Sticky hands clasped behind my back, I feel a little like a schoolboy with a crush when I ask her, eyes downcast toward my shoes, “Would you like to sit with us?”
“I’d love to.” She smiles easily, her grey eyes holding mine for a heavy heartbeat. But then she glances away, sighing. “Thing is, I left my bike tied to a tree in the dog park and am kind of anxious to get back to it.” With a laugh, she nods down to her unlaced sneakers. “I had to use my shoestrings. And I’m no sailor, so my knotwork isn’t exactly theft-proof.”
I smile up at her weakly, trying to conceal my disappointment. “Well, with a sexy bike like Xena, you can never be too careful.”
“Yeah.” Ash’s eyes linger on mine again before raking over me in a thoughtful, slow-moving glance. “I’d hate to lose her when we’re just getting to know each other. You know?” Her mouth curves upward on one side as her gaze subtly darkens. “So…I guess I’ll see you later?”
I blink. “Sure.”
“Maybe I’ll stop by the house to—oh, I don’t know—pay you rent or something.” Her grey eyes twinkle. “I mean, if you don’t have plans tonight.”
“No, I…” I swallow and cough, paling despite the hot summer sun. “No plans. Well, I might paint the walls, but… Yeah, um, stop by. You know, anytime.”
“Awesome.” Balancing her Big One on a flattened palm, she lifts her other hand to wave at me, grinning, and I can’t help but notice that no ice cream or hot fudge or cherries leak out of the dish—at all.
“Now that’s talent.”
“Nah. Practice makes perfect. I was a waitress once upon a time. Kind of enjoyed it, actually. Beat spending my days with corporate cutthroats.”
Somehow I have trouble imagining Ash working in a high-rise, wearing expensive tailored suits—but then my mind conjures up a heart-stopping vision of suit-clad Ash, with only the hint of a tattoo peeking out from beneath her unbuttoned collar…and I duck my head, blushing again.
“See you tonight, Molly.” Ash smiles at me over her shoulder as she begins to jog in the direction of the Normal Dog Park, her short brown hair gleaming like amber in the midday light.
When I finally join Terry at the picnic table, my Big One is a puddle of colorless goo, and Terry is wearing a smile that puts the Oxford definition of smug to shame. I narrow my eyes at him as I poke idly at my liquid sundae. “What?”
“What?” he snorts. “What?” He leans forward over the table, hands pressed against the sticky, ice cream-stained wood, and shakes his head at me as if in disbelief. “You, my friend, are in lust with that woman!”
“I am n—What? I just… We were only having a friendly, neighborly, tenant-landlady conversation while we were waiting in line—”
“While your therapeutic dessert melted, utterly forgotten,” Terry simpers, tapping me lightly on the nose, “you were not merely conversing, Ms. Mason, but flirting.”
I drop my spoon and wince as ice cream spatters my face. With a triumphant laugh, Terry hands me a napkin; I take it from him with a frustrated groan.
“I mean, okay, Ash is gorgeous, all right? And as a normal, hot-blooded, single lesbian, my reaction to her is perfectly natural. Expected, even. But it doesn’t mean that I’m…” I exhale heavily, rubbing my hands over my tired eyes. “Who am I kidding? Yeah. I’m in lust with her.” I pillow my head on my arms and gaze up at Terry helplessly. “I dreamed about her all night long, Ter. It’s ridiculous. I don’t even know her. I almost killed her. I’m probably just rebounding—”
“Molly.” Terry reaches for my hand, and I sit up with a miserable sigh. “It’s okay. If you’re crushing on Ash, it’s okay.”
“But—”
“Que sera, sera.”
I pull my hand away and point a finger in Terry’s face. “If you even think of using carpe diem on me—”
“Well, carpe noctem would be more applicable.” He grins, one black brow raised. “Because you’re seeing her tonight, right?”
“Eavesdropper.”
“Lip reader, actually.”
“That’s even creepier.” I give him a begrudging smile. “Anyway, she’ll probably just hand me a check and then head right out. It’s not like it’s a date, Terry. I’m her landlady. Who in the history of time has ever been attracted to and/or dated his or her landlady?”
