by Dahlia Adler
She laughs, but there’s something so wistful in it, it makes me want to hug her.
It also makes me want to ask, “What about you? When did you suspect? Who was the first girl you wanted to kiss every day?” Because I feel it in my bones that Samara is queer, and every bit as strongly that there is something between us. But I’m the furthest thing from subtle about both my sexuality and my attraction to her, and if she were interested, wouldn’t she have said something? Made some sort of move? At the very least, wouldn’t she touch my arm or lean in closer or…something? She did lie on me when we were watching a movie, but I imagine she would’ve done the same to Cait without a second thought—laptop plus small bed does not equal a lot of options.
My gaydar is almost never wrong; if you’re so much as open to the possibility of experimentation, I can tell from miles away. But I can’t figure Samara out. Is she holding back for a reason, or am I just completely wrong on this one?
And how do I make myself stop caring?
Nothing’s made any clearer by the time Samara and I hug goodnight, and it makes me feel even lonelier in Lizzie’s absence when I let myself back into my apartment. I can’t bug her with my stupid crush while she’s home dealing with actual important stuff, and I can’t exactly go to Cait about the girl she told me to stay away from. Instead I lie sulkily on the couch with a beer, blast Halsey’s Badlands, and try to think of anything but those long, tanned legs and how good they’d look draped over my shoulders.
I last about two minutes before I give up, put the bottle down, and slip my hand between my thighs. It takes no time at all to get myself off imagining my fingers are her long, thin, manicured ones, and afterward, I just feel lonelier.
This is fucked up. I do not crush on people. I don’t pass on going to clubs where I’ll definitely get laid so I can have pizza with cute straight girls, and I don’t rely on my own hand to take care of myself when I’m looking hot as hell and it’s plenty early to call up any of my fuckbuddies.
What the hell is going on?
I fall asleep with those miserable thoughts in my head, and when I wake up, I’m determined to make something of my day. Much as I love my lazy Saturdays, if I just lie around here drawing and watching crappy TV, I’m going to go mad. But Lizzie’s still in Pomona, Abe and Sid are still with their parents, and Cait…well, Cait’s probably around, but I don’t trust myself not to blurt out something I shouldn’t around her.
Sam’s around, my stupid brain delights in reminding me. I promptly ignore it and go take a shower, figuring I’ll come up with another idea while I’m in there. Unfortunately, the only idea I get in there is very similar to the one I had on the couch last night.
New plan.
“Doug,” I say aloud to no one. I can hang out with Doug. Doug is an excellent buddy, and he is always more than happy to help me scratch this particular itch. I pull out my phone to text him, but then I hesitate. Doug and I may just be friends with benefits, but he’s always been pretty clear he’d jump to be more in a heartbeat. I told myself that as long as I’m clear, that doesn’t matter, but…I think about how confused I am right now about Samara, how deeply it’s gotten under my skin that I want more from our encounters than she does. Now that I know how that feels, can I really still do it to someone else?
Fuck.
I scroll through the other names in my phone. There’s Emily, but we really only ever hang out at Rainbow House; I don’t know that we’re really brunch buddies. Ditto a few other classmates who are in my phone for purposes like study group or catching up on missed homework. Oh! Lili could be a brunch buddy, maybe…nope—a quick text to her yields the response that her parents are there for the weekend.
And then there’s Racquel. Could I text Racquel? I’ve certainly booty-texted her in the past. But first thing in the morning seems a little odd for that, and I can’t even imagine hanging out with her in any other context; it’s just not what we do.
Which brings me back to Samara.
Fuck it. I text Cait. Hey, wanna brunch?
It takes her a few minutes to write back. If you can believe it, my mom actually came in this morning.
Et tu, Caitlin?
But you can come with us to the PW brunch!
Hard pass. Being at a Radleigh-sponsored Parents’ Weekend brunch with a zillion parents who aren’t mine is definitely not how I want to spend my Saturday. Nah, but thanks.
