by A. K. Rose
Now she was back at square one. She’d lost her best friend—at her own insistence—and had no prospects in the love department. At least she still had deadbeat dads—they kept her busy at work day-in, day-out. Monday would be there before she knew it, and she could bury herself in work to pass the time, to ease the pain.
Get it together, Cass, she’d told herself as she stumbled to her feet. She needed aspirin. She needed a shower. She needed to start moving on.
Her medicine cabinet was tidy, its contents organized by height, smallest to tallest, so her hand didn’t even have to search—she went straight to the aspirin and popped a couple back with a full glass of water. Cassie willed the pills to work and jumped in the shower to wash the sorrow off her skin and perhaps clear the mess in her mind.
For some reason, she decided to call her sister. Claire was still in Houston, but they talked fairly often. Though they were twins, they were almost nothing alike, aside from some of their physical characteristics. They were fraternal, not identical, but they shared the same mocha brown eyes; the same straight blonde hair; the same bone structure and defined cheekbones. Cassie had always been completely honest with her sister, going back to her days at camp when she realized she was more into her female counselor than the boys that Claire chased with reckless abandon. They didn’t keep secrets; their sister bond forbade it.
Cassie was the type-A, excessively-organized, always-on-time, over-analyzer. Claire was the wild child, a free spirit with no real goals except to let the universe guide her. Cassie went to law school; Claire went to the school of life.
“Hey,” Claire said, answering her phone at the last possible moment before it went to voicemail. It’d been under a pile of clothes on her bed and she had to scramble to find it when it rang.
“Hi,” Cassie greeted, the drabness in her tone immediately evident to her sister. They were one-hundred fiftyish miles apart, but distance had never impeded their twin bond. Knowing how the other was feeling was their superpower.
“What’s wrong?” Claire pressed.
“Why do you think something’s wrong?”
“Cass, you can’t fool me. I know from your tone something’s wrong. Spill it.”
Cassie sighed into the phone. She wanted to talk about it—that’s why she’d called—but she didn’t know where to start. “Jessica . . .”
“Holy crap. You told her?”
“I told her.”
“And, I’m assuming it didn’t have the outcome you wanted?”
“You’re assuming right.” Cassie kicked herself again. Why did she do that? Why had she spilled her guts knowing the risk, knowing it was a hundred to one shot?
“Well, you knew that was a risk, right? What did she say?”
“She said she loved me, like a sister, you know . . . I could have predicted it, of course. I’m such an idiot, Claire-bear. I’ve been down this road before. I know where it goes, and yet, I keep choosing it.”
“Sweetie, you keep going down this road because you’re attracted to straight girls. The straighter they are, the more you want them. Have you thought of trying a matchmaking website? You know, to thin the crowd down to at least the right subset?” Her sister had a good point, but Cassie didn’t want to resort to online dating. Certainly, she wasn’t there yet. Was she?
“Ugh. That’s easy for you to say. You’ve got Tom. You’re not out there anymore. The thought of dating is . . . unpleasant. Lesbians can be so needy, and I’m saying that because I am one. I just want my soul mate to drop in my lap and have it be happily ever after. I don’t want to have to cull through all the fish in the sea.”
“You’re just saying that because you’re hurting. You’ve been so obsessed with Jessica for so long that you can’t see past it. You’ll change your mind, I promise. Where did you two leave it?”
“She asked if we were on for dinner next Friday, as usual, but I said no. I can’t see her again, I can’t. I can’t sit across from her and listen to her talk about her latest boyfriend who’s stomped on her heart. It kills me, Claire. I can’t do it.”
“I get it, I do. She was your best friend, though. Are you sure you want to just dump her like that? You can’t stay friends? You probably broke her heart, you know?”
“I know. She told me almost exactly that statement. I can’t stay friends. At least not right now. I just can’t.” Cassie was straightening and bending a paperclip in her right hand. She couldn’t sit still when she was nervous, upset, or anxious. Okay, so she couldn’t sit still very often. Her hands were her weak link—they always had to be holding or fidgeting with something.