“Hey, stop denigrating the fair lords and ladies of the land. It’s a noble profession, as noble as any other. To provide home and hearth—”
“I know, but—”
“But nothing.” Serious now, Terry leans back from the table to look me squarely in the eye. I notice a spot of chocolate ice cream on his crisp white shirt but feel too sulky to mention it. “Listen, Molly, I care about you. You’re my partner in crime, my museum maven, my grant-writing genius.” He breathes out, slumping a little, black hair falling over his glasses. “And I really want to see you happy again.”
Tears sting my eyes, and I bow my head, letting out a deep, calming sigh. “Thanks. That’s really sweet, Terry.”
“You’re really sweet.”
I look at him and smile doubtfully. “If you say so.”
“If Ash knew you half as well as I do, she’d be head over heels.” He snaps his fingers. “Just like that.”
I shake my head, eying the sad remains of my Big One with a regretful frown. “Juliette and I happened just like that. Maybe just like that isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
“Blank slate, right, Mol? You’re starting over. Anything’s possible.”
I slit my eyes at him skeptically. “Who are you and what did you do with my friend Terry?”
“Hey. Even pod people can give good advice.” He stretches his arms over his head and rises, scooping up my wasted dessert and offering me his other hand. “What do you say we give this thing a proper burial?”
“God. I don’t think I’ll ever eat ice cream again.”
He laughs, both brows raised meaningfully. “Never say never. Especially when it comes to ice cream.”
---
My phone starts buzzing in my pocket when I kick open the front door, a gallon of paint gripped in each of my hands. I stopped at Home Depot on the drive home from work and chose Violet Vixen for the living room walls and Lickable Lime for the kitchen—partly because the names made me laugh, and it would be nice to conjure laughter in this so-quiet-you-could-hear-a-pin-drop house again.
I lower the paint cans to the floor and dig my cell out of my pants pocket. A quick glance at the caller I.D. tells me that it’s Pauline calling, and I breathe out with a smile as I click send. “Hi, Paul.”
“Hey, sexy. Whatcha up to?”
“The usual. Inhaling oxygen, breathing out carbon dioxide.”
“Sounds like fun, but don’t overdo it, party girl.”
I move through the house and toss my keys onto the kitchen counter. Mona Lisa greets me with a languid stretch, and I stoop down to rub her soft black belly. “You know, I can’t even remember the last time I went to a party.”
“Your Sweet Sixteen, maybe?”
“Ha.” I gather M.L. into my arms and rise, leaning back against the fridge. “I didn’t have a Sweet Sixteen. I made out with my best friend Pammy in the locker room after soccer practice—and then she never spoke to me again.” M.L. begins to purr loudly, and I cuddle her closer. “Kind of put a damper on the whole ‘let’s celebrate my continued existence’ thing. My parents still sang me ‘Happy Birthday,’ though—through my locked bedroom door.”
“Your parents are awesome.”
“Yeah. They knew I was a lesbian even then, and were totally supportive.” I laugh softly. “Honestly, I think they knew before I did.” My eyes flick to the one remaining wall decoration in the kitchen: a framed photo of my parents that Pauline took at the Michigan State Fair last year, when Mom and Dad flew up from New Mexico to visit me. Pauline’s portraits capture the souls of her subjects, and staring at the photo now, my heart swells with love and gratitude. Sure, my life’s a mess, but I’
ve been blessed to know and love some incredible people, people who love me back no matter what. People like my parents. And Pauline.
And, I guess, M.L., who prefers to be thought of as a person rather than a cat—judging by her partiality for eating people food (especially ice cream) and watching romantic black-and-white movies with me. She has a special fondness for Marilyn Monroe and starts purring whenever the blonde bombshell’s onscreen.
But come on… Who doesn’t?
My heart trips at that thought: Juliette bore more than a passing resemblance to the breathy actress. In fact, she’d portrayed Marilyn’s character in a small touring company’s production of How to Marry a Millionaire. That’s how we met… I went to the opening performance in Detroit, and my press badge got me backstage—and into Juliette’s dressing room. I was slated to do a write-up of the performance for my college’s local arts newspaper.
But I got a little distracted.
“Are we still on for lunch tomorrow, Mol?”
