Who'd Have Thought

by G. Benson

  George’s jaw was set, his look hard. It was nothing like Sam’s now. Hayden felt ill. She could almost hear what he was going to say to that.

  Don’t say it. Not that.

  But he did. “Better off that way than carrying this sickness around.”

  Hayden reeled back as if slapped, and Sam’s chair scraped as she stood, her palms flat on the table. She leaned forward over half the width of the large table. “You would rather us dead than accept that we’re gay?”

  The silence was deafening, Hayden’s heart thumping so hard she could feel it against her ribs.

  “You’re not—you’re not like that, Samantha.” Irene’s voice was shaking. “You’re not like them.”

  “I promise you, I am.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “You should. My college roommate? Who I lived with through med school? Not my roommate.” Sam didn’t spill secrets like Hayden did, in gushes of words and a mess of thought. She fired them as facts, as if she’d been holding them back for years, readying to shoot them in the perfect way. “She was my girlfriend. For eight years.”

  Irene’s knuckles were white where she gripped her glass.

  George stood slowly, looking his daughter in the eye over the table. “You come into our house and tell us you’re—you’re one of those. After everything we’ve given you, have done for you—you bring a lesbian in here—”

  “Actually,” Hayden interjected, her wine almost empty. “I’m pansexual.”

  They blinked at her, and Hayden could swear Sam’s lips twitched.

  “What?” Irene asked. Clearly not in the way that she cared about the answer, but the way people did when they were shocked you spoke at all.

  But Hayden went for it anyway. “Pansexual. I’m not a lesbian, because I’m not only attracted to women. I’m attracted to people without their gender really playing a role. But I’m not attracted to kitchen pans, like some people joke.”

  She laughed dryly, and it echoed strangely in the room. It sounded hideously awkward. She winced, swirling the dregs of wine in her glass. “Not that that fact probably makes any of this better for you.”

  George’s face twisted, and he looked at Sam as if he had never seen her before. Not necessarily angry, but twisted with disappointment. It was a look that would make most people flinch. Hayden certainly did, and it wasn’t even directed at her. But Sam met him head-on, with mere feet between them on the table. “You’re not a—a lesbian, Sam.”

  “I am. I’ve always known.”

  Irene placed a hand on George’s forearm, fingers curling around it. “You don’t have to be. There are things out there to help. Can’t you, try, to date a man? Get married, have kids—even if you’ve got this idea that you’re…one of those, you don’t have to choose that life.”

  It was like watching every cliché she’d heard about homophobic statements spill out in front of her. She hadn’t known people could really say them all. She’d read comments online, knew this vitriol existed. But to see it?

  “I’m already married. And it’s not a choice. It’s who I am.”

  For a moment, parents and daughter didn’t break eye contact.

  “This,” George said, his voice almost a whisper, “is your final chance to tell us this is a joke before you leave this house like your brother.”

  “Yes, let’s speak about Jon.” Sam’s voice didn’t waver and Hayden had no idea how she managed it. “The son you threw out and cut off.”

  “He’s no son of mine.”

  “So I’m no daughter of yours?”

  His lip actually quivered. “No child of mine is a queer.”

  Sam didn’t even recoil, but Hayden had to stop herself from throwing her drink in his face. She’d never even heard someone use that word like that. Hearing a word she adored come out of his mouth in a way that was laced with disgust made her want to write it on a shirt and walk down the street. How dare he?

  Sam looked down at her mother, still in her seat. “Mom. That’s it? Because I married someone?”

  Irene’s face twisted in the same way George’s had. “You didn’t marry someone Samantha. You married a woman. It’s—It’s not right.”

  Hayden wanted to slap them both. She’d never been attacked for her sexuality. Not like this. She’d had comments and creepy guys in bars, and her family had taken a while to really understand Hayden dating women, and then to understand what pansexual was—hell, so had Hayden in the early days, unsure what label really worked for her. But nothing like this. With people who truly believed to their very core that who Hayden was was wrong. That who their own children were was wrong.

  “Nothing has ever felt so right,” Sam stated.

