“I wouldn’t mind her cooking for me,” Velma said. “But no. Shamefully inadequate in that arena. My mother wasn’t much of a cook either,” she added, popping a water chestnut into her mouth. “Guess it rubbed off.”
“Where did you grow up?” Evie knew the answer to this already.
“North Carolina.”
“Very white bread,” Evie suggested, and Velma nodded. “And when did you know you were gay?”
Velma smiled and swallowed a mouthful of food. “I feel like I’m on your show again.”
Evie shook her head emphatically. “No, off the record.”
Velma knitted her eyebrows in faux-suspicion.
“Seriously.” Evie laughed. “I just really love origin stories. C’mon.”
“Okay.” Velma dabbed her mouth with a paper napkin. “I remember being in about sixth grade, and feeling like there was something about me that was different, but I didn’t know what it was. My girlfriends were starting to talk about which boys they liked, and I didn’t have those feelings for them, so I just pretended I did. I think I thought that’s what everyone was doing, just pretending. And one day, this girl in my class, Prue Wilfred-Scott, came to school and said she’d seen one of our teachers, Mr. Sullivan, out on the weekend holding hands with a man.”
Evie gasped, affecting shock.
“Exactly.” Velma chuckled. “It was very scandalous, and confusing. I’d just never heard of that; I didn’t really know what it meant, how it was possible. And then one of the boys said Mr. Sullivan was gay, that’s what being gay was. And I remember thinking, I’m like that. I’m gay, for girls.” Velma met Evie’s eyes unemotionally. “It was a horrible realization. The kids were talking about Mr. Sullivan like he was sick. Diseased. I knew immediately it was true for me, and at the same time that I’d never be able to tell anyone or act on it for the rest of my life.”
“God, that’s so awful,” Evie said.
“Mm. Not exactly a Call-me-Charlie-type awakening, unfortunately.” Velma tipped her head to the side. “Do you really want to hear about all this? It’s not very romantic—”
“No, I do,” Evie said, surprising herself with how insistent her tone was. “I really do.”
Velma swallowed some more wine. For a moment, Evie was worried she’d overstepped the line, that Velma was about make some weird excuse about having an early start. But instead, Velma cleared her throat and kept talking. “When I was fifteen, I woke up one morning and thought, ‘It’s never going to get any better than this, it’s just going to get worse.’ So I went into the bathroom, found every kind of pill I could, and swallowed them all.”
“Oh my god,” Evie said.
“My mother found me passed out on the bathroom floor, called an ambulance, took me to the hospital. I was there for a few days. And that’s where I met Ann Jackson.” Velma smiled ironically. “If there’s one thing my mother knew about, it was therapists. Thank god for Ann Jackson. That woman saved my life. I started seeing her three times a week, and within the first month, she got me to admit I was gay. I’d never said the words out loud before, and the relief!” Velma groaned. “It really was like this huge weight lifted from my shoulders. It was a turning point. Within a year, I told my parents, which went a lot better than expected. They agreed to let me switch schools, so I did junior and senior year at this very liberal artsy-fartsy high school where half the guys were gay. My homeroom teacher was a tranny. I told everyone I was a dyke on my first day, and no one batted an eyelid. Started seeing my first girlfriend, took her to prom. And so”—Velma lifted her palms up—“here we are.” Her forehead creased in alarm. “Chloe, are you crying?”
Evie brushed at her eyes furiously. “No, no, no, I just . . .”
Velma scooted closer and handed her a napkin. “Here.”
Evie took it and blew her nose. “Sorry,” she said, feeling her face start to redden. “Such an overreaction. It’s just . . . fuck, I can’t bear to think of you being so unhappy.”
Velma studied Evie’s face. “God, you’re so sweet.” She said it as if she was only just now figuring it out.
Evie stared back at Velma. Her voice was as soft as the rain. “I just think it’s so sad that some people think two women loving each other is horrible, when it’s the most beautiful thing in the whole world.”
Velma’s expression was serious as she held Evie’s chin between her thumb and forefinger. Then she moved her head toward Evie and gently kissed her lips.
