Best Lesbian Romance 2014

by Radclyffe

  I was so miserable I couldn’t meet her eyes. “Thanks, I need some fresh air. Nice party. See you in class.” I walked past her.

  Her hand gripped my wrist. “Brett.”

  I turned. “Yes?” I couldn’t keep the hope out of my voice.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She looked pained.

  “You are?” Still hopeful, I held my breath.

  “About your headache.”

  “Thanks.” I unclamped her fingers and dashed out the door.

  It was freezing, a typical snowy February night, but I walked for hours, feeling betrayed and abandoned. Later, lying in bed, pride kicked in and I resolved to get over her. I would limit my contact to class.

  And I did. But when Tally told me Jenna Phillips and Dr. Caldwell were an item, I was devastated.

  My fan club noticed. And, worried their intervention had put me into a depression, they visited one night. They made me feel loved, something I badly needed right then. We hugged. I said I was all right, just focused on the future. But our meeting made me realize how much of my sex life was about the need for and fear of being loved. I talked to my therapist about it, but never breathed a word about her, Dr. Caldwell.

  Right before spring break, just seven weeks after I fell for Dr. Caldwell, she asked me to stay after class. I hung back until everyone else had left. It was the first time we were alone since I walked out of that party. Part of me hoped she would come on to me.

  “Brett, I’m worried about you. You look terrible. Do you have time for a cup of coffee before you leave?”

  Up to now, I hadn’t given her a chance to tell me she wasn’t interested, and no way was I going to let her use the “drop the bomb and leave” move that I’d used on Mercy in December. “Sorry, I have to run.” And I was out of there. Let her feel guilty for another week.

  By five o’clock that night the campus was deserted except for those few with no place to go or those who, like me, chose to stay and work.

  And work I did, on my thesis every day in the library, usually late into the night. I barely spoke to anyone. By two o’clock Thursday afternoon, I needed to be outside in the sunshine. I went to the dorm and changed into running clothes. I ran for miles, enjoying the snow-covered trails, letting my mind go free, feeling the warmth of the sexual fantasies about us. How could we not be together? It wasn’t fair to feel so deeply attracted to someone and not be able to know her. It wasn’t just sex or lust. I wanted to know her in every way, to share her life. Maybe forever.

  That thought stopped me short. Forever? The fan club would be happy but the thought made me nervous, even though I wanted it with my total being. Well, I hated to break it to myself, but it wasn’t going to happen. She wasn’t interested.

  Out of breath and approaching my favorite spot along the path, I slowed to cool down. I stopped when I reached my bench, the secret place I’d never shared with anyone. You had to walk off the path to find it. I came here often to think and enjoy the quiet and the beauty. I sat and stared at the water. Instead of batting the feelings away, I let myself experience the longing, the sadness and the loneliness. But when I felt self-pity edging in, I pulled myself together. In another seven weeks, I’d be leaving here, and her, going to New York to start my new job and the rest of my life. Dr. Emily Caldwell would still be here teaching, and after a while, she would be a distant memory.

  The crunching of the snow alerted me to someone approaching. I was enjoying the solitude, so I kept my back to the path and hoped whoever it was would not try to engage in conversation. The footsteps stopped. I tensed. No one on campus knew where I was. What if it was a rapist or a killer? I slowly took my keys out of my pocket and put them in my fist with the keys sticking through my fingers like I’d learned in self-defense class.

  The person moved right behind me. Whoever it was cleared her throat. Her throat. It was a woman. I relaxed somewhat and waited for her to go away, but she stood there behind me. I forced myself not to look, hoping she would get the message. Oh, hell, I was starting to get cold. I stood and turned to leave and found myself falling into those deep brown eyes. I reached for the bench to steady myself at the same time as she did. Somehow, we ended up holding hands. All thoughts of cold were gone.

  “Brett, what are you doing on campus?” Her voice was accusing.

  “I stayed to work on my thesis. Is that a problem?”

  She shook her head. “Sorry, sorry, I was shocked to see you here. I was taking a walk and thinking about you and suddenly you were there sitting on my bench.”

