Best Lesbian Romance 2011

by Radclyffe

  Lou raised her water bottle in a toast. “Cheers, sweetheart! Merry Christmas! Have a great time!” She drained the last few trickles of liquid. “Here’s hoping yours is a gin and tonic!” Wherever Meg was, she’d be thinking of Lou tonight. And she’d have a g&t in hand. Maybe she was even gazing toward the moon at this very moment, though it might be too low in the sky just now to clear the Alpine peaks.

  In Afghanistan the moon soared high overhead, revealing every object, including Lou, with relentless clarity. She shifted uneasily. This perch on sandbags heaped in an angle of the perimeter wall gave her a better view of the desert than was strictly safe, although “safe” was a relative term at best in a world where even a transport lorry full of frozen turkeys for the soldiers’ Christmas dinner had been blown up by insurgents. The holiday had still been jolly enough, with more turkeys rushed in by plane, plenty of sweets and packages from home and a great deal of singing and chaffing and merrymaking that got as near to boisterous as the lads could manage without proper drinks.

  Lou had joined in with her customary high spirits, but the time came when she needed to get away from the noise and forced cheer. If she couldn’t be with Meg, at least she could be alone to think about being with Meg. Now a glance back at the main camp showed row upon row of tents glowing golden with interior light, like a scene from some fantastic Arabian Nights tale.

  She turned back to the cold white moonlight and her own thoughts, which reverted, in spite of herself, to the little box. She’d opened it once already, of course, and found a round mirror set inside the lid. When her own face stared back at her, with a bit of her camo shirt showing at her throat, she’d figured, well, close enough. Being here, in uniform, doing her part, was truly her heart’s desire, surpassed only by Meg’s love. The miracle was that Meg, for all her pain at the separation, for all her horror of war—Meg, who was never violent except in her attack on a challenging ski slope or in defense of those she loved—would still let Lou have both.

  The box in Lou’s hand still felt warm, but it was just too bloody silly to think that there was anything mystical about it. Still, Meg was bound to ask, if Lou told the story, whether she’d tried it by moonlight. So as long as she was here…

  Moonlight glinted on tiny mirror chips set into the metal between inlaid ovals of lapis lazuli, while the stones themselves, so vividly blue in the daytime, looked almost black. Merely a trifle, actually, its like could be found in any market in Lashkar Gah or Kandahar, or, for that matter, on many a flea market barrow on Portobello Road in London. Nothing special about it, except, perhaps, the borrowed glamour that moonlight seems to cast on ordinary objects.

  Lou’s fingers still shook as she fumbled to undo the brass clasp. Just the cold night air, of course. Before lifting the lid all the way she shifted around on the sandbags until the moonlight came over her right shoulder. Then, with a catch in her breath and a touch of defiance, she opened the box all the way and tilted the round mirror to catch the moon directly in its center.

  The white orb hung there, clear and sharp. Lou started to breathe again. Then a mist crept across the glass, and the moon’s image spread to fill the whole surface. Only condensation, of course, from her own breath. She fumbled with one hand to find a handkerchief to clear it, gave up and was about to try with the elbow of her jacket when the mist began to dissipate on its own until only a few drifting wisps remained. The light, much softer now, still filled the entire mirror.

  A blurred scene began to form, or to emerge, as though it came closer, or as though Lou herself moved forward into it. The surroundings were vaguely familiar, but all she could focus on was the figure standing in the center, head bowed, smooth russet hair swinging forward against her cheeks. Lou knew the scent, the softness, of that hair, as well as she knew anything in life. And she knew the feel of the lovely body beneath, exposed entirely to her gaze, as well as she knew her own flesh.

  “Meg…” If only she would raise her head! But the figure moved slowly, face still hidden, down a step or two. More tendrils of mist floated around her. “No…don’t go…” Meg kept on, sinking gradually downward into something denser than mist, water that lapped about her body until only her head, shoulders and the upper curves of her breasts showed above it. “Meg…”

  And then Meg leaned her head back against the edge of the hot tub and sighed. Lou could hear that sigh inside her own head. And now she could see Meg’s face, that particular blend of eyes and nose and lovely lips, of gentleness and strength and elegance, that for Lou would forever define beauty. And love. And home.