  Irene’s face fell. Maybe she’d expected it to be a joke, or for Sam to beg her to help her change. She clenched her jaw at Sam, looked to Hayden, who refused to look away, and back to Sam. “I don’t believe you.”

  Sam pulled a piece of paper, folded small, from her back pocket and thrust it over the table. George stared at it as it skittered toward him as if he thought it would bite him. When he took it, he opened it slowly, a sneer forming on his face. He thrust it at Irene, whose lips went bloodless at the sight of it. The flash she saw told Hayden it was a photocopy of their marriage certificate.

  Tears were in George’s eyes.

  “Get out.” Irene’s voice was so low it was almost a whisper.

  “Mom—”

  “You heard her. Out.” The words were scraping out of George, the harshness like a punch, the wetness in his eyes a contrast. “You’re no child of mine.”

  Hayden stood slowly, her chair barely making a sound. She curled her fingers around Sam’s arm, whose palms were flat against the table again. She was almost vibrating. “Come on, Sam.” Hayden kept her voice low, her eyes on Sam’s face, even as Sam’s gaze didn’t leave her parents. “Let’s go.”

  Her arm was taut under Hayden’s palm. Finally, Sam exhaled heavily through her nose and straightened, showing no emotion beyond flaming cheeks. “Okay.”

  Hayden followed Sam past the table and toward the door. They didn’t look back, and in the entrance, Ron was waiting with their jackets. They pulled them on without speaking, and Hayden wanted to grasp Sam’s shaking fingers in her own.

  “I ordered you a cab,” Ron said. “Merry Christmas, Miss.” His expression was sincere and his tone soft.

  Sam gave him a tight-lipped smile. “You too, Ron. Thank you.”

  And Hayden remembered she could do it now: she slipped her fingers into Sam’s, who linked them together and squeezed.

  Her shoulders straight, they walked out the door.

  ~ ~ ~

  The taxi ride home was silent. As was the trip up in the elevator.

  Opening the front door seemed to echo in the apartment. Sam walked straight to the kitchen, eyes forward, dropping things on the floor as she went. Her coat pooled, and her bag slapped onto the ground.

  Hayden watched her, shutting the door quietly.

  Sam poured a generous glass of whiskey, plopping ice in after it. She stared down at the drink, shook her head, and grabbed a second glass, pouring in the same amount and adding ice. With a gentle push, she slid it down the countertop toward Hayden, picked up her own and walked out to the balcony, the door sliding closed.

  Silence. Still.

  Frank wandered out of her room and butted his head against her leg. She picked him up and clutched him to her chest. In true cat form, he pressed his paw into it and pushed back, staring at her wide-eyed. She hugged him tighter until he had to give in with a purring complaint.

  Hayden had been warned this was what would happen.

  But witnessing it was different. It was as if a switch had gone off in Sam’s parents.

  If she’d met them without seeing that, Hayden would have thought they were nice enough—maybe bordering on pretentious and clearly concerned with appearances, but warm with their daughter. Interested in her.

  In the kitchen, Ha
yden considered the balcony door. Was that whiskey an invitation to join Sam? Or had she gone to the balcony to be alone? Sam wasn’t one to enjoy a long chat about her feelings.

  But not acknowledging how she was seemed wrong.

  Hayden put Frank down, who meowed immediately, so she put some food out for him and washed her hands, taking her time, in case space was what Sam wanted. To give her a bit more time, Hayden swapped out her contacts for her glasses.

  Whiskey in hand, she slid the balcony door open and was hit with a blast of air so cold she was glad she hadn’t taken off her coat. Sam’s stance was like the last time she’d found her like this: against the rail, glass in her hand. This time, though, she had a blanket around her shoulders.

  “Do you want to be alone?”

  Sam shook her head, and Hayden walked over to stand next to her. The whiskey burned in her throat. It wasn’t her favorite drink, and the world was already a little blurry after her panic-wine at the house. But it gave her something to do with her hands to stop her from running one of them down Sam’s cheek until she turned and faced Hayden and saw the ache in her eyes.

  When Sam finally broke the silence, Hayden started.