  Thinking about me? “Your bench?”

  She laughed. “I should have said my favorite bench. I come here often to think and meditate.”

  “Wow. This is my favorite bench. I also come here a lot.”

  She shivered. “I’m cold. I know you’re angry with me, but can we walk back together?” She glanced down at our locked hands. “Sorry.” She stuffed her hands in her pockets.

  We walked in silence for a long time, a comfortable silence, then she stopped. “What am I going to do with you?”

  “I have a few ideas.” As soon as it came out of my mouth I realized I sounded really piggy. “I’m sorry, that was insulting.”

  She looked pained. “How can I make you understand, Brett? A relationship is not possible.”

  I opened my mouth but she put her hand on my lips to keep me from speaking.

  “An affair with a student could destroy my career.”

  I felt a stab of anger. “Really? What about Jenna Phillips? Is she exempt from these restrictions?”

  She looked puzzled. “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t go all innocent on me. It’s all over campus that you and Jenna are a thing.”

  She paled. We glared at each other. I with rage in my eyes, she with…with pain in hers. I guessed it hurt to get caught in a lie.

  She rubbed her temples. “Is that why you’ve been so angry?”

  “Partly.” Why not me?

  “I’m not involved with Jenna.” She seemed to be searching for words. “Even if she wasn’t my student, I would not choose to be involved with Jenna.”

  “Well, she’s blabbing all over the place.” Na, na, I sounded like a five-year-old.

  “I’ll address that when classes resume next week.”

  So maybe Jenna was lying, but I didn’t understand about us. “I’m also angry because you said you would see about us getting together again, then I find out in class that all the other students are invited. Did I misunderstand?”

  She offered a sweet, sad smile. “When I thought about it, I realized it would look like we were involved.” She blushed. “And I thought I would have a hard time controlling the situation if we spent too much time alone.”

  “Do you mean a hard time controlling me?”

  “Yes.” She looked into my eyes. “I’ve heard stories about you, Brett. Love ’em and leave ’em stories. Twenty lovers in three and a half years. Is that right?”

  I started to walk away.

  “Brett, is it true?”

  “Who told you?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “That bitch Jenna?”

  She shrugged.

  “But you’re different.”

  “That’s what they all say.”

  “So, do I give up hope?”

  Her smile was tender. “Never give up hope, Brett. None of us knows what the future holds. But we do know we can have group breakfasts and group Friday nights for the next six weeks.”

  “No time alone?”

  “No.”

  She hadn’t said no, hadn’t said she wasn’t interested or didn’t love women. And at least she wasn’t involved with that beast Jenna. If I focused on papers and thesis and readings, the six weeks would fly by. I nodded. “There is one thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Do I have to call you Professor Caldwell?”

  “That’s what my students call me.”

  “Can I hold your
hand sometimes?”

  “Absolutely no physical contact.”

  “What about phone sex?”

  She blushed. “No phone sex.”

  “Looks like you like the idea.”

  “And absolutely no flirting.” She bopped me on the head. “Time to go home.”

  In the next six weeks, I spent every minute I could with her. She made sure we were never alone. She was friendly with all her students, but I noticed Jenna only appeared in class. Sometimes, very rarely, she would touch my face or put her hand on mine, then pull back. I didn’t know what to make of her breaking her own rule, but I was besotted and burning with desire and welcomed whatever crumbs she offered. If I alluded to it, she put her fingers over my mouth and shushed me. As graduation got closer, it dawned on me that we would be separated when I moved to New York City to work on Wall Street. I was frantic. She reassured me we would stay in contact.

  Finally, graduation day arrived. Diploma in hand, I grinned as she made her way through the crowd to me. I was no longer her student.

  She wrapped me in a hug and kissed my cheek. “I’m sorry I can’t stay, Brett. I have some business to take care of. It can’t wait.”

  I jerked back. “What?” I shouted. “You can’t—”

  Nearby conversations stopped. Heads turned.