Evie closed her eyes and kissed her back. She felt grateful. Grateful Velma was alive. Grateful the world was changing. And grateful for the Pretty, the special key, the secret handshake that allowed her to be here, in this nice apartment, drinking this nice wine, being kissed by this nice woman.
Their kissing began to change. From sweet and tender to driving, more urgent. Evie opened her mouth wider and felt Velma do the same. Velma’s hands wound into her still damp hair, cupping her head hard. Evie groaned, low in her throat.
Velma broke away, eyes bright, breath ragged. “Bedroom?”
Evie nodded without hesitation.
They tumbled onto Velma’s king-sized bed as one, legs tangled, mouths wet and searching. Velma ripped Evie’s shirt open. Buttons flew like bullets. Evie laughed, which turned to a gasp as Velma’s lips found her nipples, sucking, circling, playing. Chloe’s pink, perfect nipples, standing to attention in the middle of Chloe’s peppy, perfect breasts. Watching Velma touch them was like watching a kind of porn that could only exist in her wildest, wettest imagination.
She pulled Velma’s top off over her head, kissing her breasts, her throat, her neck, her lips. She pressed her chest to Velma’s, hungry for the sensation of two women together, two soft, luscious, writhing women letting their fantasies take over.
Velma’s fingertips grazed the outside of Evie’s underwear. Her body snapped involuntarily. Velma grinned, lit only by a lamp on the bedside table. Her hair had come loose from its messy bun, falling around her face in tendrils. Velma slid Evie’s underwear down, scooped it to her nose, and inhaled deeply. “You smell so good.”
Even the sound of her voice made Evie whimper. She fidgeted, wanting Velma to touch her clit, but almost fearful of the sensations she knew she’d conjure.
Velma positioned Evie so she was lying on the pile of pillows at the top of the bed. She kissed her mouth, slowly, then whispered, “Can I go down on you?”
Evie nodded.
“Can I put my fingers inside you?”
Evie nodded again, and whispered, “Find my G-spot,” assuming Velma would be well versed in such a move.
Velma began to move down between Evie’s legs.
“Wait.” Evie pulled Velma back up. Her breath came unevenly. “Tell me I’m beautiful.”
Velma paused, surprised, before obeying. “You’re beautiful, Chloe.”
Evie shook her head a little. “Differently.”
Velma murmured the words directly into her ear. “You’d end wars. You’d make angels weep. You’re all I ever think about.”
Evie sighed, dreamy, hot, and happy. “Make me come.”
And Velma most certainly did.
Three times.
56.
She had to press the buzzer three times before Mark answered, sounding disoriented. “Willow?”
The night had its hands around her, pressing every part of her, its darkness violating her. She felt like her blood was running black. “It’s Caroline.”
Nothing. She pressed the buzzer again, the skin under her fingernail turning white. Let me in. Get me out.
“Caroline, I can’t let you up. I’m sorry.”
The night showed her its teeth, everything too loud, too hot, too dangerous. Her voice was a whimper. “Mark . . . please.”
“No, Caroline, I—”
“Please.”
When she arrived at his door, Mark was standing behind his armchair, arms crossed. All the lights were on. “Hey,” she said softly.
He spoke w
ithout moving. “Hey.”
She waited, hoping to be asked in. When the invitation didn’t come, Willow crossed the threshold herself. She was carrying a large duffel bag.
“So.” Mark rocked back on his heels. “What’s up?”
Willow let the duffel bag fall from her fingers. “Have you ever been to Paris?”
“Paris? No.”
Willow moved Caroline’s body forward like a puppet, each limb dumb and heavy. “I spent a summer in Paris. Or maybe it was fall by then, I can’t remember.” She sat on the edge of Mark’s sofa. “I remember the smell of fireworks over the Seine—there were fireworks every night. Explosions lighting up the sky.” She hugged her arms around herself. “I love fireworks. I would walk the banks of the river by myself, you see, just following the patterns of the fireworks reflected in the water. One night I was down there, alone, and I came across a group of men drinking by the river.” She looked directly at Mark. “There are a lot of Africans in Paris. Did you know that?”
