Girls of Summer

by Kate Christie

  Jamie expelled a long breath and glanced over at Emma. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

  “Duh,” Emma said, and poked her in the side.

  Jamie caught her hand and held it. “You know what else gets me, though? How he knew just by looking at me that I wouldn’t fight back.”

  Emma’s heart broke a little. “Jamie…”

  Her smile was lopsided. “One of my friends in college who knew about France asked me once if I thought the rape made me gay. She didn’t realize I’d already come out.”

  “I don’t think assault could change someone’s sexuality,” Emma said, frowning a little. “Do you?”

  “No, not really. I told her I thought it happened because I was gay. You know, like he knew and that’s why he picked me. Did you know that trans people and bisexual women experience the highest rates of sexual assault? It’s like straight men need to punish us for daring to be who we are.”

  Fucking straight men, Emma thought. Who did they think they were? She remembered the rage that had overtaken her, hot and fast, after Jenny’s stalker called Jamie a dyke. She remembered wondering in Lyon if any of the faces they passed belonged to the man who had hurt Jamie. She remembered wishing she could get that guy alone in a room just once. With her anger and Dani’s kickboxing classes, she felt confident she could take the son-of-a-bitch.

  Violence might not solve anything, but it would feel good. At least, in theory.

  “I’m sorry, Jamie,” she said, moving closer until they were sharing the same pillow. “I wish I could say something or do something to undo it all. I really do.”

  “I know. But it’s made me who I am, so I’m not sure I would change it even if I could.” Jamie paused, and then she shook her head. “Actually, that’s not true. I would love to go back in time and lock myself in that hotel room. If only time travel were a thing.”

  Emma knew exactly what she meant. She hesitated, but—no more secret-keeping. She’d promised. “As long as we’re talking about this, I think there’s something I should tell you.”

  Jamie drew away slightly. “What is it?”

  “Well, you know how your mom hasn’t always been the best at keeping what happened in France to herself?”

  Jamie scooted up the bed even further. “Who else did she tell now?”

  So Emma told her, haltingly, about her mother confronting her club coach about what had happened the last night of the trip.

  “What the fuck?” Jamie hopped out of bed and paced across the hardwood floor, her body naked, both hands on top of her head. “She fucking told Pete and didn’t tell me? Not that that should be surprising.” She stopped suddenly and faced Emma. “Wait. How do you know all of this?”

  “Um, Jo told me? She and Pete apparently go way back. That’s all I know.”

  Jamie’s eyes narrowed. “When exactly did you and Jo talk about this?”

  Emma bit her lip. “Brazil. The night we told the coaches about us, Jo called me up to her room to discuss the online situation, and, well, it came up.”

  “Jesus Christ, Emma!” Jamie reached for her T-shirt and shorts at the end of the bed and yanked them on. “I can’t fucking believe you right now!” And with that she turned and stalked out of the bedroom.

  Emma waited, ears straining for the sound of the apartment door slamming, but it didn’t come. Instead, she heard Jamie rifling through boxes in the kitchen muttering to herself. Finally, there was the sound of water running and the gas flame on the stove being lit. Tea, Emma guessed. Jamie was making tea.

  By the time she pulled on her own discarded clothes and made her way to the kitchen, the kettle was poised to whistle and Jamie had two mugs and an assortment of tea out on the counter. Emma honed in on the two mugs and started to breathe again. Jamie wasn’t going to send her packing. At least, not without a farewell beverage.

  “I’m sorry,” Emma said, drifting to a stop a few feet away. “I know it probably doesn’t make much of a difference, but I didn’t tell you because I was trying—”

  “—to protect me,” Jamie finished for her. “Yeah, I know. Mint? Or lemon ginger?”

  “Lemon ginger,” Emma said, and watched as Jamie poured the hot water over the tea bags. “Jo didn’t let on she knew because she said if you wanted her to know, you would tell her.”

  Unexpectedly, Jamie’s gaze shifted as if she was focused on another place and time. “No free passes—right.”

  Emma wasn’t sure what that meant, but she didn’t feel like she could ask, either.

  “Do you want honey?” Jamie asked.

