by Dahlia Adler
She laughs, her breath ghosting over my skin through the thin cotton of my shirt. “Took just a couple more years and I finally got the right kiss.”
And I thought Catholic school had me repressed. “So when did you know?” I ask, remembering how I’d wanted to ask her this weeks ago, that night at the gallery. “I imagine you weren’t exactly chasing boys pre-Stanford.”
“No, definitely not. I was too busy trying to figure out why I kept getting myself in trouble so that I could spend more time with the guidance counselor.” She pauses. “The young, hot, female guidance counselor.”
“Ah.” An irrational flame of jealousy flickers low in my gut and I tilt her chin up for a kiss, just because I can. “How hot are we talking?”
She pretends to think it over. “On a scale from one to Frankie Bellisario, maybe a four?”
“Good girl.” I pull her close and kiss her again, and as we lose ourselves in each other’s arms and mouths, I think we might finally have figured out the perfect date.
• • •
For the rest of the week, we stick to my apartment or her room, depending on Lizzie and Cait’s schedules. I learn that Samara has a secret affinity for cooking shows, despite not being able to cook. She learns that I have a secret affinity for having the Florentine skyline tattoo on my wrist traced with her tongue.
It’s a good week.
By the end of it, though, I’m feeling desperately antsy. Much as I love making out on the couch—and I do, very much—I’m starting to feel a little like a cave dweller. So at lunch after work on Friday afternoon, when Cait casually mentions a particularly big game of Mase’s coming up that night, I say, “That sounds like fun. I’ll be there.”
Lizzie laughs. “Uh oh.”
“What?”
Cait shakes her head. “You have never wanted to come to a game when it didn’t mean ogling basketball players. Everything okay with you and Sam?”
“More than okay,” I assure them both, ripping off the corner of my panini. “I just need to get out of the house for a night, and going out on actual dates doesn’t really seem to be working while we’re still in this…test phase.”
“Fair enough,” says Lizzie, just as her phone lights up with a text. “I’d happily keep you company, but I promised to go to some lecture with Connor tonight. That’s him now, reminding me that this is an important one for him and I have to wear underwear this time.”
“Boo on all counts.” I chew thoughtfully on the bite of mozzarella, tomato, and pesto—nowhere near as good as my nonna would’ve made it—and turn back to Cait. “It’s okay if I invite Samara, right?”
“Of course! I’d be honored to be the third wheel on your billionth non-date.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic.”
“Honestly, neither can I.”
“That’s how the two of you first met, right?” Lizzie asks, massacring the chicken leg on her plate. “Maybe it’ll be cute to revisit.” She turns to Cait. “And since you were third-wheeling that night too, it’ll really be like old times!”
“Well, hopefully without me and Mase getting into a blowout fight at the end,” Cait says wryly.
“I’ll pull for the spanking to be less verbal, more literal this time,” I promise as I tap out a text to Samara about the game. Immediately, I can see her typing back, but for some reason, it takes almost a full two minutes before she sends, Sure. Then another thirty seconds for, Sounds fun.
“We’ll be there,” I tell Cait, hoping Sam’s seeming reluctance was actually just her getting distracted by a book.
“So, just to be clear,” says Lizzie, “You’ve been dating this girl officially for less than two weeks, and already you’ve planned dates involving running, yoga, and basketball. Who the fuck are you and what have you done with my lazyass roommate? I’m not sure I like what’s happening here.”
“Uh, hi, maybe you should start the harassment with your boyfriend—how are his personal training sessions with Mase going?” I shoot back.
Cait cracks up, then tries to smother it in a pretend coughing fit. Lizzie sticks out her tongue, and Cait dissolves in laughter again. “Oh, come on. It’s really cute.”
“The two of you are an infection,” Lizzie says flatly. “Leave me and my sedentary people alone.”
“Are you not pleased with the results?” Cait demands.
“I’ll be more pleased when I don’t have to listen to reports of how much Connor’s benched every day.” Lizzie sighs. “We have a perfectly good exercise regimen of our own happening, thank you very much.”