“What is this, Caroline? What’s going on?”
“They were drinking,” Willow continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “And laughing. They invited me to sit with them. They were drinking out of a bottle in a paper bag. They gave me some.” Her eyes were far off. “It tasted like fireworks. They wanted to know where I was from. I said I was an American. They told me I was very beautiful. In French, you say, très jolie. Très jolie fille.” Willow paused, then said, “They suggested I might like to take my clothes off.”
Mark gripped the edge of the armchair.
“It was a very warm night, no chance of catching cold.” Willow’s voice was wistful. “I thought, why not? Together we removed my clothes, until I was naked. We burned my dress in the fire. They had a small fire. Once I was naked—”
“Caroline, I can’t sleep with you again—”
“Once I was naked, the men lifted me up and carried me to the water. They were so careful with me; I remember how careful they were. They brought me all the way down to the water. Soon it was deep enough to let me go, to let me float. I floated naked, in the Seine, while the fireworks exploded overhead.” Willow closed her eyes. Tears slipped down her cheeks. Her voice was barely a whisper. “I want to be back there. In the river. But I can never go back.” Her thoughts were a shattered mirror reflecting back a broken picture, a picture she couldn’t see clearly no matter how hard she tried. It was exhausting. Everything was just so exhausting. “I can never go back.” Her head dropped into her hands, and she began to weep.
After a moment’s hesitation, Mark walked to the front door and quietly pulled it shut.
57.
Evie woke early, momentarily disoriented by the strange sheets, the smell of lavender. Pale yellow light filtered through gauzy white curtains, beyond which was the vague outline of the city. Reality whooshed in. The fire. The Thai food. The sex.
I had sex with Velma Wolff.
She stretched, feeling warm and decadent, tangled up in gray silky sheets. She couldn’t shake the smile from her lips. It was more than a carnal conquest. They’d connected. Really connected. And Velma was here, right next to Evie, mere inches away. This, this moment of being in bed with someone as majestic as mountains, as alluring as moonlight: this was everything. The answer to a question I’ve always wanted to ask.
Evie rubbed at her eyes, wanting to clear them of blurry sleep, to see every contour, every pore, of the woman next to her.
Her vision stayed blurry.
She had changed back.
She was Evie Selby again.
Fear banged into her veins, hard as a hammer blow. Please no. Please please please no. She clutched at her hair, her cheeks, her plump upper arms in silent horror.
It was true.
She was a different person.
The sickness came a split second later, two Mack trucks slamming into each other in midair. It took every scrap of willpower to cry out silently, contorting her body in a way that wouldn’t rustle the covers. Pain seared her insides and her mind was racing, trying to work out how this had happened. It was Wednesday. It was Wednesday and she’d taken the Pretty on Thursday and it had been seven whole days for Krista not six and oh god her stomach hurt and oh god she was Regular again what the fuck what the fucking fuck?
She slid her eyes to Velma. Don’t look at me. Do. Not. Look.
Escape.
Now.
Evie inched the edge of the covers up. Velma sucked in a breath, snuffly deep and throaty. Evie froze. Every inch of skin was boiling with anticipation, with hot horror, with pain. But Velma settled and so Evie continued her inch-by-inch escape. She slipped out of the bed, falling into a crouch with another silent cry. A few seconds to catch her breath. Then a hunchback shuffle-run for the door.
In the living room, Evie zipped up her crumpled blue dress with numb fingers, heart rate still galloping recklessly. She should just leave, never come back. That was too close a call.
Way too close a call.
When Velma opened her front door, her face shifted into surprise. “Hello.”
“Morning, sleepyhead.” Evie brushed past her.
Velma followed her back into the living room, which was now blasted with morning light. “I thought you’d done a runner on me.”
“Don’t be silly. I woke early, thought I’d get breakfast. Coffee and croissants?” She held them up. Her grin felt crazed and her stomach was still unsettled, but she was here. She had to be.
Velma slipped her hands into her pajama pockets and cocked her head to one side. “Well. Aren’t you full of surprises. You went out dressed like that?” she asked, nodding at the dress Evie had left wearing, and had no excuse not to return in.
