I remember she’s already said it was delicious, and she was also definitely expecting a very different response from me. You win, Imaginarily Judgmental Wait Staff—I am a shitty date. “It’s great. How’s yours?”
“Same.” I make a mental note not to make our
next date at a restaurant; I am not nearly confident enough in my dating abilities for an audience. My tongue feels completely tied right now, and I don’t think that’s ever happened to me in my entire life.
Thankfully, Samara just smiles as if I’m not halfway to a panic attack, and that little curve of her lips sets me back to right again. “Good.” She takes another bite, then puts her fork down. “You said I can ask you anything, right?”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Oh, sorry, I meant—ah kin ask you anythin’, raht?”
Her exaggerated accent achieves its intent of making me laugh, but even in faux form, it’s still sexy as hell. “Yes’m, I reckon you can.”
“Good. Because I have been wondering about your tattoos forever. You have four, right? The quote on your arm, the skyline on your wrist, and, um”—she grazes her chest with her fingertips, just under her collarbone, and I wonder if it’s as silky smooth as it looks—“these. The roses.”
Judging by her flush, she likes said roses. Duly noted. “Two more,” I tell her. “One’s on my ankle—a chain with a dangling cross—and the other…you’ll have to find for yourself.”
That lip bite. Fuck. “Interesting. Do I get a hint?”
I pluck a clam from her plate. “That was your hint.”
She doesn’t respond. She does, however, take an extra-long sip of water.
“What about you? Got any?”
She snorts. “My parents would literally kill me. I wouldn’t even dream of it.”
“You could always get one somewhere they’d never see,” I point out, waggling my eyebrows as I imagine going ink-hunting on Samara’s body.
“Parents aside, I could never handle the pain. I’m a baby about that stuff. No piercings outside the one in each ear, either, and I only have those because my mother got them done soon after I was born.” She pokes her fork at her food, her eyes fixed on her plate, but makes no move to take another bite. “Kind of a shame, since apparently I find them to be a huge turn-on.”
And now I’m squirming in my seat. “Is that so?”
“Trust me,” she says, pushing her food around. “Conservative is not my type.”