K, sorry. Xoxo
At this point, it’s clear: the universe is pointing me in a single direction. And I can’t ignore the universe. I take a deep breath and text Samara. If you’re not bored of me yet, I’m home alone and desperately in need of something to do. You free?
“Say no,” I mutter at my phone. “Please say no.”
YES. I’ve been up for hours and I’m going stir crazy. Have you eaten?
Ugh, she is fucking perfect. Nope.
We make plans to meet at Wicked Waffles, which everyone on campus calls Double-Dub, and I take way too long to get dressed. I’d been afraid it would be overrun with Radleigh kids and their parents, but I guess more have gone to the brunch than I’d have thought. The restaurant is half empty when I arrive, making it easy to spot Samara, even though she’s tucked in a corner with her nose buried in a book.
She’s so engrossed, she doesn’t notice me until I’m literally seated across from her, tapping her foot with mine.
And then she jumps in her seat. “Oh my God, I’m sorry. Hi!”
“Good book?” I tease.
“Yeah, it’s okay,” she says sheepishly.
“Lesbians?” I ask with a waggle of my eyebrows.
She tips her head to the side. “Let’s say…sexual orientation unclear. But I have my theories.”
“How are you so good at getting me interested in these?” I ask as I watch her tuck away the black hardcover.
“Maybe you’re just meant to be a YA reader,” she says with a smile.
“For you? I’m willing to give it a shot. After I catch up on my art history reading,” I amend.
“Deal. I know just the book for you—lesbians right on the cover.”
“You’re learning my taste so quickly.”
She laughs, and I resist the urge to point out that for a straight girl, she sure seems to have encyclopedic knowledge of queer books. Instead, I let the laminated menu hide my smile as I survey my waffle options, and I imagine that she’s doing the same.
Once we’ve both ordered—bacon-cheddar for me and cinnamon-pear for her—I say, “This is on me, by the way. For dragging yourself out to my show last night.”
“Are you kidding? If anything, I owe you for salvaging what would’ve otherwise been a pretty miserable weekend. I love reading, but I wasn’t exactly looking forward to three days holed up in solitude while everyone else did the parent thing.”
“Considering I ended up parent-less this weekend too, I could say the same,” I point out, wanting her to know how much it meant to me to have her there last night. “I would’ve been completely solo at my own show without you.”
“You would not have been completely solo. You had plenty of friends show up later.”
It’s true, I did—Connor hadn’t been able to go to Pomona with Lizzie for the weekend, and he tagged along with Cait and Mase once the athletes’ dinner was done. Abe and Sid both eventually showed up with parents in tow, and a bunch of people from Rainbow House and art class came throughout the night. For as sparse as it started out, it was actually pretty decently populated by the time the doors closed at eleven.
“Yeah, I guess so,” I murmur, wondering how I managed not to let that register until just now.
But I already know the answer. It’s because I wasn’t lonely for a minute of last night, not even when I only had one guest.
Especially not when I only had one guest.
Fuck.
P.S. You’re pushing to pay because you want this to be a date, Lizzie’s voice adds out of nowhere, just to rub salt in the gaping wounds
of my romantic confusion
Fuuuuuck.
Time for a subject change.
I use the mention of classmates showing up to shift topics, and by the time our waffles are nothing but crumbs, we’ve talked about classes, mid-terms, Samara’s favorite books, my favorite paintings, and the fact that Cait still hasn’t learned that a bedroom floor is not a replacement for a hamper. Everything feels back to normal, which is of course when Samara pulls the wound right back open.
“I didn’t want to ask at your show, but…is everything okay? With your parents, I mean. When you said people were bailing, I didn’t realize that included them.”
I drag the tines of my fork through a bit of spilled sugar on the coated wooden tabletop. “Oh. Yeah. Everything’s fine. Work thing came up for my dad, and my mom gets anxious about traveling on her own, so.”
“Like…anxious anxious?”