“Sure,” Evie said, affecting the petulance of a child star. “Why not?”
Velma chuckled. “Go sit outside. I’ll put these on a plate. Might even have a dash of whiskey for that coffee, if that’s your poison.”
You’re my poison.
Velma took the pastries and coffee, pausing to drop a kiss on Evie’s lips. She pulled away with an odd smile. Evie’s heart stopped—had she tasted the vomit? Had Evie forgotten something, slipped up? “Peppermint.”
Evie went to rush a reason—gum, breath mints, toothpaste (all true)—before she realized Velma didn’t care: she was already heading for the kitchen.
She’d done it.
She’d fooled her.
Outside on the balcony, the sky was royal blue and thirsty. Evie took a seat at the little table and chairs, grabbing the newspaper. For the first time since waking, she could finally catch her breath. And it was only now, with the sun on her skin, the scent of coffee in the air, that Evie realized what she’d just done.
Retaking the Pretty hadn’t been a dilemma or a hard choice. It was a matter of course. It was the only option. The fact she’d just told Krista it would be her last go not even twenty-four hours ago hadn’t even crossed her mind.
Because I will never not want this, Evie realized. The woman. The sex. The view. I want this to be mine.
And then, suddenly, as dangerous as an unsheathed knife, the next thought.
What if I don’t stop?
58.
Willow woke to the familiar sound of traffic bleeding in from the open window. Next to her, Mark slept soundlessly.
Their relationship was over, of course. He had proven himself untrustworthy, and that seemed inevitable. But it was a bitter victory. Because underneath it all, underneath the feeling of Mark’s hands on Caroline’s body, she sensed his good. She hadn’t planned this. She hadn’t planned any of it. It had just happened this way, Caroline had just happened this way, and there was nothing she could do about it. It was all already done, Willow thought. All already doomed.
She rolled over, and then she felt it.
A cramp.
A painful punch to the gut.
All sleepiness evaporated. She knew this feeling.
She drew a breath, fast and sharp. No. No, it couldn’t be. But one
look at her chest, at the two sexless lumps that had replaced Caroline’s lush, full breasts, confirmed it.
Willow was back.
How was that possible? Her mind tried grabbing at days—had it been a week? Had the fact she’d been staying up, working all night and not sleeping, prolonged the transformation back? It didn’t matter. She didn’t even know where the Pretty was. Evie’s? Fuck, fuck, fuck.
She eased out of the bed, snatched her small pile of clothes, and hurried to the bathroom. Less than a minute and she could be out of— The floorboards next to Mark’s bed creaked. Footsteps. He was up, he was already up!
He couldn’t find her in his bathroom, how could she possibly explain that? Or where Caroline had gone? She was trapped. In a panic, she tore off her underwear—Caroline’s underwear—and shoved her clothes behind the toilet.
The footsteps drew closer. He was heading for the bathroom. She hadn’t locked the door. Her hand flew toward it just as he twisted the knob from the other side, pulling it open.
Mark’s eyes met Willow’s. Naked Willow, standing, impossibly, in the middle of his bathroom. His eyes bugged wide. He inhaled hard in shock. “Fuck!” He stumbled back a step. “Fuck, what are you doing here?”
Willow whipped around to grab a towel, turning away to allow herself to reel, to panic. She pulled the towel around her with trembling hands. When she looked up, Mark was scanning the living room, openly desperate.
He’s looking for Caroline.
“Surprise.” Willow tried hard to smile. “Hi, baby.” She squeezed past him, brushing his cheek with dry lips.
“Wh-what?” Mark followed her, eyes wild, as she went into the living room. “How did you get in?”
“My key, silly.” Willow’s attempt at playful sounded downright crazed. “Thought I’d crawl into bed with you, and . . . surprise you.”
Mark’s eyes flew down to the duffel bag Willow had left by the door. Without wanting to, she followed his gaze. For a long moment, they both stared silently, intensely, at the bag.
“Planning a trip?” Willow asked brightly. “Don’t forget to take me with you.”
The Regulars Page 27