  There was sadness in Meg’s expression and dampness on her cheeks that might have been due to the hot, humid air, or might have included a tear or two. She lifted her head, raised an arm from the water and reached out to a tray beside the tub. Lou hadn’t noticed it before, but now she saw the glass and knew beyond question what it contained.

  Meg held up the drink. “Cheers, Lou darling! Merry Christmas!” She took a healthy draft of her gin and tonic. Then, more softly, “Keep safe. Please.” She drank again, uncharacteristically deeply, and added, “I’m truly proud of you, right where you are. But…oh, I miss you so much!” She emptied the glass, closed her eyes and leaned back, sliding a little lower into the water.

  Lou needed to reach out, to brush the tears from Meg’s face, even more than she needed to breathe. She felt torn into two separate beings. One clutched a brass box in the cold Afghan desert; one floated through the steam rising from the hot tub and sank into the water so close to Meg that their legs intertwined. As heat rose from her feet all along her body, the colder world retreated, until it was just the faintest of memories.

  Lou couldn’t make her voice work, but her fingertips could feel the curve of Meg’s cheek, and throat, and shoulder. Meg sighed. Her face relaxed, and her lips curved into a smile. “I can almost feel you here with me,” she murmured, eyes still closed. “Are you thinking of me now, sweetheart?”

  “Thinking” didn’t come close to describing it, for either of them. Meg seemed not to find it strange that her arms could go around Lou and Lou’s around her. They clung to each other, moving gently together in the slow swirl of the water, bathed in a warm current of love and joy. No dream could ever be sweeter, Lou felt—until Meg opened her eyes and looked directly into Lou’s. “I can even see you, darling!” Meg’s voice held more delight than surprise. “How lovely!”

  That was the sweetest moment of all. And even when Lou felt the pull of that half of herself left behind in the desert and knew that she was drifting away, not from Meg, but merely from that particular time and place, she held the image of Meg’s loving smile in her heart.

  The night was dark again. Lou still held the box, but the moon was so low in the sky that only a sliver of it still showed in the mirror. Tilting the lid brought the bright disc back into its center but accomplished nothing further. Lou drew a deep breath, rose slowly from the sandbags and started back across the compound toward the clustered tents. In spite of the cold air, warmth still suffused her body, lingering until her bed could capture and preserve it.

  She was too tired and too much at peace to try to analyze what had happened, except for a fleeting thought about what she should tell Meg. Or, perhaps, what she should ask. Just a humorous tale about the old Afghan woman and a joke about an “envisioning aid” and a light account of her “dream” might be the best course.

  It was midmorning before Lou had time to write even a brief email, and by then Meg had beat her to it. Dearest Lou, Meg wrote. The strangest thing happened last night! It was like the most marvelous Christmas gift! I was in the hot tub in the chalet, thinking of you, and…well, maybe it was just that drinking a g&t in all that heat made me lightheaded—I should know better—but I can’t believe it. I don’t want to believe it. Please don’t laugh. Just tell me where you were last night, and whether you were thinking of me.

  Lou felt warm all over again, and a bit light-headed herself. You tell me yours and then I’
ll tell you mine, she typed. It’s a long story, and I only have a minute now, but if there’s any laughing to be done, we’ll do it together. Always.

  ROCK PALACE

  Miel Rose

  I’d been contemplating the pros and cons of taking Lilly to visit the farm for some time. It was one of those decisions where the outcome could make or break a thing, and it took a while for me to stop shying away from the risk. It was halfway through June before I faced those fears and saw waiting wasn’t doing me a bit of good.

  I had spent huge chunks of my childhood on that farm, raised by my grandma. She was still strong as an ox, but she was getting up there in age. It had been years since small farms had made much of a living in those parts. She had downscaled and sold what remained of the dairy cows her folks had tended decades before, all but a couple of sweet-tempered jerseys. She had a small nest egg, and mostly she farmed for herself, plus family and immediate neighbors.

