by Dahlia Adler
“Well…good.”
She glances up at me. “As long as we’re being honest, I wouldn’t have thought it was yours, either.”
“It isn’t,” I admit.
“Oh.”
“And yet, you definitely are.”
“Oh.”
I nod. “Oh.”
We finish the last bites of our food in companionable silence, boldly letting our feet brush under the table. And yeah, I’ll admit it—I kinda hope those waiters see.
• • •
It’s not even ten by the time I get home that night, so I’m surprised to hear the TV blaring on the other side of the door. I’m even more surprised when I let myself in and see a full house—Lizzie and Cait taking up the couch, and Connor and Mase sprawled on the floor.
“Frankie!” Lizzie pauses whatever they’re watching and sits up. “Is Samara with you?”
“Nope.” I grab a bottle of Sam Adams from the six-pack sitting on the table and toe off my ankle boots. “Just dropped her off. I thought you guys were out,” I say, gesturing between Cait and Mase with my bottle.
“We are,” says Cait. “This is out.”
“Figured you guys might want some privacy,” Mase adds, “but…guess that wasn’t an issue?”
“Was it that bad?” Lizzie asks.
“No, it wasn’t bad at all, thank you very much.” I pop off the cap with our boudoir legs bottle opener and take a sip, letting my mind wander to the memory of Samara’s dark eyes reflecting the candlelight, the sound of her laugh, the sexy blush-colored lace against her skin. I would’ve gladly stayed in her room for hours, talking and making out, but that didn’t seem very…first date-y. “We’re just taking it slow.” Lizzie raises an eyebrow, prompting me to add, “Something I realize none of you would know anything about.”
Cait and Lizzie look at each other and crack up. “Did we seriously just get slut-shamed by Frankie?” Cait asks, practically gasping for air.
“Frankie whose freshman year goal was hooking up with someone on every floor of our dorm?” Lizzie asks before dissolving into another fit. Even Connor and Mase are clearly holding back.
I sigh. “Fuck you all.”
That sets them all off, and I roll my eyes and pick my way to the couch, dropping between the girls and forcing them to make space for my pleather-covered ass. “What are you guys even watching?” I squint at the screen. “Is this Hunger Games?”
“Somehow, it’s the only movie we agreed on,” says Connor, grabbing a fistful of popcorn from the bowl sitting on the carpet between him and Mase. “The magic of ass-kicking and Jennifer Lawrence.”
“And Liam Hemsworth,” says Lizzie, holding out a hand. Connor passes her the bowl, and I reach over and help myself to some. “Don’t forget Liam Hemsworth.”
“So this is what Friday nights become when you’re in a monogamous relationship, huh?” I ask, popping a couple of kernels in my mouth.
“Pretty much,” says Cait.
“But,” says Lizzie, stabbing an index finger into the air, “bear in mind we’re all getting laid later.”
Mase and Connor high-five like thirteen-year-old boys.
I sigh again and take another good, long sip of beer. “Like I said, fuck you all.”
Twenty-seven days.
• • •
When I wake up the next morning, my first thought is, I have a girlfriend.
Then, Fuck.
Then, How soon can I see her again?
I groan and close my eyes. Then I reopen one and feel around for my phone. Two texts, which must’ve come in after I went to bed embarrassingly early compared to my usual Friday nights. It pained me to say goodbye to Samara after a single goodnight kiss, but I promised us to go slow and I’m sticking to it.
The first text is from a number I don’t recognize, and says, Missed you tonight. I open it, and see that below that, there’s an additional, It’s Natasha, by the way. Natasha? I rack my brain for a minute, then remember the cute, flirty, pierced brunette from my gender studies class. Shit. I skip past that one, and see the next one’s from Abe.
Lady, where are you? RHHR is here and I’m p sure they’re looking for u. “RHHR” meaning Rainbow House Hot Redhead. Apparently, I missed a very busy night at XO while I was sitting nervously at a restaurant, simultaneously trying to be a good first date while also pretending for everyone around us that it wasn’t one.