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  Emma watched Jamie open two different cupboards before she found the honey. Ainsley and VB had helpfully unloaded a few grocery bags, which had Jamie lamenting that she would never find her stuff. Good thing the kitchen wasn’t that big to begin with.

  “Come on,” Jamie said a minute later, motioning her closer. “I know you don’t like your tea as sweet as I do.”

  Emma stole a glance at Jamie as they traded the plastic bear-shaped container of honey back and forth. She didn’t look quite as angry anymore, but she didn’t look happy, either.

  “I’m sorry,” Emma said again, even though she was probably saying it too much.

  Jamie side-eyed her. “I know.”

  She didn’t say it was okay. She didn’t say much at all as they took a seat on the couch and scrolled through their phones while they drank their mugs of tea. But she did let Emma curl up at her side without comment, and even once pressed the ghost of a kiss to the side of Emma’s head. That was how Emma knew everything would be okay. Because even if she fucked up again and again—which, apparently, she was determined to do—and even if Jamie had PMS or PTSD or both and was legitimately bitchy for a solid week, neither of them was going anywhere. Jamie loved her, and she loved Jamie, and they would figure it all out somehow because that was what they had both decided to do.

  The US really wouldn’t lose the World Cup because of them, Emma realized once again as the lemon ginger tea started to settle the queasiness burbling in her belly.

  Thank freaking goodness for that.

  Chapter Four

  Jamie buckled her seat belt and reached for the auxiliary audio cable Emma kept in her glovebox. Leaving at an ungodly hour meant they would miss Portland traffic and get to Berkeley in time for dinner, if all went well. Although after Emma’s bombshell the previous night, Jamie wasn’t entirely sure she wanted extra time with her parents right now.

  “Hold up,” Emma said, watching Jamie connect the cable to her phone. “What happened to my car, my music?”

  Jamie smiled at her, taking in Emma’s messy bun and the sunglasses that held back the usual wisps. “I made us a mix.”

  “You—oh.” Emma’s pre-coffee frown eased, and she even smiled back. Almost.

  “I mean, it’s our first real road trip,” Jamie added.

  “That’s sweet,” Emma decided, and turned the key in the ignition. As the opening bars of Rachel Platten’s “Fight Song” filled the Subaru’s interior, Emma’s half-smile morphed into a snort. “I stand corrected.”

  “Come on, it’s catchy!” Jamie said, laughing as Emma guided the car toward Burnside. “Besides, it’s totally appropriate, Rocky.”

  “Too soon, Jamie. Or maybe it’s just too early. Why exactly did we decide to leave at the ass crack of dawn? And don’t say traffic because I’m pretty sure we’re doing the reverse commute.”

  “Oh, look,” Jamie said, pretending to be surprised. “A drive-through coffee stand. Do you think we should stop on our way out of town?”

  Emma was already turning into the half-circle drive. “Come to Mama,” she said, eyes lighting up as she surveyed the menu.

  Thank god for coffee. Maybe Jamie would have to get a magnet or some other trinket that said as much.

  “The mix is actually pretty good,” Emma admitted a little while later as they drove down I-5, her entire being sunnier thanks to the addition of caffeine. “Jenny
might have some competition.”

  Jenny Latham held the unofficial title of team DJ, which came with the responsibility of mixing the official Game Day playlist and any and all travel mixes.

  “Hello, she already does,” Jamie said. “Lisa’s boyfriend is literally a professional musician.”

  “Lisa? Are you kidding? She listens to the Eagles and, like, Fleetwood Mac. Can you imagine Maddie’s reaction if Tom Petty came on in the locker room before a big game?”

  Jamie shuddered. Tom Petty’s voice creeped her out. No way she was the only one, either.

  They talked music and concerts for the first leg of the journey, accompanied by Jamie’s boppy travel mix, before moving on to books and movies. When Emma revealed that one of her favorite books was still To Kill a Mockingbird, Jamie commented, “It’s a great book, obviously. But I don’t know. I wish it wasn’t about a woman who accuses an innocent man of rape. I mean, how often does that actually happen?”