  She liked to take vacations every now and then, usually into town to stay with my aunt. Take a break from tending the goats and chickens, cows and vegetables. She had a promise from me that I would keep the farm running when she was gone (both when she was in town and when she “finally passed over,” as she put it). It was a promise I meant to keep.

  Gram would be taking off this particular weekend to see a play she had tickets for, and I’d be watching the farm. I wanted to take Lilly out there with me, which wasn’t a move I’d usually make while courting a girl.

  Most of my life I had been simultaneously proud and ashamed of where I come from. When your identities are many, you often feel stranded in the middle of a busy intersection, not knowing which way to take to find your home. Sometimes you pick one at the expense of the others in order to find a place to fit in, a community. My queerness had taken precedence awhile back, which did not change the fact that I was rural and poor, living in the city. I was surrounded by downwardly mobile queers from the suburbs, and I passed as one of them. This was leaving other parts of me feeling lonely and invisible.

  You leave the place you were raised and sometimes you leave your context. I had tried to build myself another one, but it was full of holes, a sinking ship. Having just turned thirty, I was feeling that post-Saturn return urge to cut through the bullshit, clarify who my people were and get down to the business of following my heart and my gut. Just fucking do it.

  I was tired of renting, tired of slumlords and shitty apartments that I worked so hard to make decent while paying someone else’s mortgage. I wanted to settle, and I wanted to find folks who wanted to settle with me. Among them, I was hoping to find a girl to cuddle up against on those brutal winter nights when the walls of the old farmhouse felt like they were made of tissue paper.

  For years, I had made it a habit of falling for high femmes who tended to scream at the sight of insects, didn’t own shoes that would hold up on gravel and only liked getting dirty in the bedroom. These women were strong, brilliant people, but there were always parts of my life I just could not share with them.

  Lilly was different. Being also from a rural, working background she made me feel at home in a way I hadn’t even realized I’d been missing until I met her. It stirred things up, got me thinking about the slow building pressure I’d been sensing in my life. She was like vinegar, my thoughts the baking soda, turning the inside of my brain into the volcano in a sixth grader’s science fair project.

  She was sweet and grounded and shockingly honest. She had sharp insight and more energy than anyone I had ever met. She laughed at me even when I wasn’t trying to be funny and instead of feeling embarrassed about this, I felt strangely proud.

  This lingering apprehension was silly, but I couldn’t seem to shake it. The farm had always been a safe haven for me, and I protected it like my heart.

  She seemed genuinely excited though, when I asked her to go out there with me.

  “Taylor! I love goats! I always wanted some growing up, but my parents never went for it. Can I milk them?” She bubbled over, throwing her arms around me and pressing herself against me in a way that made me frantic.

  Lilly was almost as tall as my five feet ten with a body that was made up of one luscious curve after another. Awe inspiring. She was a big girl and she was not ashamed of it. I embarrassed myself regularly comparing her to certain divinity in my head.

  “Sure, sweets, you can have your pick of farm chores,” I said, wrapping my arms around her waist and burying my nose in her brown curls. Anything, this girl could have anything she wanted from me.

  The summer had started off hot that year, and the cutoff jean shorts Lilly was wearing when I picked her up were going to drive me crazy all day. She was carrying a bag with knitting needles sticking out the top. She always brought some kind of project with her wherever she went, to keep her hands busy.

  “I’m wearing the bikini I knit last week under this, so I hope you have a swimming hole somewhere on this farm.”

  I swallowed convulsively. “You bet, sugar. There’s a great one not too far from the house.”

  She grabbed her needles and started knitting as I drove away. “I brought sandwiches if you’re hungry. Cheese and sprouts.”

  Lilly was raised by hippies. The sandwiches were probably made on home-baked whole wheat bread. I was raised on bologna and white bread with my dad, but had been spoiled by my grandma’s complex and nutritious food.