“Please stop there.” Cait shoves one last bite of salad into her mouth, then picks up her tray. “I have to run to a study group, but I’ll see you tonight, Frank? Come over around seven and we can all walk over together.”
“Sounds good. And just so I know for outfit purposes, this is the one with the hoop, right?”
Cait narrows her eyes at Lizzie. “See? This is what you encourage.”
I just smile sweetly, and we both wave goodbye as Cait huffs out a sigh and walks out.
“Someday, you are going to tell roommate-in-law stories that are going to sound remarkably like mother-in-law stories to everyone else,” Lizzie muses.
“I’m just gonna give Cait credit that she hasn’t set fire to my bedroom for dating her roommate yet.”
“It’s only a matter of time, though, isn’t it?”
“Oh, absofuckinglutely.”
• • •
True to my word, I show up to Cait and Samara’s room at seven. Well, it’s closer to seven thirty, but apparently Cait had planned for exactly that. It’s almost as if she knows me. “Look at you, all sporty-like!” she says cheerfully when she opens the door and takes in the sight of me in my most casual jeans, a plaid button-up, and a beanie perched on my brown waves. I didn’t bother with any makeup other than eyeliner, mascara, and lip-gloss, and the chalk has pretty much entirely washed out of my hair, so I sincerely hope Sam likes the natural look. “I barely even recognized you for a second.”
“Decided to try something different,” I say with a smile, stepping inside. “Where’s Sam?”
“Bathroom, drawing Radleigh Rs on her face, like a good fan.”
“Is that a subtle hint?” Cait shrugs, and I roll my eyes. “I’ll be right back.” I go down the hall to their bathroom, and sure enough, there’s Samara standing in front of the mirror, rubbing at a smudge on her face.
She looks hella cute in ripped jeans I’ve never seen before, a long, cozy-looking sweater, and a sporty, stick-straight ponytail hanging down her back like a golden ribbon, and I can’t resist coming up behind her and planting a kiss on her bared neck. Unfortunately, she’s so intent on drawing on her face that she completely misses me in the reflective glass, and jumps about a mile in the air when I do.
“Oh my God, Frankie.” Her hand flies to her chest as she catches her breath. “You scared the hell out of me.” Her eyes dart around. “What if someone else was in here?”
“I’m in here,” I remind her. “I can see no one else is. Relax.”
She doesn’t respond. It’s pretty clear she’s still a little pissed, but Cait’s waiting for us, so whatever her problem is, it’s gonna have to wait. Her face is a mess now, and I reach for a paper towel, wet it, and murmur, “C’mere, lemme fix you.”
I can tell she wants to resist, but she doesn’t; only one of us literally has face-painting on her resume, and unless we want to be late, she’s gonna have to relax and trust me. It takes a couple of minutes, but I get her cleaned up and brandished with new, perfect Rs on her cheeks and put a matching one on mine, and then we rejoin Cait and get our asses to the gym.
The walk with Cait is perfectly fine, but as soon as we get to our seats, Sam gets weird again. “Maybe Cait should sit in the middle,” she suggests just loud enough for me to hear.
“Seriously? You don’t even want to sit next to me now?”
Her cheeks redde
n. “It’s not that I don’t want to, but…” She gestures around.
Whatever it is I’m supposed to be noticing, I don’t. “But…?”
Cait tears her eyes off of where Mase is standing at the Radleigh bench, talking to a bunch of players, and glances at the two of us. “Everything okay?”
“Fine,” Samara says cheerfully, dropping into her seat. I do the same, and so does Cait, which puts me in the middle and keeps Sam two seats away from her apparent security blanket.
Or maybe she just really doesn’t like the natural look.
Thankfully, Cait knows the guys sitting in front of us, and she draws us all into an easy, chatty conversation that lasts until the game starts. Well, maybe Samara isn’t quite as chatty in it, but it definitely distracts from whatever’s going on between us—or isn’t. It’s tempting to ignore it completely, to fix my eyes on the court and let myself just appreciate the plethora of cut, sweaty biceps flying in front of me, but then I remember what Sam said when she came to my apartment—about being a grownup and actually talking about shit—and I soften.