I sigh, willing those sad, stale memories to crumble to dust. My hand begins to stroke M.L.’s back absentmindedly. “I’ve been salivating over the thought of fried deliciousness since we made plans at the yard sale, so we’d better be.” My voice sounds unnaturally bright.
“Cool. I’ll try to get there by 11:15—provided no rugrats circumvent my stealthy escape.”
“Arm yourself with silly string and you might make it out alive.”
“No joke. I keep my purse stocked just in case,” she deadpans, and then laughs. “The kids weren’t so bad today, weirdly enough. Recited the state capitals like perfect little robots while the classroom monitor was there. Hopefully my luck’ll hold out through tomorrow.”
“I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you.”
“Thanks. Hey, what’re your plans for tonight? I found out there’s going to be a Garbo movie marathon on AMC. Might provide for some pleasant dreams…”
“You are the most lesbian fantasy-enabling best friend a lesbian could ever wish for, Paul.”
“I try.”
Smiling, I lower M.L. to the floor, where she begins to affectionately encircle my legs, her thick tail whacking the backs of my knees. “Well,” I say, opening the refrigerator door and peering in, “I actually bought some paint for the walls. I want to make this place feel like home. My home, not…” I frown, sighing lightly. “You know.” Glum, I stare at the lone pear and expired carton of orange juice on the fridge shelves, and my stomach grumbles in exasperation as much as hunger. It’s been a long time since I went grocery shopping. I’ll probably fix myself some flavorless oatmeal for dinner…again.
“I hate to think of you painting all by yourself. I’d come over, but Brad made us reservations at Renaldo’s.”
“Ooh, fancy.”
I can hear the smile in Pauline’s voice when she sighs. “We’re going to get all dolled up and drink way more champagne than a responsible teacher should on a school night.”
“Good thing you’re not a responsible teacher.”
“Hey, you stole my line.” Pauline laughs her infectious laugh, and I find myself grinning—despite the looming prospect of a lumpy, beige-colored supper. “I swear, Mol, sometimes I think we share a brain.”
“Yeah… Except for that pesky I’m-into-chicks thing, we’re practically twins,” I tease her, moving into the living room and—for lack of a couch—sitting down on the fluffy rug on the hardwood floor. I survey the plain white walls surrounding me and envision them painted with Violet Vixen, instead; my heart flips with anticipation. I’m even looking forward to ruining a t-shirt and pair of shorts with permanent paint splatters. Breathing out, I loosen my tie, lie flat on my back and close my eyes.
Pauline persists: “Hey, I kissed a girl. Once.”
I laugh into the phone. “On a dare. In a bar. And a one-second peck on the lips does not a lesbian kiss make, Paul.” I think of the last time Juliette and I made love—the night before she left me, actually—and my toes curl a little. I lick my lips, lonely and longing, despite my cracked, hesitant heart.
“Okay, so we aren’t identical twins. We’re the kind of twins that look nothing alike and have completely different interests but can still kind of read each other’s minds.”
“In other words, best friends.”
“If you’re going to be boring and technical about it.”
The doorbell rings, and I sit up, clutching the phone against my ear with one hand and smoothing my hair down with the other.
“Was that at your place?” Pauline asks.
“The doorbell, yeah.” My mouth has suddenly gone dry. I stand up, dusting fluff from the rug off of my black pinstripe pants, and I readjust my tie, smoothing it over the front of my pale blue button-down shirt.
“Expecting company?”
“Um…kind of. A lot has happened since we last talked, Paul, and—”
“Do you have a date?” Excitement crackles on the line between us. “You have a date and you didn’t tell me?”
I inspect myself quickly in the hallway mirror and scowl at my tired appearance. My green eyes have dulled to a barely there shade of sage and are rimmed with red. “No, no date. Tenant. Her name’s Ash, and she’s just stopping by with her rent check. Can I call you later?”
“Nah, I’ll be busy later. If you know what I mean.”
In my mind’s eye, I see Pauline waggling her eyebrows suggestively. I half-sigh, half-laugh. “Pretty sure I do. See you tomorrow then, Paul.”
“Give me fried food, or give me death!” she exclaims seriously, and then says, “Later, Greenback Gal,” and hangs up.
The doorbell rings again.
M.L. has joined me in the hallway now and snakes between my legs as I aim for the door. Graceful as ever, I trip over her feline sinuousness and fall—not so softly—against the doorframe. Slowly, I unlatch the lock, drawing in a deep breath to soothe my electrified nerves.