  “Okay, but there’s a long history of African American men being wrongfully accused of sexual assault,” Emma pointed out, “and then sent to prison or executed by white mobs in the name of ‘justice.’ Like the Scottsboro Boys, or even the Central Park Five.”

  “I get that. But if you look at it statistically, false accusations are super rare. Most rapes actually go unreported, and those that are? Something like one percent of accused rapists are convicted. African American men are totally more likely to be falsely convicted, and Harper Lee was calling attention to bullshit racist scapegoating. I just wish a book that is taught to teenagers wasn’t centered around a girl who lies about being raped.”

  Emma was silent for a long moment, her eyes on the road ahead. “I never actually thought of that. But it makes sense that you would. Given your experience and all.”

  The phrase reminded Jamie of something. What was it? She couldn’t quite remember.

  “Okay,” Emma added. “You’ve convinced me. To Kill a Mockingbird is no longer one of my favorite books.”

  Jamie expelled an irritated breath. “That wasn’t my point. I’m not trying to tell you how to feel about it, Emma.”

  “I know,” Emma said, and smiled sideways at her. “Don’t worry. In case you haven’t realized by now, I’m not easily swayed by the opinions of others.”

  Except that she was, Jamie thought, watching the Oregon countryside race past Emma’s Subaru. Otherwise, she would have already come out publicly. “Whatever you say, Blake.”

  It wasn’t until later in the day when Jamie was taking a turn at the wheel and Emma was dozing beside her that Jamie remembered why the phrase “given your experience” felt familiar. The first time they’d kissed in high school, Emma had freaked out afterward and gone radio silent. Finally, a few days later, she’d reached out to Jamie and apologized in a text. Her apology for not seeking Jamie’s consent before kissing her had included the cringe-worthy phrase: Given your experience.

  In all the time they’d been together, they’d never discussed Emma’s douchebag move—by which Jamie meant her runaway bride impression and subsequent silence, not the actual kiss. Nothing like a road trip to give you time to sweat the small things, really.

  The next time Emma stirred, Jamie said, “Hey.” But softly because it had been her idea to leave Portland before the morning rush hour.

  Emma yawned and sat up, tugging on her seat belt. “Hey.” She reached for the bottle of Pepsi she’d gotten at Subway when they stopped for lunch and took a long gulp. “It’s so weird to sit in the passenger seat in my own car.”

  “Totally,” Jamie said, trying to think how to ease Emma into the conversation she’d been having inside her own head for the past ten minutes.

  “What’s up?” Emma asked.

  “Who says anything’s up?”

  “That little furrow between your eyebrows,” Emma said, taking another sip of soda. “Although technically it’s down, I guess.”

  “It’s nothing. Just, you said something earlier that reminded me of our first kiss, that’s all.”

  “I did? Well, in that case, I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “All of it,” Emma said. “Then and now.”

  “That’s a total cop-out, and you know it.”

  “And your point?” As Jamie shot her a frown, Emma sighed. “Fine, let’s talk about ancient terrible history while we’re stuck in a car for the next—” she paused and checked the time on the dash—“three, possibly four hours.”

  Jamie considered arguing with her calculation, but Emma was probably close enough, especially if they didn’t stop again.

  “You know,” she said instead, “for an internationally renowned defender, you’re kind of a chicken shit.”

  “You say that as if you’re just figuring it out now.”

  Jamie snickered despite herself. God damn Emma, making her laugh when she wanted to stay pissy about something that had happened when they were both barely old enough to drive.

  “All right, all right,” Emma said. “What do you want to ask me about the kiss that would be better off never speaking its name?”

  “Jackass,” Jamie muttered as she pulled into the passing lane. The Prius in front of them was going so slowly she might have crashed into it if she’d been more distracted by Emma’s oddly cheerful profession of cowardice. Then again, her girlfriend’s cheerfulness upon awakening from a mid-day nap shouldn’t come as that much of a surprise. Most professional athletes were adept at power napping, in her experience.

  And there it was again: In her experience.

  “I guess I always wondered what was going through your mind when you dropped off the face of the earth,” she said.