It’s too noisy to whisper anything to her, but I pull out my phone and motion for her to do the same. Are you really so upset at me for kissing you in an empty room? I text her.
She shakes her head and starts to respond aloud, then turns back to her phone instead. No, I’m just nervous. Again. Sorry.
I glance over at her, and holy shit, she’s not kidding; the hand holding her phone is shaking.
Did something happen? And then I realize. Did you talk to your parents?
Slow nod.
My heart starts a heavier pound in my chest. Thirty days. We said thirty days. What happened to thirty days?
About us?
She shakes her head, and my shoulders relax. “Just stuff,” she says quietly into my ear.
I’m not sure what that’s supposed to be mean, but she doesn’t look like she plans to type any more, and this clearly isn’t the venue for any kind of conversation. She does, however, relax in her seat and shift a little closer. It’s barely an inch, but actual proximity isn’t the point, and I feel the rest of the tension I’m carrying slip away as we finally sit back and enjoy the game. I don’t go as far as to hold her hand, but every few minutes, I brush her fingers with mine, just to let her know I want to.
Tingles—every fucking time.
Radleigh wins, and I swear, no one in that gym is more excited than Cait. She lets out an ear-splitting whistle when the buzzer sounds at the end, then grabs me and Sam and pulls us down toward the court. Mase has one hell of a smile, and it’s big enough to light up the entire room right now. Cait explained to us on the way over that the basketball team’s never beaten this particular rival before, and it looks seriously excellent for Mase as their relatively new student-coach for this to have happened under his tutelage.
He’s talking to the other players and accepting back pats and high-fives all over the damn place, but as soon as he spots Cait coming over, he turns away from the other guys and accepts a leaping hug from her as if she’s the MVP of the night. The whole team erupts into whistles and catcalls as Cait pulls him down for a huge, proud kiss, and I can’t help grinning at how atypical this is for my typically PDA-hating BFF.
I’m not gonna lie—they make love look pretty damn good.
A voice from the crowd on the court calls my name, and I swivel to find the source, only to see an ecstatic-looking Jake Moss come sweep me up in a hug. “Glad you got to see one hell of a victory,” he says, squeezing me tightly before depositing me back on the court.
“I’m glad I did too! You guys kicked ass out there!” I smack him on the butt. “That’s the correct move, yes? I just wanna make sure I’m sports fan-ing right.”
He laughs. “Yeah, that’s it. Nice job.” Then he turns to Samara. “Hey, I’m Jake. You look familiar.”
“Samara.” She sounds a little on edge, and I wonder if she thinks Jake and I are flirting. She recognizes him all right—as Cait’s boyfriend from last semester. But she doesn’t know the story behind that relationship, and unfortunately, this is neither the time nor place to tell her. “I’m Cait’s roommate.”
“And now you’re with this one, huh?” he says with a grin, gesturing at me. “Careful—she’s trouble. Though you probably already know that.”
Samara freezes so fast, I swear I can actually feel the frost radiating from her skin. “I’m not—no. It’s not like that.”
The smile on Jake’s face dims a little. “Oh, uh, okay. Sorry. I thought—uh, never mind. Anyway, I should get back to the locker room. I probably stink. Good to see you again, Frankie. You too,” he adds to Samara before disappearing into the crowd.
“I should get out of here, too,” she mutters, already walking. Practically running. I grab Cait’s shoulder, tell her we had to go, and then chase after Samara into the street.
By the time I hit the pavement, though, she’s nowhere to be found.
She can’t have gotten far. “Samara?” I call out, but there’s no response. I try again, then pull out my phone and call her.
The ring is faint but I definitely hear it. When it stops, I call again, and follow the sound around the side of the gym.
Samara’s sitting behind the building, hugging her knees to her chest, breathing so deeply I think she might be hyperventilating.
I drop to my knees in front of her, dead leaves crunching under my weight. “He’s gay, Sam. And not out, obviously. It was just like recognizing like, that’s all. I promise, there’s no neon sign hanging over our heads.”