Those damn dreams! If my dream self hadn’t spent hours last night in Ash’s arms and the throes of imaginary ecstasy, I would probably feel perfectly calm about welcoming her, however briefly, into my house.
Probably.
But all I can think about is kissing her, being kissed by her, taking her by the hand and leading her upstairs…
To my empty shell of a bedroom: no furniture, only a mattress on the floor. Sure to charm any woman.
God, who am I kidding?
I roll my eyes at myself and swing open the door.
“Hi, Molly.” Ash stands with her hands jammed into her jeans pockets, wearing a tight-fitting black t-shirt emblazoned with a faded lightning bolt. The sun dapples her dark brown hair with golden light and illuminates the smooth angles of her face. Her mouth curves upward at the sight of me, and my resolve to be sensible begins to slowly liquefy—along with my knees. She is just so hot…
“Is it a bad time? I could come back—”
“No, it’s perfect. Now’s the, um, perfect time.” I smile weakly and move aside. “Come on in.”
As Ash crosses the threshold, closing the door behind her, she notices M.L. making tight circles around my legs and looks up at me, grey eyes bright. “She’s beautiful. What’s her name?”
“Mona Lisa.”
“Ah.” Ash smiles appreciatively, nodding toward the silky black cat. “An enigmatic woman, then.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Hardly. She’s a flirt. A moody flirt, granted…”
Ash kneels down at my feet—for the second time in the same day, I realize, remembering my ice cream disaster—and reaches out toward M.L. My faithless cat quickly abandons me to pad over to Ash and purr loudly beneath her stroking hand. “Nice little motor on this one,” Ash says, grinning up at me. “My girlfriend in Austin had a cat named Dexter, and he had the softest purr, hardly a whisper.” Her fingers scratch beneath M.L.’s chin expertly, even as her face takes on a thoughtful, faraway look. “I miss that little guy sometimes. They really get into your heart, don’t they?”
“Ye
ah.” Inhaling deeply, I kneel down beside Ash and begin to pet M.L.’s head. “I never knew I was a cat person until I adopted M.L. Grew up with a dog, you know.” I smile softly to myself, remembering Geoffrey, the Dalmatian who was a sibling-like presence in my life until he got hit by a car when I was nine years old. As an only child, I had consoled my frequent loneliness by thinking of Geoffrey as an older brother. I used to tell him ghost stories at night, and sometimes we shared stolen marshmallows from the kitchen. The ache of his loss has dulled over the years, but I still keep his photograph in my wallet and enjoy reminiscing about him whenever my parents are around.
I had intended to adopt a dog of my own when I bought this house, but then Juliette moved in, and her feelings about canine-kind left no room for argument: dogs were banned from her living quarters. She wasn’t allergic; she just disliked dogs, in general, and for no particular reason that I was ever able to draw out from her. So I went to the local shelter and found M.L., then a scrawny, scared-looking kitten, the last of her litter. Her brothers and sisters had been adopted right away, but because she was black, the shelter volunteers told me, she had been passed over in favor of more colorful cats.
I’ve always been a sucker for the underdog. Or…undercat, I guess.
“You’re lucky,” Ash says, then, surprising me.
I look into her eyes and feel everything within me still, quieted. There’s such calm and solidity in her gaze. “I am?”
She nods, smiling softly, and then tilts her head back to take in our surroundings. “You have this beautiful house. This beautiful cat.” She grins down at M.L., trailing a hand over her arching back, before lifting her eyes to regard me intensely. “So much beauty.”
I swallow and duck my head, nerves on fire again. “Thank you, Ash,” I murmur, licking my dry lips. “And you’re right. I am luckier than most. Sometimes it’s just hard to see…”
“I know. But from an outside view, Molly, there’s nothing to see but loveliness.”
After a taut, silent moment, I dare to look into Ash’s eyes again, and what I find there pierces my heart through: raw vulnerability and…something else. Something like desire. Hunger. Reflexively, I lean toward her a little, breathing in her bright flowers-and-peppermint scent, and I notice for the first time the unusual violet flecks in her dark, shadowed eyes.
Drawn to You Page 6
