by J. T. Marie
Like I Love You
By J.T. Marie
Published by JMS Books LLC
Visit jms-books.com for more information.
Copyright 2016 J.T. Marie
ISBN 9781634860413
Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com
Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.
All rights reserved.
WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.
This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
* * * *
Like I Love You
By J.T. Marie
Chapter 1: Not Into Girls
Chapter 2: Still Have You
Chapter 3: Just Friends
Chapter 4: Maybe Something More
Chapter 5: Like I Love You
Chapter 6: Je t’aime
Chapter 1: Not Into Girls
September 1993
By the time she turned nineteen, Dana Kelly had spent all her life watching other girls, but none of them took her breath away until she met Bethany Bartlett.
It was her sophomore year of college, fall semester. Two-thirteen on a rainy Thursday afternoon during the first week back to class, to be specific—Dana remembered little details like that. She was working part-time at the campus library and her shift ended at two, but she somehow got stuck showing an upperclassman how to use the LexisNexis computer system to research a paper for his law class and, as a result, was now running late for English Lit. She had hoped to swing by the Student Union and grab a quick bite to eat before class—lunch seemed so long ago—but now she would barely have enough time to race across campus as it was. Maybe she could get a candy bar from a vending machine, if she had some change…
She pushed through the first set of double glass doors leading out of the library, clutching her books to her chest with one arm as she absently rummaged through her messenger bag/purse/catch-all for a couple of quarters. Outside the sky was overcast, giving the day a steely look, and a light rain misted the quad. Students hurried down grey sidewalks, heads bent against the drizzle, umbrellas punctuating the scenery here and there like periods. If she could’ve avoided going to class at all, she would have skipped it in a heartbeat, the day was that miserable, but it was only the first week school was back in session and she’d promised herself over the summer that she’d try harder this year to show more of an interest in her studies. It was only a little rain, she reasoned. It wasn’t as if she were going to melt.
Dana’s nails scraped a few coins in the bottom of her bag and she stopped, door held wide, to dig out the money. Hopefully it’d be enough. She didn’t really carry cash—if it wasn’t on the meal plan, she usually didn’t eat it. Peering into the depths of her bag, she counted out a couple of quarters, a dime, a nickle…a few pennies, worthless, but the silver coins, that should do it. Thank God. Mr. Goodbar, here I come.
One of the outside doors opened, sending in a swoosh of damp, chilly air. Dana glanced up, disinterested, then did a double-take to look at the young woman entering the library. She was Dana’s age, a freshman or sophomore at best, and easily the prettiest girl Dana had ever seen.
And Dana knew pretty; she’d been looking at other girls for as long as she could remember, covertly back home in the small town where she’d grown up and now, here at college, more openly in the two years since she’d been on her own. She wasn’t yet comfortable enough to say for certain if she was or wasn’t interested in other women in that way—she hadn’t kissed a girl, hadn’t even touched one yet, except accidentally in passing—but she knew enough to know she was curious and liked to look.
Suddenly, she couldn’t seem to look away. Dana knew she was staring, but couldn’t help it. Girls like this didn’t exist in real life, did they? At least, not outside of magazine pages or movie screens. Not outside of her dreams.
Careless curls of chestnut hair framed her heart-shaped face, a few strands pulled back from the brow barely held in place with a wooden barrette on top of her head. Her eyes were almond-shaped, almost cat-like, inked with dark eyeliner to accentuate their shape. The irises were a pale, clear green like sea glass; when Dana looked into those eyes, she felt as if she were looking through them, instead. And that mouth, the lips too wide for that face, was tied into a little bow of distaste that only tightened as the girl shook the rain from her curls.
After a moment, Dana managed to find her voice. “Hey.”
The girl glanced up at her, almost surprised to find she wasn’t alone. “Hi. Oh! Thanks.” She must’ve thought Dana was holding the door for her, because she breezed on through into the library, trailing behind a sweet, citrusy scent that seemed out of place on such a gloomy day.
Dana found herself turning to follow the fragrance, inhaling it deep, drawing it into her lungs as if she could somehow save it for later. Racking her brains for something to say, something to keep the girl talking to her, she hurriedly called out, “I like your perfume!”
The girl grinned as she flipped her curls over one shoulder to look back at Dana. “Thanks!”
Then she was gone.
* * * *
Dana looked for her all throughout the rest of the day—in the Student Union, in the cafeteria, in the twin dormitory buildings that rose five stories and housed most of the sophomores living on campus. Dana knew it was a long shot, but she took to hanging out in the study lounges on the first floor, hoping against hope she might catch a glimpse of the girl and maybe somehow strike up a conversation. If she ever saw the pretty stranger again, she’d be sure to come up with something much more scintillating to say than, “I like your perfume.”