Oh, right; Sam’s a Psych student. Actual anxiety isn’t exactly alien to her. “Yup.”
“Ah, I didn’t realize. I’m really sorry they missed it. I’m sure they’re so proud of you, though. I hope you sent them pictures.”
That’s it. Jesus. She learns my mother has debilitating anxiety and she actually understands what that means and that’s all she has to say about it. How does this girl manage to make me feel so unsettled and so comfortable at the same time? “I texted a few.”
My voice is a little weak as I respond through the weird flood of emotions I never expected to experience in a booth at Double-Dub, and she doesn’t miss it. “I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I didn’t mean to pry or anything. It’s none of my business.”
“No, it’s—you’re not prying,” I assure her. “I’m just not used to people getting the anxiety thing. And I would’ve explained last night, but I know you’re already having a hard time with your parents, and I thought it was better if parents were just kinda…off the table.”
She smiles briefly. “If only it were that easy to forget them.”
I signal the waitress who’d just cleared our plates and order us both teas—it’s not hard to pick up that that’s a comfort thing for Sam. “Speaking of which, whatever happened with the whole dorm room thing?”
She exhales sharply. “You don’t even want to know.”
“That bad?”
“Oh, no, it wasn’t. Because I lied,” she says flatly. “I told them Cait and Mase broke up. Rather than say, ‘y’all are being racist jerks,’ I lied. I am so, so sick of being a cowardly liar.”
A prickle steals over my skin, and I can’t help but wonder what else she’s lying about.
But I’ve got a pretty good idea.
I reach across the table and squeeze her hand, just as a tear snakes down her cheek. “Now I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked that.”
“No, no, please—that’s definitely not your fault.” She uses her free hand to rub the tear into her skin. “Sorry, I’ve been an extra-big mess lately. God, this is embarrassing.”
“You don’t have to be embarrassed in front of me, ever,” I say softly but firmly.
She looks down at our hands and withdraws hers, and something inside my stomach sinks like a stone. The waitress of course chooses that moment to bring our teas, but I can’t imagine choking anything else down right now. I went too far, and this got weird, and I have no idea what the fuck I am doing with this girl. “Sorry, I—”
“Can we go hang out at your apartment or something?” she interrupts. “I’m sorry, I know we just got these, but maybe we can take them to go. I just need to shut my brain off for a bit. Is that okay?”
Is that okay? That she wants to go back to my apartment? Hell yes, that’s okay. She’s not asking as if she wants the same things to happen there that I do, but for right now, I’ll gladly take not having fucked up this brunch into too-awkward oblivion. “Yeah, for sure.” I call the waitress back, and she brings us hot cups so we can transfer our teas for the walk back. I also grab the check over Samara’s protests, even though she clearly has the money to spend and I most definitely do not. “You treated for the pizza,” I remind her.
That seems to placate her, and after I empty my wallet onto the table, off we go.
The walk home is a silent one, both of us sipping tea and taking in the changing leaves. The cold may be killer in the winter, but autumn always makes me love going to school in upstate New York. All around us, swaths of ochre and carmine are bleeding into the green treetops like flames licking at the branches, and they make such a beautiful backdrop for Samara’s honey-colored hair and flushed cheeks that all I want to do when we get back to my apartment is draw her.
Well, not all I wanna do, but.
“Have you ever posed for anyone before?” I ask.
“Posed?” She stops and takes a sip of her tea. “Like, for a photograph? Yeah, that’s kind of a massive part of being a mayor’s daughter, unfortunately.”
“I meant for a drawing or painting, but I’m guessing you’ve done that too.”
Her lip curls, and I get the impression it’s not a particularly happy memory. “Yup, once when I was little, and then again when I was in high school.”
So much for that, I think, but then she says, “I imagine posing for you would be a lot more fun than posing for the official portraitist of Meridian, South Carolina.”
I whistle. “You guys have an official portraitist?”
“Of course we do,” she says in a gruff man’s drawl. “We aren’t Neanderthals—or worse, Yankees—Samara Jane.”