The frantic breathing stops, and confusion dawns on her face. “Jake? But he’s Cait’s ex. He—” She breaks off, I’m guessing because of the get there faster look on my face. “Oh. God. She was his beard?”
“I knew I liked you for your brains.”
She smiles faintly, and I need to touch her so badly, my skin is tingling with it.
“Come over, okay?” I ask quietly. “Just us.”
“I can’t.”
I take a deep breath and sit down next to her, the cold of the cinder block wall seeping through my flannel shirt. “What happened, Sam?”
“It wasn’t anything like you’re thinking,” she says softly. “Not like the last big conversation with them or anything. I mean, yeah, they still want me to date that Cornell guy, but it was more just…all of it.” She turns to me. “This is happening, isn’t it? You and me. We’re going to make it thirty days.”
I nod slowly. “I think so, yeah. I mean, I want to.”
“So do I. And it’s not like I don’t want to—I’ve always wanted to—but I guess it’s just hitting me now what it’ll mean when we do.”
“Oh, Sam.” I reach out and cup her soft cheek in my palm, a moment too late to realize I’m probably smudging my careful handiwork on her face. “We don’t have to change anything before you’re ready, okay? If you need more time…”
“I appreciate that, but something tells me our ‘closeted dates’ aren’t quite as great for you as they are for me.”
I know I should make a joke then, about how having her tongue down my throat every night this week has actually been pretty damn great, but I can’t make myself. The truth is, the itch to get back to my old life is surfacing little by little, not because I don’t love all the time alone with Sam, but because I’m starting to feel like I’m losing myself to it. I love dancing, and I haven’t been to XO in weeks. I haven’t hung out with Abe or Sid or anyone else other than Cait and Lizzie outside class. And digging out my gym clothes in order to find more subtle ways to hang out with my girlfriend? It’s exhausting.
But what choice do I have?
“So now what?” I ask.
“I don’t know.”
I swallow around the lump in my throat. “Do you need some time apart, maybe? If this is going too fast for you…” I can’t even finish the sentence. I don’t know how to go any slower than this. I barely know what I’m doing as it is. But I don’t want us to b
e done.
“Sometimes I think I do,” she says, and I can hear in her voice how much that confession pains her.
“And other times?”
“Other times…” In the little bit of light afforded to the night by brightness streaming through the windows up near the top of the building, I see her chew on her lip while her gaze drops to the collar of my shirt. “Other times I swear I am addicted to you,” she says in a breathless whisper that turns me to liquid. “The way I think about you is, like, depraved.”
“There’s nothing depraved about being sexually attracted to someone, Sam,” I tell her softly. “I know you’ve been raised—”
“It’s not that,” she says quickly, her soft ponytail swishing from side to side as she shakes her head. “I don’t mean it in a ‘girls liking girls is sinful’ kind of way.”
“Okay, so then what?” She doesn’t answer, so I softly add, “It’s just you, me, and the sky here, Sam; everyone else is gone. Remember what I said before? If you want something, ask for—”
I don’t even get to finish my sentence before her mouth lands on mine, hungry and searching. It’s the first time she’s ever instigated a kiss like this, and it’s so hot I think my bones might actually be melting beneath my skin. I crawl into her lap to get closer, the warmth from her body more than making up for the chill of the night. Especially when her hands grip my waist and begin a slow slide upward to my breasts.
I realize immediately she’s never done that before, either. Even now, her touch is hesitant, as if measuring to see if it’s okay. I arch forward into her palms and roll my hips against hers to tell her it’s plenty good, and she gets the message, squeezing and rubbing her thumbs over my nipples until I swear they’re going to rip through the flannel. “This,” she says breathlessly as our hips rock into each other on another squeeze. “I swear, I have a thirteen-year-old-boy obsession with your boobs. I can’t believe you don’t notice how often I stare at them.”
I want to tease her but I’m just too fucking horny. “They’re all yours,” I tell her, letting them graze her chest as I lean in to kiss her jaw, her neck, her collarbone. “Enjoy the fuck out of them. I know I am.”