I think she had a decent time, but I don’t even know. Maybe she was just being polite, laughing at my jokes. Maybe trying to affect the whole “just two female friends going out to dinner” thing was too confusing—or made her realize that’s all we are to her.
Maybe I should stop being a fucking insecure idiot. Jesus, is this what relationships are?
It is with babygay virgins, a little voice in my head nags back. I pull a pillow over my head to drown it out, scream into fabric, and then toss it back onto the bed.
I need to see her again. Is that normal for dating? I mean, I’m pretty sure Lizzie and Cait see their boyfriends as often as humanly possible, but…is that normal?
I flail out of bed and stalk over to Lizzie’s room “Lizzie B.!” I call through the door. “I need help and I need you not to make fun of me for it.”
I hear some muttering on the other side, and then footsteps. Heavier ones than Lizzie’s. Whoops. Sure enough, it’s Connor who opens the door with sleep-tousled hair. “Is this an emergency?” he asks.
“Sort of.”
“Would Cait classify this as an emergency?”
“She would not.”
He yawns. “Then I’m all you’ve got. Lizzie’s sleeping like a rock and I’m not going to enable the carnage that would ensue if you woke her up.”
“Fair.”
He closes the door behind him and follows me to the kitchen table. “What’s up?”
I go right for it, not wanting to waste Connor’s generosity with morning therapy. “How do I ask out my girlfriend?”
Connor rubs his eyes. “What?”
“Like, how often can I suggest plans before it’s weird? I mean, I know I did this before we actually started dating, but, like, then I kept finding excuses and…I don’t know. Does it still work like that? Because I want to see her, like, a lot, but I don’t wanna be weird about it.”
He cocks his head. “That…I never really thought about it. We just ask each other if we wanna do something and then we do it.”
“But, like, you think of a thing to do. That’s part of it.”
“Sometimes? Sometimes it’s just ‘Come over, I’m bored.’” He yawns. “We’re at school. There aren’t a whole lot of options. Especially since I’m not exactly rolling in it.”
Lack of funds is definitely a problem I empathize with, unfortunately. It was easy to split dinner last night under the guise of being there as friends, but even that was a stretch for my wallet. “Yeah, that doesn’t help. And options kinda dwindle even further when your relationship is a secret,” I mutter. “But I guess I don’t need to tell you that.”
His mouth twitches. “Cute.” Then he yawns again and glances at his watch. “If I’m not getting back to sleep, I’m gonna need some coffee.”
Whoops. I jump up and oblige, filling the carafe and getting the machine going. “Sorry. It’s Saturday—can’t you go back to sleep for the rest of the day? Or do you have TA-ish things to do?”
“Neither. For some reason, I let myself get talked into a personal training session. I’m meeting Mase at the gym at nine.”
I shudder. “Fun as that sounds to watch—for so many reasons—I think hell must be the gym before noon.”
“Really? I would’ve thought you’d enjoy that many people in spandex.”
“Touché,” I say with a grin, my mind immediately drifting back to Samara’s gloriously tight ass in yoga pants. And just like that, my mind starts whirring. “Actually, you just gave me an excellent idea, thank you!” I grab a mug from the cabinet and place it in front of him, then dance o
ff back to my door.
“Hey, where are you going?”
“Back to bed!” I call over my shoulder. “Dude, it’s Saturday.”
• • •
“Now it’s my turn to admit being surprised by you,” Samara says as I roll up my yoga mat the next afternoon, “I did not picture you being into fitness.”
“Is that a comment on my butt?” I ask, frowning as I glance behind me.
She laughs and whacks me on the arm. “Of course not. I just didn’t think you were into this stuff—first the run last night, and now yoga… Just not what I’d have expected you wanna do together.”
It’s not exactly the kind of exercise I dream of us doing, per se, but it does have a few things going for it. For one, it’s free at the student center. For another, it’s a supremely innocent way to spend time together, and actually forces me to keep my hands to myself. Plus, she actually does like this stuff, and I quite enjoy watching her do it. So this way, she stays comfortable, we stay under the radar, and it doesn’t feel too date-y for either of us.
Only problem?