Maybe the next time she’d add something daring and sexy, along the lines of, “I still smell you when I close my eyes.” Though that needed a bit of work, Dana admitted. When she first thought it up, it sounded promising, but the more she ran her mind over it—and once, when she actually said the words out loud in front of a mirror—she had to admit they sounded a bit stalkerish. Or, worse, like a bad pick-up line. Maybe she should just stick with, “Hey.”
Trouble was, she didn’t see the girl again, not even in passing. The campus wasn’t that big, and she dawdled in the cafeteria during meal times, so surely sooner or later she’d run into the girl. Wasn’t there a law of physics or something about things like that? Dana wouldn’t know; she was an English major and knew jackshit about science or physics or anything that wasn’t Shakespeare or Milton or 19th Century American classics.
Still, hello? She ran into the girl once. Chances were they should run into each other again.
Dana got her wish on Friday afternoon, but she didn’t find the other student in any of the places where she’d been looking all week long. Instead, she found her in the one place she least expected.
In one of her classes.
&nbs
p; On a whim she had signed up for a Women’s Studies class whose credits would also count toward her English degree. She didn’t know anything about women’s studies, really, but the class was cross-listed and sounded interesting: French Women Writers. Dana had hesitated—would the class be taught in French? If so, she was screwed; she’d taken four years of Latin in high school, enough to test out of taking a foreign language in college. Her knowledge of French was limited to the few random words that had entered English, such as rendezvous, RSVP, and the origin of using the term “mayday” as a cry for help.
But the course description stated that the class was taught in English, which was a plus. It was taught during a three-hour window on a Friday afternoon when Dana didn’t have another class scheduled, another plus. It was reading-intensive, which she liked, and would count toward her major, also good. The one thing that sealed the deal, though, was that when she called in to register for classes, this course had still been open. Of course—who in their right mind would’ve taken it? So Dana signed up and hoped she didn’t need to drop it after the first class.
When she walked into the classroom on Friday afternoon, she took a quick look around as she slid into the first desk closest to the door. With her back to the wall, she could watch her fellow students and the professor at the same time, and still manage to make it out first when class was over. Which was good, since the class ran from 1:30 to 4:15, and her next shift at the library started at 4:30. She had to be across campus and clocked in, ready to work, in record time. Hopefully the professor wouldn’t be the long-winded type who liked to keep students after class should’ve let out.
If so, at least Dana was close enough to the door to sneak out when she needed to.
As she had expected in a Women’s Studies class, most of the students were female. She didn’t know any of them, and wasn’t surprised there weren’t more; it was two minutes until class was about to begin and only eight students were in the room. More disturbing was the fact that the professor wasn’t there yet. Which meant they would most likely run over their allotted three hours. Great.
Then she walked in, the girl from the library. The curls were pulled back in a loose ponytail, held at her nape with a scrunchie, but a few had escaped to drift around her face. She chatted with an older woman Dana could tell was the professor just by looking—something in the loose pants, maybe, or the oversized sweater, or perhaps it was the reading glasses hanging from a jeweled chain around her neck. Whatever it was, Dana pegged her right, as she made a beeline for the desk at the front of the room, the girl from the library at her side. Dana tried to listen in to what they were saying and heard a rapid-fire conversation in French.
Way to throw the curve for the rest of us, she thought, impressed.
Dana stared at the girl from the library, trying to catch her eye, but she didn’t look around, didn’t bother assessing the rest of the class the way Dana had upon entering the room. Instead, when she finished talking with the professor, she took the closest available seat, which just happened to be the one beside Dana. Seizing the opportunity, Dana leaned over and said, “You speak French.”
Obvious, much? Did that come out sounding as stupid as she thought it had? God.
The girl threw her a contemptuous look. “Well, duh. It’s my major.”
“Really?” Again, spoken before she could stop herself; of course it was, it had to be. Who made up something so weird?
Along those lines, who majored in French? What did anyone do with a degree in that?
Trying to save face, Dana leaned over to tell her, “I’m English Lit. Well, no, I’m Dana, but I’m majoring in—”
“Alright, class?” the professor interrupted.
With a final glance Dana’s way, the girl from the library hissed, “Shh!”
The professor continued, “Let’s get started. I’m Madame Sarkozi. Bonjour.”
“Bonjour,” the girl beside Dana replied.
Dana frowned. “I thought this course wasn’t in French.”
This time the nasty looks came from both her classmate and her professor. She shrank back in her seat, wishing she could disappear. Strike two, she thought miserably. She should do everyone a favor and drop the class now. It was going to be a long semester.