  “I never really thought they’d do it.” Sam adamantly looked down at the street. Her voice sounded raw. “I know that’s incredibly naïve. I watched them do the same with Jon. But I think some part of me still thought it was impossible.”

  “I’m sorry.” Hayden, whose head was buzzing with wine and the need to comfort, would close the small gap between them and run her lips over her cheek, if she dared. She longed to shape Sam’s jaw with her mouth.

  “Thank you for being there.” The sincerity was almost too much. “I don’t think you’ll ever know how much it helped.”

  Sam put her glass on the table and leaned against the rail again, so Hayden put hers own down too. She really hadn’t wanted it anyway.

  This was where Hayden pointed out that it was all part of the deal for her to be there. Except that she didn’t. Because, for Hayden, it wasn’t about that anymore. “I was happy to be there,” she said. The one eyebrow Hayden could see rose. “Well,” she amended, “you know what I mean.”

  Sam turned, and Hayden’s breath caught at the shock of her steady gaze. Her brow was drawn, as if trying to puzzle out everything Hayden had said, though it didn’t seem complicated to Hayden. “No. I don’t. What do you mean?”

  “I—” Hayden’s voice was a whisper, and their faces were too close. Distracting. Sam’s expression was the most vulnerable Hayden ever thought she’d see. “I was glad I was there and that you didn’t have to do it alone.”

  Sam swallowed. The night was so still. Flakes of snow had fallen on the street earlier, which seemed to have stifled everything. Right then, they could have been the only two in the world.

  And that gap was almost gone.

  Sam’s lips were there, barely brushing over Hayden’s, whiskey on her breath. Hayden wished she could swallow this moment and keep it somewhere forever—the feel of Sam’s body almost touching hers, the warm breath skimming over her lips.

  “Hayden,” Sam murmured, and Hayden was unsure if she was imploring or simply saying her name because she needed to. Either way, Hayden wanted to hear her name like that again and again, to coax it out of her and listen to her draw a shuddering breath straight after.

  Sam’s fingers threaded into Hayden’s hair, fingertips scraping over her scalp. Hayden would melt into nothing if she didn’t move forward soon.

  Normally, Hayden wouldn’t hesitate. She’d push forward, her lips desperate on the other person’s. But Sam was hovering, and as much as Hayden craved more, this moment was everything, and she was terrified it would disintegrate, right there; falling between her fingers when it was so close. Her hand grasped Sam’s shirt, sinking past the blanket to wrap her fingers in the material. Sam’s stomach muscles jumped under her hand and Hayden let out a soft groan at the sensation.

  Sam closed the gap.

  Her lips started delicately on Hayden’s. Nothing like before, when both of them had kissed for show and there had been nothing behind it. This one was full of something Hayden didn’t have a word for, because she had no idea what it meant for Sam.

  But it meant something to Hayden.

  That knowledge should have been enough to make Hayden pull back, to untangle her fingers and press Sam away, her hand over her chest, an insincere no on her lips—to protect herself, even if just a little.

  But instead, she tugged Sam closer. The blanket fell to the ground, and Sam’s hands were cupping her cheeks, thumbs grazing them. Their lips parted, and Sam gasped into her mouth at the flick of Hayden’s tongue.

  That was all it took for Hayden to tug her back, to stumble toward the door. Hands slid along Hayden’s back, under her coat, and under her sweater, fingers sliding over bare skin. It was enough to make her shudder, and Sam arched into the motion.

  Somehow, they got the door open, even with Hayden’s teeth grazing Sam’s neck, her fingers at her buttons.

  “Upstairs.” Sam’s voice was hoarse, and something throbbed low in Hayden’s stomach.

  Her coat was a puddle on the floor next to the stairs. Her sweater tugged after it. There were lips on her collarbone, a tongue between her breasts.

  Sam’s name fell from Hayden’s lips too easily, proof of how readily it had been there, but Hayden didn’t think to stop it.

  CHAPTER 23

  There were a lot of reasons Hayden didn’t usually drink too much.

  She hated being hungover. That was a big part of it. An entire day was lost—even if all she wanted to do was sit and watch television or read, she didn’t want to do it feeling like Death, in the form of dehydration and regret, was flying toward her.