I am fucking dying. This is maybe the least conducive thing to fooling around ever, and while I’m sure she’s perfectly cool with that, my libido is turning into a sentient being that’s threatening to burst out of my body like fucking Alien.
“So what does one generally do after yoga?” I ask brightly, tucking away the urge to ask if she’s feeling extra limber.
“Well, I’m usually in my room, so.” She rolls up her yoga mat and slings it over her shoulder, leaving me to wonder what to say to that. I silently return my loaner mat, and then we walk into the hallway to help ourselves to water from the cooler.
She goes first, but rather than drink, she passes the full cup to me. Our fingers brush, and I don’t know if it’s how long I’ve gone without getting some or the memory of her body being incredibly bendy in that class, but it sends a prickle of heat all through my body.
Being in her room sounds damn good right about now.
Think date-y, Francesca. What do Cait and Mase do after they exercise or play basketball together? Then I see the cart out front. “Smoothies! Do you want one?”
“Nah, I’m okay,” she says. “Truthfully, I should probably get back. I have a ton of work to do.”
My stomach sinks. There’s a blow-off if I’ve ever heard one. What am I doing wrong here?
Out loud, I play it light. “Work, huh? What’s the book about?”
She smiles. “No, actual homework this time. I still have a hangover from the book I finished yesterday afternoon and I haven’t picked up anything since.”
“A book hangover? God, that’s so cute.”
She blushes and ducks her head into her cup to sip at her water, and then we walk toward the exit. “It’s a real thing,” she insists. “If you haven’t gotten drunk on a beautiful book, you haven’t lived.”
“Would I like this one?”
“I think so, yeah. The writing is gorgeous, and it feels so artistic, I can totally see you loving it. It’s magical realism, and it has the most beautiful forbidden love story.” As she continues to gush about the book, I realize this is the most animated—maybe the most comfortable—I’ve seen her all weekend. Is it possible she’s more into books than me? Is booksexuality a thing?
This feels like another question for Connor.
Too quickly, we’re back at her dorm, and I already know there’s no invitation to come up in my future. I can’t exactly kiss her goodbye on the street or in the lobby, so I settle for a quick hug/kiss on the cheek combo and turn to go on my way, disappointment settling on my shoulders like an ugly hand-knit afghan.
“Frankie?”
I turn back. “Yeah?”
Whatever she’d been about to say, she decides against it. “I’ll see you tomorrow. At the Psych building.”
The Psych building. It feels almost poetic, with how jumbled and confused I feel. “Yup, 9:00 a.m. See you then.”
This time, when I walk away, I don’t look back.
The truth is, I have plenty of my own work to do, including a new commission, so staying home to do it on Sunday night isn’t the worst idea. Thankfully, Lizzie stays home with me, doing the same, so for hours, the living room has the pleasant hum of old times—her muttering Russian words off her flashcards and cursing when she gets things wrong, and me scratching at my sketchpad while I murmur-read along in my art history textbook. All we’re missing is the clacking of Cait’s laptop keys as she fills in some sort of spreadsheet thing and we’re back to old times.
At least until a knock sounds at the door.
“I’ll get it,” says Lizzie before I can get up. “I’m about to throw these flashcards into the oven.”
I expect either Cait or Connor, but neither one has the southern drawl that says, “Hey, Lizzie. Is Frankie here?”
“She is,” says Lizzie, stepping aside to let Samara in, “and you have perfect timing, because I was just heading out.”
“Oh, you don’t have to go—”
“Trust me, I do.” Lizzie grabs her coat and bag off their hook by the door. “I need sustenance before my low blood sugar leads to a backyard bonfire of study materials. Text me if you want me to pick up anything.” And then she’s gone, leaving me and Samara alone, the room filling with awkwardness immediately.
“I didn’t expect to see you tonight,” I say, feeling frozen in place by the sight of her.
“I know.” She doesn’t take off her jacket, and it strikes me that this is a drive-by breakup. Her hands are jammed into her pockets, and she’s rocking on the heels of her flats, looking even more uncomfortable than I do. “I just…I’m trying to be mature about this whole relationship thing—or whatever it is—and I thought I should talk to you in person.”