I crack up laughing. “Is that the mayor of Meridian himself?”
“You bet it is.” She cracks a little smile herself, and it warms me up to see her smile when talking about her parents, even if just for a moment. We reach the apartment complex then, and I’m not sure whether I should bring up posing again, but it turns out, I don’t have to; she does. “So, was that your way of asking me to pose for you, or were you just curious?”
Does she have any idea how flirty she sounds right now? How badly she’s making me want to “pose” her over my desk or on my bed or—no, of course she doesn’t. Rein it in, Bellisario. The girl’s been painted by an “official portraitist”; she’s not looking to get fucked against a shower wall by an amateur one. Still, it’s not like I can possibly respond to that without a little flirting of my own. Hell, I can barely respond to questions at the dentist’s office without a little flirting of my own. “That depends,” I say as I let us inside.
“On what?”
“On what you’d say if I was asking you to pose.”
“I’d say…let’s do it.” She drops onto the couch and flashes me that panty-wrecking smile.
One thing’s for sure—if she’s not flirting, she is trying to kill me. And so help me God I can’t think of a sweeter way to go.
• • •
“When can I see?” she asks for the millionth time that hour. Or maybe it’s been two hours. I’m actually not sure how much time has passed. We’re sitting on the patio and I guess it’s been getting a little chillier, but I hadn’t noticed until just now.
“When I’m finished,” I say, the same as I’ve said the last fifty times, but it’s hard not to smile with each one. She sounds so damn excited, and the truth is, I don’t even want to show her when I’m done, because I wouldn’t be able to stand the thought of letting her down. It’s not exactly prize-winning work—just a pastel pencil outline of her face and the trees in the background—but the way she keeps trying to peek, you’d think I had naked pictures of Christina Hendricks clipped to my easel.
“And when will that be?”
“Not yet.” I fill in her strong eyebrows, then touch up the shading of the bridge of her nose. “Now finish your story.” She’d been telling me about rushing a sorority back at Clemson, and though I couldn’t fully focus on her words, the comforting lull of her mellow drawl is the perfect background to some lazy sketching.
We’re both interrupted a minute later by the chime of a text message, and I gla
nce over at my phone. It’s Racquel, wanting to know if I’ll be at XO tonight. I ignore it; she doesn’t really care whether I answer or not, and I’m certainly not going to in front of Samara. Not that I couldn’t, of course, but it’d be rude while she’s sitting here, posing for me.
“Do you need to answer?” she asks.
“Nope.” I keep drawing while she goes back to her story, but after a few minutes, my phone chimes again.
“I’m gonna grab a drink of water while you get that,” she says, stretching her arms over her head and revealing a tempting strip of smooth golden skin. She walks inside without waiting for an answer, and I sigh and take my phone, ready to tell Racquel I’m busy. But it’s not Racquel; it’s Gideon, a med student I used to hook up with occasionally, who lives in the complex next door. He must have the night off, and I’m guessing he must’ve broken up with his girlfriend recently, too. Free 2nite?
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter at the screen. “You’re going to operate on people; I think you can type the entire word.” Not tonight, no, I write back.
I see he’s typing back, and then, Just saw u outside.
It takes me a few seconds to realize he has a view of my patio. Then you saw me being busy.
W that girl? She’s p hot. I’d be down.
“Oh, fuck off,” I mutter at the phone, tossing it aside. I’m so not entertaining that conversation. Not that I’m wholly opposed to threesomes by any stretch, but they’re not happening because some straight guy decides girls who like girls are his God-given playthings.
While I wait for Sam to return, I darken the shading along her part, where the medium-brown of what I assume is her natural hair color peeks through the honey blond. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my phone light up again, but I ignore it. Finally, she comes back outside, but instead of re-taking her seat in the chair in front of me, she joins me behind my easel. “Oh my God,” she whispers, her voice full of so much reverence, it makes me want to curl up and hide.