  “You mean after I kissed you and literally ran away? Guilt, mostly. I felt awful because I wasn’t sure you wanted me to kiss you.”

  “Seriously?” Jamie checked the Prius’s status in her rearview mirror before easing the Subaru back into the right lane. “You couldn’t tell I’d been daydreaming about kissing you that entire week?”

  “I had my suspicions. But as I recall, you didn’t exactly respond with enthusiasm.”

  “I was surprised! Besides, I won’t say I’d never been kissed, but, well, I’d never been kissed by a girl before.”

  Emma blinked at her. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Emma admitted, and then groaned melodramatically, sliding lower in her seat. “Great. That just makes the fact that I jumped you even worse.”

  “Trust me, you didn’t jump me.” She left unspoken that she knew the difference.

  “I know, but the last thing I wanted to do was take something from you that you didn’t want to give.”

  “Funny,” Jamie said, reaching over to hold Emma’s hand in hers. “I felt the same way about you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your father had just died and I had all these feelings for you. When you kissed me, I thought maybe you were just confused.”

  “I was confused. But not about you. I knew how I felt about you.” She paused, her palm warm and solid against Jamie’s. “You weren’t exactly in the best place, either, if you’ll recall.”

  “No,” Jamie agreed. Neither of them had been in what could remotely be called a good place, let alone the best. “I hope you can hear me, though, when I say you didn’t do anything wrong by kissing me. Absconding afterward like Mt. Rainier was erupting, on the other hand…”

  Emma laughed. “Obviously not my best moment.”

  “Good thing you’re cute,” Jamie said. “Otherwise…”

  “Good thing,” Emma replied sassily, sticking her tongue out as Jamie shook her head.

  Now that the conversation had taken a turn for the past, it stayed there. The gap in their friendship had lasted nearly a decade, and they were still catching each other up on the years they’d spent apart in different sections of the country—and world. Many of their stories involved exes, which was fine with Jamie. But Emma seemed le
ss enamored with tales that featured Clare or Laurie, so Jamie occasionally edited her stories of the past. That didn’t stop Emma from saying things like, “Clare was with you, wasn’t she?” Usually, Jamie had to admit that she had been, and Emma would purse her lips and temporarily clam up.

  That was why Jamie hesitated before saying, “Speaking of New York, I was wondering—would you maybe want to go out for coffee with Laurie and her partner?”

  They were in Southern Oregon now, and her road trip playlist was still going strong. In the background, Halsey was singing about ghosts, and as Emma stared straight ahead, her eyes unreadable behind her sunglasses, Jamie turned the sound down.

  “I mean, obviously we don’t have to see them,” she said. “It’s just, she asked, so…”

  “No, that’s fine,” Emma said. “We should go. Totally.”

  “You sure?” Jamie asked. “Because if you’d rather focus on soccer and skip the social thing, we can see them another time. We’ll be in New York again, no doubt.”

  Four years earlier, the day after losing to Japan in the World Cup final, the US team had flown back to New York and immediately made the rounds of assorted talk shows. Usually it was Ellie and Phoebe Banks who were hot commodities after a major tournament, but Jamie remembered intimately how Emma’s face and voice had been splashed across her and Britt’s television in the North London flat they’d shared with two other Arsenal players at the time.

  “No,” Emma repeated, shooting her a slightly apologetic smile, “we don’t have to wait. I just—you know how I am. Turns out I don’t really like that many people.”

  Eyes back on the road, Jamie suppressed a sigh, because the way Emma saw herself often seemed fundamentally opposed to the way Jamie and others saw her.

  “But I like you, obviously,” Emma added, “and I’m sure I’ll like what’s-her-name and her partner.”

  It was funny, Jamie reflected as she turned the music back up and hummed along with the chorus to “Ghost,” that Emma was the jealous one. Although, possibly, there had been hints. Occasionally when they were teenagers, Jamie had thought she’d detected a note of discomfort in Emma’s voice whenever Jamie mentioned her latest crush. That slight disquiet had helped convince Jamie that maybe Emma wasn’t straight; that maybe, even, she harbored non-friend feelings for Jamie.