“Okay, well, give it some time, alright? And for God’s sake, get out of your house. Go to a bar tonight. Hook up with a random stranger. Do what you need to do to have a little fun.”
“Hook up with a stranger? Why would I do that?”
“Because, you’re thirty years old and single, and you deserve a good time. Go find a pretty girl, avoid talking to her about your job, whatever you do, and bring her back to your place. A little roll in the hay fixes a lot of things, you know.” Claire always said she was born in the wrong decade. She was all about a free love. She felt she belonged in the sixties, not the millennium.
“Claire, you’re disgusting.”
“I may be, but I’m getting it on a regular basis. I’m just saying . . . give it a try.”
“Well, you’ve been unhelpful, as usual, thanks a lot.” Cassie had taken to looking out the window of her family room as she talked, observing a bright blue sky without a single cloud. Her apartment was on the 25th floor, so she had no idea what was going on in the world below her.
“Come on, sis, I’ve been very helpful.”
“Yeah, you have been,” Cassie conceded. “How are you?”
“Oh, fine, all’s good here in H-town. Listen, I need to run. I’m teaching a yoga class in twenty minutes. I should probably be close to on time. You need to call mom, okay?”
“Okay, okay. Go to your yoga class. I’ll think about calling her.” Cassie and Claire’s dad had died of brain cancer when they were only fifteen and their mom had raised them on her own after that. Cassie loved her mother, but she wasn’t terribly accepting of her daughter’s “choices,” as she’d put it, even though Cassie had been living a lie for years to conform to society’s expectations. No matter how much she tried, she couldn’t convince her mother that she didn’t choose to be gay.
“Don’t think about it. Do it. You need to call her. And get your ass out of the house tonight.” Claire was nine minutes older, which she felt entitled her to boss her sister around. She’d been like that since they were kids.
THREE
As much as she didn’t want to, Cassie took her sister’s advice to get out of the house that night. She wasn’t a bar fly, but there was something comforting about going to a place with people like her, where she wouldn’t be judged, where she didn’t have to infer or guess or rely on her admittedly weak gaydar to understand if an advance would be shot down for the typical reason. Sure, she might be shot down, but at least it would be for reasons beyond sexual preference. It would be solely based on the laws of attraction.
Something told her to take a cab to the bar that night, just in case. She’d been known to imbibe just a bit too much in social settings, her discomfort with having empty hands inadvertently leading to over-consumption from time to time. She didn’t have an alcohol problem—she continued to tell herself—but rather, a mild case of social anxiety that expressed itself in certain situations. Probably not the best trait for a lawyer to have, but she worked on it.
What the hell? Cassie thought as she opened the door to the lesbian bar she’d yet to enter since she’d lived in Austin. Almost six years in town and she hadn’t set a foot in the door of the most logical place for her to visit, most logical place to seek camaraderie. Repression is funny like that. It only works for so long before something snaps. Jessica had successfully snapped Cassie’s repression without even intendin
g to, and she walked in, shoulders held high, head focused straight ahead.
It was an interesting bar, as far as bars went. Some sort of indie folk or rock music was piped through the speakers and standing-height pub tables surrounded a moderate dance floor. It was Texas. Of course there was a dance floor.
Cassie headed straight to the bar, her feet on a mission to get her hands something to hold, pronto.
“Hi,” Cassie said to the brazen bartender, spiky bleached hair the focus of her gaze, “What’ve you got on tap in an India Pale Ale?”
“Hmmm, IPA huh? I wouldn’t have called that for you,” the bartender retorted, as she looked over at the tap and then rattled off a handful of options. Austin was nothing if not a haven for beer drinkers. The more micro-brews, the better.
“Really? Why not?” Cassie asked, and then considering the choices that had just been offered her, decided not to choose. “Whatever you think’s best—it doesn’t really matter. Just an IPA, thanks.”