Wow. So this is getting dumped. I have to admit, I do not care for it. I mean, this was the whole point—for her to be able to kick me to the curb if I was a sucky girlfriend—but it catches me off guard anyway. Because for the first time in my life, I’ve actually been trying. And what’s worse, I realize as a lump forms in my throat, is that I really fucking wanted this to work.
“Okay,” I choke out. “No hard feelings or anything.” I offer up the most genuine smile I can, but it’s pretty shitty. “You deserve a girl who makes you happy.”
“Wait, what? What does that even mean?”
I furrow my eyebrows. “I’m trying to make it easier for you to break up with me.”
Her jaw drops. “This isn’t on me. If you’re not attracted to me—”
I can’t help it; I bark out a laugh. “If I’m what? Samara, in what bizarre alternate universe am I not attracted to you?”
A fiery blush lights up her cheeks. “You haven’t—I mean, I thought that’s why you kept planning stuff where you don’t have to kiss me.”
Now it’s my jaw’s turn to hit the floor. “Sam, I’ve been keeping my hands—and my lips—to myself because I thought that’s what you’d be most comfortable with. It’s actually been kind of hellish.”
There are a few beats of silence. “Oh.”
“Oh?” I walk up to her and wrap my arms around her neck. “If you wanted to make out, why didn’t you just tell me that?”
Her face is really flaming now. Too fucking cute. “I didn’t—don’t—know how to ask…for that. Oh God.” She buries her face in the crook of my neck, and I can’t help my gentle laughter as I hold her close.
“Sam?”
“What?” Her voice is muffled by the collar of my T-shirt.
“Do you wanna make out?”
“I really do.” Her mouth meets mine, two smiles curving against each other until they fade out into a hungrier, fevered thing. In my mind, I send a thank-you to Lizzie for getting out of the apartment, and then I slowly pull Sam back to the couch until we land on it in a tangled, breathless mess.
“God, I feel so shameless,” she says, shedding her jacket and curling around my body. “Please tell me you don’t thi
nk I’m the world’s biggest perv.”
“Uh, hi, have we met?”
She laughs. “It’s different. You’re so…confident about all this stuff. You know what you’re doing. I never even kissed a girl before the other night, and in case you couldn’t tell, I was terrified.”
“Are you still terrified?” I ask, sweeping a lock of honey-blond hair back behind her ear.
“That obvious?”
Instead of answering, I press my mouth to hers again. Her hand curls around the back of my neck and I tease gently at her lips with my tongue until she relaxes enough to let me in. Little by little, her tense body melts into mine, and one kiss blends into another, and she doesn’t seem quite so terrified anymore.
“So I was really your first kiss?” I can’t resist asking when we finally take a breath.
“Well, no—Stanford Clayton beat you to that. But you were my first kiss that mattered.”
“Stanford? I got beat by a guy named Stanford?” I sigh. “No wonder you turned out gay.”
She laughs. “I don’t think I can blame it on the name, but, yeah. That kiss definitely sealed for me that I did not want to be kissing any more guys.”
“How old were you?”
“I’m not telling.”
“Why not?”
She noses into the crook of my arm. “Because you’ll laugh at me. I was late, okay? You were probably…I don’t even know what by the time I got my first kiss.”
“I would never laugh at you,” I tell her, and I mean it. But I also like the way she’s pressed against me right now, her fingers idly playing with the hem of my T-shirt, and I have no plans to dislodge her. “Anyway, I wasn’t as early to stuff as you think I was. It wasn’t exactly easy to meet guys in an all-girls school, and it definitely wasn’t easy to figure out which girls were safe.”
“Were you younger than sixteen?”
I drop a kiss into her hair. “Yes, I was younger than sixteen. But sixteen isn’t old for a first kiss; that’s perfectly normal.”
“I know. I was eighteen.”
“Oh.”
“Not a word.”
“I told you, I would never laugh at you! I’m just sorry you waited eighteen years and all you got was a lousy Stanford.”