  Another reason was she made terrible decisions. Way back in her first year of college, when she did her first and only body shots—big mistake—she’d thought it was a great idea to steal a sign that said Slippery When Wet and hang it on her dorm room door.

  It had not been a good idea.

  Another reason was she hated that first second she woke up and didn’t quite know where she was.

  Like right now.

  The wall was really white. Light was filtering in. This wasn’t her room. A weight pressed down on her feet.

  An ache between her legs.

  Her eyes opened wide, despite the jabbing pain her skull lodged in protest.

  Oh shit.

  She’d had drunken sex with Sam last night.

  Hayden sat up, clutching the sheet to her chest like a modest gal in a B-grade rom-com. And came eye-to-eye with Frank, sitting on her feet and glaring straight at her. Hayden blinked. He didn’t. Just stared.

  And judged.

  Sam did say he liked to sleep up here.

  Sam.

  Hayden looked to her right, the sheet still clutched to her very naked chest. Sam was sprawled on her stomach, her face buried in her pillow. Her hair was a nest at the back. The image of Sam throwing her head back onto her pillow slammed into Hayden’s brain, and she closed her eyes for a second.

  Well. None of that had been a dream.

  Not that she wanted it to be.

  Her eyes opened again, and she grimaced at what she saw. Faint red lines ran over Sam’s shoulder blades. Running her hand over her face, Hayden sucked in a deep breath. Or did she want it to be a dream?

  She looked around her. Sam was an utter neat freak. Her room was immaculate, even in Hayden’s blurry vision. The heavy wooden dresser had very little on top of it, and what was there was lined up perfectly. A painting hung on the wall to her left, all splashes of blues and greens.

  Hayden should stay, be an adult. Talk this over. Communicate. She should establish between them what she knew—that this had been Sam looking for some comfort, some distraction—and smile and be fine with it. Which, she was. Kissing Sam, really kissing her, sleeping with her—none of that had amplified this weird crush thing. At all. Nope.

&n
bsp; So Hayden would wait until Sam woke up, and they’d be very mature and talk about this.

  Three seconds.

  That was all it took until Hayden was slipping out from the bed, ignoring Frank’s growl of protest as her feet went out from under him. Her feet tangled and she hopped, almost falling, and turned. Sam was still asleep. One by one, she scooped up her bra and underwear and pieces of clothing that trailed down the stairs. Naked, and clutching her clothes to her front, she dashed through the living room and kitchen.

  The only thing that would make this more perfect was if Jon walked through the door.

  Hayden froze and stared at it.

  He didn’t. Of course he didn’t. It was barely—she glanced at the clock—before six. Ugh. Way too early. Enough time to get sorted before work. Sam started an hour or so after her, so with luck, she’d be able to avoid her completely.

  Oh, and it was Christmas.

  She groaned and clutched her clothes harder, running through to her room and closing the door. With a sigh, she slumped back against it. The wood on her bare skin was freezing, but she just put up with it. Closing her eyes, she let her head fall back against the door. Too heavily. It thumped. “Ow.”

  Something scratched at the door and Hayden opened it, letting Frank run in, his belly wobbling. He jumped on her bed. She slammed the door shut again, flinching and glancing upward as if she could see if it woke Sam up.

  Silence.

  Frank was glowering at her.

  “You can stop judging me now.” He didn’t. “Seriously. I know I’m an idiot. Stop it.”

  He winked at her.

  “Merry Christmas to you too.”

  Despite her laundry basket being full, she dumped her clothes in it. When it all rolled off the top, she turned around and pretended not to notice.

  Hayden had a shower. She turned the spray on as hot as she could tolerate and let the steam fill the room in a billowing cloud. She washed her hair and stayed in as long as she could.

  She’d literally left Sam to wake up alone. After the night she’d had.

  Biting her lip, Hayden shoved her head back under the water and rinsed the conditioner out.

  She had really failed at the mature thing. Or maybe it was what Sam would prefer? No messy strings. It was clear Sam hated strings. And mess. And emotions.