“Well, don’t take this the wrong way, but you look a little high maintenance to be a beer drinker.”
“Of course,” Cassie laughed under her breath, tapping her fingers on the bar as a chilled pint glass was filled with liquid salvation. She couldn’t get away from the bartender fast enough.
“What are you, a lawyer?”
Cassie did a double take. Was she that uptight-looking? She’d selected a casual outfit for the evening—no skirt suits or heels—just a pair of skinny jeans and a three-quarter length top with a fitted vest. Certainly her outfit didn’t give her away, did it? What was she supposed to do to fit in? Put on the plaid lumberjack flannel?
“How did you know that?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at the spunky bartender and dropping a ten on the counter.
“Call it a hunch. Have a good night.”
“Thanks, you too,” Cassie said as she walked away in search of an open pub table in a dark corner so she could stand in peace, so she could survey the room in silence like any good introvert who was out of her element.
As she nursed her beer, her shoulders started to relax and her mind began to unwind. The hoppy goodness of the IPA warmed her insides and she breathed a sigh of relief. She was among her people. It felt . . . good. Even if she didn’t find any prospects tonight, she was having a breakthrough.
Screw it, she thought, I’m done hiding. It’s not worth it anymore.
Cassie had battled with herself for years about her sexuality. She’d been raised in a conservative family. Her mother was a school teacher and her dad had been a banker. They went to church on Sunday and prayed for forgiveness with regularity; they held hands and said grace before eating. She got the message very early in her life that being different was not okay. Conforming, doing “God’s work,” and marrying a man who could provide a house and babies, maybe a vacation from time-to-time were a priority. Kissing girls in the university’s law library was not a priority, but somehow, she’d done that part and forgotten about the man, the house, and the babies the moment she’d left home.
“Hey,” a voice greeted as a hand waved too close to her face.
“Oh, hi, sorry,” Cassie said, snapping out of the far-away place she’d been visiting in her head and forcing her eyes to focus.
“Sorry to break your trance. I haven’t seen you around here before so I just wanted to say ‘hi.’ I’m Holly.”
“Hi Holly. Cassie . . .” Cassie held out her hand to shake with the striking redhead in her presence. She’d always had a bit of a thing for redheads, but they were a dangerous breed, at least they had been for her. One Jessica Taylor was proof of that fact.
“So, new in town?” Holly asked, trying to get a conversation started.
God, I hate small talk, Cassie thought, before obliging, “No, not really. I’ve lived here five years. How about you? From around here?”
“Wait a minute, if you’ve lived here five years, why . . . oh . . . a break up?”
“I guess you could say that, but it’s not what you think.”
“Well, why don’t you tell me about it? Unless . . . are you here with someone?”
“Nope, but trust me, you don’t want to hear it.” Cassie started spinning her already empty pint glass in circles on the top of the table, an action which Holly apparently found endearing.
“Sure I do. Let me get you another drink and we can get down to the juicy details. What’re you drinking?”
“Geez, you know, I don’t even know. It’s some sort of IPA, I just asked the bartender for whatever was best.”
“You’re awfully trusting,” Holly countered with a smile. “Be right back.” Cassie couldn’t help but appraise the view as Holly walked away. She was in shape. Even though winter was fast approaching, she wore a tight tank top that showed off her defined triceps and biceps. She looked good. Cassie wouldn’t mind getting a more intimate tour of those sexy arms.
True to her word, the toned redhead re-appeared with two pints of beer, the foam on top barely contained in the glass vessels. “Here you go,” she said, offering Cassie one of them, and then tilting her glass slightly, careful not to spill, “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” Cassie agreed, gesturing her glass, “Thank you. What do I owe you?”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. I have a tab, and you’re new, so it’s on me . . . now, I think we were going to talk about what brings you here.” Holly was persistent, that was for sure.