  She put an envelope in my hand. “I have to go.” She dashed into the crowd.

  She was gone. Had it all been a tease? Kate and Tally found me staring at the envelope.

  Kate took the envelope out of my hand and stuffed it in my bag. “C’mon, let’s go get a drink.”

  Good idea. I went off to get drunk with the women who loved me.

  The next morning, still unable to believe it, I went by her apartment on the way to the train. She had moved out. And though I’d said rejection was part of life and could make you stronger, it hurt like hell.

  The following Saturday, I emptied my pocketbook looking for a hair tie and found the envelope. I’d forced myself not to look at it, then forgotten it in the rush of the new job. I started to toss it, but I was curious. Not a graduation card. An invitation to a dinner party at eight that night at an apartment near NYU. I was enraged. Screw her and her party. Around seven fifty, I decided I needed to say “fuck you” to her face. At eight thirty, I rang the bell. The door flew open.

  “Brett, I was afraid—”

  “Fuc—”

  Her hands cupped my face. I got lost in her eyes as she stroked my cheeks, my eyebrows, my forehead, then brushed my lips with hers. As my anger drained away, she brought my hand to her lips and kissed my palm. I gasped.

  She led me to the bed. And I, always the aggressor, lay there, staring into her eyes, and let her undress and caress me with fingers gentle as feathers.

  “Dr. Caldwell, the party?”

  “Just us.” She kissed my eyes, my nose, then my breasts. She looked up and smiled. “You can call me Emily.”

  “Emily.” On fire, I rolled on top, pulled off her clothes and made wild, passionate, gentle, intense love to her. Good thing her loft was in an industrial building with concrete walls and floors, or for sure, we would have incinerated it that night and in the weeks following.

  Turned out Em had fallen for me, too. She’d applied to New York University before we met and wanted to surprise me. She did. Three months later, I moved in with her.

  My fan club was right about commitment. Em was right about never knowing what the future holds. And I was wrong about forever. Now forever doesn’t seem long enough.

  SEPIA SHOWERS

  Andrea Dale

  I don’t usually bring Kathy with me when I visit my mother.

  Oh, my mother knows that Kathy’s my friend, that we share a house. But I don’t know if, when she was more lucid or now, my mother ever figured out that Kathy and I were together.

  Now, it doesn’t seem worth it to try to explain. While my mother hasn’t (yet) forgotten who I am, other people in her periphery have become more fluid. And although I’ve never exactly hidden my preferences, I don’t think my mother ever fully comprehended that I’m a lesbian.

  My father, god rest his soul, would never have understood. It became second nature to me not to spill the truth.

  “It’s time for me to go, Mom,” I say. It’s past time, really, but it’s always hard for me to leave. I know how alone she must feel, despite the staff who check in on her several times a day, make sure she takes her pills and eats balanced meals.

  It’s dementia, but a mild form. She remembers me, knows the people around her. It’s the day-to-day things she forgets. Where she put things. Whether she ate. Where my father, who died last year, has gotten to this time.

  I know it could be far worse, but it’s still hard.

  I start to rise, but she doesn’t let go of my hand. “I just wish you’d find someone, Dana,” she says. “A good man to make you happy.”

  I smile for her. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  But before I can get up, she looks over my shoulder. Her eyes widen and her free hand goes to her throat in shock. “Charlotte?” she whispers.

  I turn. “Oh, Mom, it’s just Kathy, here to pick me up. You remember Kathy, don’t you?”

  Kathy steps into the room. “Hi, Mrs. Hollander.”

  “Oh, Kathy, of course. Pardon my manners.” My mom reaches out to take Kathy’s hand. “You just reminded me of someone for a moment there.”

  We say our good-byes, and I gather up the box of photos she’s sending home with me. In the doorway, I glance back. Mom’s looking at the picture of my father on the table next to her chair.

  I wish, more than anything, I could tell her that I have found someone, someone who makes me deliriously happy.

  But I can’t.