* * * *
Through the professor taking attendance, Dana learned Bethany’s name. She wrote it on the inside of her notebook and circled it in a heart, then underlined it for emphasis, feeling sixteen and lovesick as she did. Bethany stayed turned away from her throughout the entire class, focused on the teacher, so Dana could stare at those soft curls all she wanted. She imagined plunging her hands into those thick depths, pressing her nose against the cottony waves, breathing in that tangy perfume. It reminded her of summer, for some reason, fresh cut grass and sandy beaches and the ocean surf crashing in the distance. If she buried her nose in Bethany’s hair, would she smell that scent there, too? Or between Bethany’s breasts, between her legs? What would a girl who smelled that good taste like?
Dana had no clue, but she’d give anything to find out.
The professor gave them a ten-minute break midway through the class. Most of the students left the room, heading for the vending machines in the lounge at the end of the hall, but Bethany stayed behind to read over the syllabus. Dana followed her lead, thinking it might be a way to get to know her a little more. Rummaging into her messenger bag, Dana found a pack of gum and took out a stick. As she unwrapped it, she saw Bethany glance over and held out the pack. “Would you like some?”
Bethany smiled, that tight bow loosening around her lips until they spread into a sunny grin. “Sure, thanks.” She took two pieces, but Dana didn’t say anything. Unwrapping both, Bethany popped them into her mouth. “You’re Dana, right? The English major.”
“Yeah. English Lit.” Dana felt her whole body flush. She remembered!
Perfect brows furrowed as Bethany frowned. “There’s a difference?”
“Not really,” Dana admitted. “It’s more like a concentration. You can do English Lit like me, but there’s also Creative Writing. As a major. Then there are the minor programs, like Film and Folklore and Linguistics, stuff like that.”
Bethany laughed, a lovely, tinkling sound that reminded Dana of wind chimes. “I’m almost sorry I asked.”
“Don’t they have concentrations in French?” Dana asked.
Bethany shook her head. “Nope, you learn it all.”
Cautiously, Dana wanted to know, “Then what do you do with it?”
“Teach, if you want. Which I don’t,” Bethany hurried to add. “I’m minoring in Politics so I’m thinking I might do something along those lines, intern at the UN at some point, something like that.”
“Wow.” Dana was impressed. A little intimidated, too, if she were honest. Politics? She wasn’t interested in them herself. Hell, she hadn’t ever even voted before.
Then Bethany shrugged, as if she didn’t know either. “Or maybe not, we’ll see. Maybe I’ll run off to Paris and become a bohemian artist with a sexy French lover. You never know.”
Too bad I’m not French, Dana thought. “Can you draw?”
With another laugh, Bethany waved the question away. “Pssh, no. But I don’t think you really need to know how to be an artiste in gay Paree.”
Suddenly Dana wanted a sexy French lover herself, but she didn’t want to run off to Paris to snag one. The girl sitting beside her would do just fine.
* * * *
Though Dana didn’t get Bethany’s number the first day of class, a tentative friendship began. The following week, Bethany gave Dana a wide smile when she walked in. “Hey, you. Comment allez-vous?”
Dana laughed. “What’s that mean?”
Bethany slid into the same seat as before, next to Dana’s. “It means, how are you?”
“Am I going to have to sign up for a French class if we’re going to become friends?” Dana countered.
“Only if you want to know what I’m saying,” Beth
any said. “Don’t you know French is the language of love?”
Are you flirting with me? But Dana didn’t have the guts to ask that.
As the semester progressed, Dana found herself paired with Bethany whenever Mme Sarkozi assigned projects that required a partner. The first time it happened, it was purely by chance—the professor merely looked around the room and counted off the students by twos, starting with Dana closest to the door and Bethany sitting beside her. They simply had to push their desks together and compose a few questions from the reading to pose to the rest of the class.
The next time, though, Mme Sarkozi allowed them to choose their own partners, and Bethany turned to smile at Dana. “You and me?” she mouthed, eyebrows raised in question.
A thrill surged through Dana, who nodded a little too quickly. “Sure.”
This second project was a bit more intensive, requiring them to select two different books by French women writers that weren’t on the syllabus and present them to the class. Over the course of several weeks, they would have to meet up on their own time with their partners and review the books, then write a combined ten-page paper.
Half the students groaned at the extra work, but Dana looked forward to it. Hanging out with Bethany, even if it was just for schoolwork? Hell, yeah!
At the end of class, Dana lingered putting away her notebook instead of rushing to get to her job at the library. She didn’t care if she was late; she wanted Bethany’s number, but she didn’t know how to ask for it. The project gave her a perfect excuse, but would she come off sounding too eager? She didn’t know. Taking a deep breath, she screwed up her courage and turned to Bethany, only to find Bethany already looking her way.
“What’s your phone number?” Bethany asked, pen poised over the inside cover of the little blue book in which she took notes for class.
How did it come so easily to her? Dana wondered. “My…”
“Number,” Bethany said again. “I’ll call you tonight and we can figure out when to get together, maybe this weekend? If you’re not busy?”