“Okay, but if you get bored, stop me,” Cassie started, leaning in slightly so she wouldn’t have to yell as the music escalated in volume. It was getting later, the lights getting dimmer, and the music slowly ratcheting up. She’d always thought bars did that to eliminate awkward silence that could ensue when strangers tried to make a connection based solely on physical appearance, but it just made it worse because you then had to practically yell to hear each other. “I . . . what the hell, I’ll just cut to the chase. I’m in love with my best friend, but . . .”
“Oh, say no more,” Holly stopped her, “I know how this one plays out.”
“Yep.”
“When did you tell her?”
“Yesterday.”
“And, you’re here to drink away your troubles or find a quick, unfulfilling hook-up to erase the heartbreak, at least temporarily?”
“Something like that,” Cassie agreed, focusing her eyes solidly on her beer. Hers was not a new plot in the game of life called being gay, but she still hurt. It wasn’t fair of her to spill her secret to Jessica, but it also wasn’t fair she didn’t even stand a chance to get the answer she’d wanted.
“Been there, I’m afraid. It didn’t end well,” Holly consoled, taking a long draw from her beer.
“So, what’s your story, then?” Cassie asked, feeling more at ease with her new friend by the minute.
“Eh, it’s similar, but somehow I managed to swing the pendulum . . . at least for a little while, until it wasn’t fun or mysterious for her anymore and she realized I wasn’t going to spontaneously grow a dick.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Comes with the territory. So, let me help you find a chick for tonight. What’s your type?”
“Oh, I don’t know . . .”
Cassie thought Holly was trying to be the “chick for tonight,” as she’d put it, but perhaps that wasn’t the case.
“Sure you do. What’s your type? I kinda run this joint. I’ll help you find someone.”
Cassie sucked in a deep breath and exhaled, scanning the room for an example she could use to describe her tastes.
“Okay, see her? The brunette with the legs under the Corona sign?” Cassie motioned slightly with her head, careful not to be too obvious.
“Yep, Rachel.”
“You know her?”
“Of course I do. I told you, I run this joint. I know everyone.”
“Wait. I thought you meant you were kinda like the social organizer, not that you actually run the place. Are you saying you own this bar?”
“Ye
p. It’s my little slice of the American dream. Well, I guess not every American’s dream, but it’s mine anyway. I like to help the ladies along, in their . . . erm . . . search. Kind of like a real-life Tinder, but with actual match-making skills.”
“Wow, Holly. I’m sorry! I would’ve never guessed that. I thought you were hitting on me in some super friendly, low-key way.”
“It’s okay, people think that sometimes. It’s part of my allure,” Holly grinned, touching the arm of her new customer. “I want to make sure you ladies keep coming back, so I try my best to make a connection with everyone, at least once, but I don’t date the clientele. So, now, Rachel. What do you want to know?”
“Alright, okay,” Cassie started, telling herself she could do this for the umpteenth time that night. “Job? Kids? Crazy ex-girlfriends?”
“You’re very precise. I like it.”
“I’m a lawyer. I like to do my research . . .”
“Oh, perfect, a lawyer, that’s good. Her name’s Rachel Gifford. She’s in her early thirties, I don’t remember exactly how old. She’s a dentist—her teeth are absolutely perfect. If you’re lucky, maybe she’ll show them to you,” Holly grinned that mischievous little smile again, the glint in her eye indicating that she was definitely going to introduce her customers. “No kids . . . only a slightly crazy ex-girlfriend, but they’ve been broken up at least a year.”
“What happened there? With the girlfriend?”
“Elise wanted kids, Rachel didn’t. Pretty cut and dried, really.” And, before Cassie could ask any further questions, Holly was three steps away, en route to the leggy dentist with the only slightly crazy ex-girlfriend. The cross-examination period was apparently over.
FOUR
Holly delivered on her promise to help Cassie meet someone that night. She’d dragged Rachel across the room and presented her with great enthusiasm.
“Rachel, meet Cassie. Cassie, Rachel,” Holly introduced, continuing. “Cassie’s a lawyer, she likes IPAs, and where were you from, Cass? Houston, right?”