  When we get home, Kathy makes tea. Lady Grey, my favorite. She knows I need to wind down. I wrap my hands around the cup as she drapes the hand-woven mohair blanket over our laps. A watery slate blue, it’s the first thing we bought when we moved in together, and now it smells like roses because she’d been sitting against it earlier today.

  We burrow into each other and the sofa.

  I sigh, just shy of contentment. “My poor mom.”

  “Oh?” She’s stroking my hair. I should be too old to enjoy such a simple act.

  “She wants me to find a nice man who’ll make me happy.”

  We both laugh at the irony of that. It feels good to let the sound bubble out of me, releasing the tension in my chest, an ache I didn’t even realize was there until now.

  “I’m sorry,” I say to Kathy now. “I don’t like keeping you a secret. I’m not ashamed of us, you know…”

  “Oh, dearheart, I know. I’ve always known. And it’s okay. I don’t want to cause your mom distress any more than you do.”

  Her own parents know about us, embrace us and adore me so much that Kathy jokes if we split up, they’ll keep me instead of her.

  “The more important question,” she continues, “is what’s in the box?”

  “Pictures,” I say. “Uncle Dan’s been reorganizing the storage unit and brought them to her, and she thought I’d like to go through them. I’ll scan them, and hopefully get some stories out of her before…”

  I can’t say the words “before it’s too late,” but Kathy knows. She kisses my head, my cheek, and I take a few shuddery breaths to center myself.

  Later that night, when I most want to sleep, most want to run away from the thoughts, I lie awake.

  When Kathy rolls over and spoons against me, her back to my front, I snake my hand beneath her arm and grope for her hand. In her sleep, she twines her fingers with mine.

  It’s all I can do not to squeeze so hard I wake her.

  How can it be possible to forget?

  I don’t want to forget.

  I press my face into her shoulder. The soft strands of her hair tickle my face. Disengaging my hand, I gently run it across her hip, savoring the spot at the joint that’s warmer than the rest of her, then down h
er thigh. She’s taken up running again in an effort to stave off the middle-age spread, and even with my light touch I can feel the muscles, hard and strong.

  I hadn’t been thinking about sex, really, I hadn’t, but apparently my exploring hand plants the idea in Kathy’s subconscious. Still asleep, she murmurs, a happy hum of a sound, and presses herself back against me.

  I vow never to forget the feeling of her body against mine, nor how my own body responds to it. My nipples harden, pressing against her smooth back. Even in the dark, I know the constellation of freckles on her shoulders, and I trace them with my lips and tongue, still gently, easing her into wakefulness. At the same time, I snake my hand back up to circle her nipples with my fingertips, feeling them crinkle in response.

  When she does finally rouse, she’s already half-aroused; I can smell her earthy musk. I move my hand to touch her, but she captures my wrist.

  “No,” she whispers. “Let me.”

  I assume she means she’ll pleasure herself—although, half-lust-fogged myself, I’m not sure why—but instead she rolls over, insinuating one of those strong thighs between mine, pressing against my mound. Almost involuntarily, I grind against her, smearing her skin with my own wetness.

  I hadn’t realized how excited I’d become, either.

  She cups my face, then tangles her fingers in my hair, pulling me in for a kiss that starts sweet but rapidly grows urgent. Now I feel almost frantic, not for orgasm, but to kiss her, feel her lips and teeth and tongue. To lose myself in the sensation and forget my sadness.

  But not forget her, not forget how she feels, how she makes me feel. Never that.

  She rolls me on my back, rises above me, her thigh flexing against me as she takes first one, then the other nipple in her mouth. We’re past the soft strokes like the ones I used to wake her. Now she’s nipping, pinching, tweaking.

  I’m ramping up, passion overtaking rational thought, and yet the two are fighting against each other. I want to track every sensation—her flesh against mine, her quick breaths, the taste of that drop of sweat I just kissed off her forehead—create snapshot memories, preserve them.

  But then she begs, “Come on, baby. Come for me.” Her voice is tight, and I know she’s on the verge, too, from the way I’ve been humping up against her in my own quest for orgasm.