  The farm was about an hour from Lilly’s house. I tried to keep my mind on the road and the pleasant conversation Lilly was trying to make. I tried to stop staring at the swell of her breasts exposed by the low cut of her tank top, something I couldn’t help but notice every time I glanced over at her. This was going to come to a head soon; that was obvious. The realization filled me with a restless tension and made the floor of my stomach drop about two feet.

  It hadn’t rained in the last week and the final stretch of dirt road was dry, so we had to roll up the windows to block out clouds of dust. The air was hot and heavy with humidity. We were both sticky with sweat, our skin gritty by the time we pulled up to the farmhouse.

  Lilly jumped out of the truck right away, a look of awe on her beautiful face. Turning to me she said, “Taylor, it’s gorgeous! You didn’t tell me.”

  I’ll admit, early summer is a good time on the farm. Something about the light and the new green of everything, all the imperfections of the old buildings get smoothed out. The flowerbeds and the vegetable gardens haven’t been completely taken over by weeds yet. The grass is still pretty low. Come back in August, and this place is a fucking jungle.

  It had been my home for much of my life and would be again. I put as much of my energy and heart into it as I could manage with my busy days. I loved it like no other place, but I hadn’t thought to describe it to this girl as beautiful. I was so deeply gratified by her admiration, it just shed more light on how anxious I’d been about her reaction to the place.

  I grinned at her, letting my heart loosen up in a different way. I filled with relief as that tight place eased inside me.

  She grinned back at me, closed the distance between us and placed her lips on my dusty cheek. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that it’s never good to rush these things. We had two whole days together out here, alone. I didn’t have to fuck this girl in the driveway five minutes into our stay.

  I brushed some stray hair behind her ear and said, “You really like it, princess?”

  “I love it. It feels amazing here.” She looked over her shoulder at the house and I leaned in, kissed the hollow between her neck and jaw. I allowed myself that much.

  I cleared the dust and tension from my throat and said, “Lilly, you want to catch that swim now? There’s really nothing for us to do until dusk, unless you want to weed Gram’s perennial beds.”

  She giggled, ran her fingers over the back of my neck, and turned eyes on me in a way that made my center melt like butter on a griddle. She said, “I’d love to go for a swim.”

  The path to the
swimming hole had been cleared recently. I hadn’t gotten around to it this year, so I figured maybe my aunt’s husband had been out here. He was a good guy and tried to help Gram out as much as he had time for.

  It wasn’t far to the river, but our sweat was running freely by the time we reached the bend that formed a pool just big enough for a satisfying dip. I started stripping off my jeans and T-shirt, feeling self-conscious despite the boxer briefs and tank top I had on underneath. Lilly, on the other hand, couldn’t get out of her clothes fast enough, and the bikini she wore was just a little bit more than a formality. She strode into the water, yelped at the cold, and dunked under at the deepest point. I followed more slowly, letting myself acclimate. She swam circles around me like a selkie, giggling and splashing at me until I dove at her, pulling her underwater with me. We surfaced, sputtering.

  Her arms wrapped around me, pressing her warm mammalian body to mine in the cold water. She smelled so good, with traces of vanilla, river water and summer skin. I wanted to lay her down, stretch her out and touch all that exposed flesh.

  I remembered a place I used to hide as a kid, a place of rock and sky and soft mosses. I had spent a lot of my turbulent adolescence hiding out there, reading sci-fi novels, thinking, crying when shit got bad. I learned to jerk off there, reading old smutty paperbacks I had found in my dad’s garage. The give of the moss under my ass and the rock rough against my back created an intense and irresistible contrast. It was my palace, my fortress, whatever I needed. I had never even thought of sharing that spot with anyone.

  “I want to take you someplace,” I said, angling our bodies toward land.

  I watched her pull herself out of the water, watched her body rejoin gravity, that awkward moment of heavy disorientation. Her bikini bottoms sagged around her curves, saturated with water, and she pulled at them, giggling self-consciously.

  “I haven’t quite figured that part out yet,” she said, smiling back at me in this way I felt in my gut.