by Joan Arling
“Again, you’ve got nothing to apologize for. Well, the snoring wasn’t half as pleasant as the kissing, but it was kind of cute.” The butch chuckled.
Amanda made a face. “No, really. You went through a lot of trouble to get me out of a bad situation, and all I do when I wake up is treat you as if you did something wrong.”
“It’s okay. I’d freak out too if I woke up in a stranger’s apartment, not knowing what happened.”
For a few minutes, they both sat next to each other without talking, Amanda busy digesting what she’d just found out and the butch eating her pancakes, which had probably gone cold by now.
“So,” the butch said when she carried the dishes to the sink, “anything else you want to know about last night?”
“I’ve got one more question,” Amanda said. “But it’s not about last night.”
“Oh? What is it, then? Come on, out with it.” The butch turned and winked with her right eye, the one that didn’t have the scar. “After doing the tonsil tango with me, there’s no reason to be shy.”
Ignoring her blush, Amanda finally asked, “What’s your name?” She still didn’t know this stranger, but thinking of her just as “the butch” didn’t feel right anymore.
The woman chuckled. She piled the dishes in the sink, wiped her fingers on her jeans, and held out her right hand. “Michelle Osinski. Nice to meet you.”
“Amanda Clark.” She shook Michelle’s hand. Michelle. She lifted her brows. For some reason, she had expected a different name. One more stereotype bites the dust.
“What?” Michelle laughed. “You thought all butches have names like Chris, Mel, or Sam?”
“Um, no. Of course not.” Amanda rubbed her cheeks. They were burning, as were her earlobes.
Michelle patted her arm. “Relax, will you? I’m just teasing.” She put her hands in her jeans pockets.
Amanda couldn’t help watching the muscles play in her arms. Normally, she didn’t like buff women, but on Michelle, it looked natural. She wrenched her gaze away and rubbed her eyes. I’ll never drink vodka again. Ever.
“Now that you’ve got something in your stomach, I’ll bring you an Aspirin,” Michelle said. “Let’s go into the living room.” She put her hand on the small of Amanda’s back as if she wanted to lead her to the living room.
Her touch made Amanda’s skin heat up. Uncomfortable with her body’s strange reaction, she pulled away. “No, thanks. My headache is a lot better already.”
After studying Amanda more intently than most casting directors, Michelle shook her head and said, “You really don’t like me, do you?”
“W-what?” Amanda stood and white-knuckled the edge of the breakfast bar. “What makes you think that?” Had she really given Michelle that impression? If anything, she was grateful for Michelle’s help. Grateful and mortally embarrassed.
“You keep looking at me like you’re afraid I’m going to try and lure you back into bed and have my way with you.”
“No, that’s not—”
“Listen, I got the message. You don’t go for butch women. And that’s fine with me because I,” Michelle tapped her chest, “promised myself to never, ever get involved with an actress again. Two of my exes are actresses, and no offense, but I could do without the drama.”
Wow. Amanda sank against the breakfast bar. “Are you always so direct?” In her world full of flatterers, opportunists, and professional pretenders, no one ever came right out and told her what they thought of her. Well, no one but the camel that told her in no uncertain terms that it didn’t like her—by biting her.
“Usually,” Michelle said, shrugging. “It saves time.” With a rueful smile she added, “It also got me slapped a time or two.”
Her expression made Amanda laugh. “Your actress exes?”
“No. Throwing dishes was more their style.”
Oh, yeah. Amanda had once shared a trailer with a soap opera diva like that. “Is that how you got your scar?” She pointed at the corner of her eye, then jerked her hand away. She normally wasn’t one to ask such personal questions the first time she met someone. Guess being direct is contagious.
Automatically, Michelle’s finger came up to touch the scar. “Nothing quite as spectacular as what happened with your scar.”
Amanda groaned. “Did the whole bar see my shoulder?”
“No, not the whole bar. I was sitting right next to you when you showed off that scar.”
Even now, Amanda’s memory remained blank. She hazily remembered sliding onto a barstool. Yes, a woman had been sitting next to her, but she hadn’t paid her any attention. “Are you trying to change the topic?”
“Guilty as charged, ma’am.” Michelle lifted both hands. “Okay, here’s the story. When I was four or five, my brother and I were fighting over some toy. I tackled him, and when he tried to crawl away with the toy, I held on to his leg. That’s when he kicked out.”
“Ouch.” For the first time in her life, Amanda was glad to be an only child. “Who got the toy in the end?”
Michelle chuckled. “Who do you think?”
“I have a feeling you always get what you want.”
A grin tugged up the small scar. “Does that mean you’ll come to the living room with me?” Michelle sobered. “Listen, I’m really not trying to get fresh with you or anything, but you look like hell. You should really take an Aspirin and wait for it to kick in before you get behind the wheel.”
Her honesty was disarming. And she was right. Driving with a hangover was almost as bad as drunk driving. Waiting a few more minutes before they left wouldn’t hurt, especially now that they both knew where they stood. “All right. You win.”
* * *
Michelle’s living room made Amanda’s small apartment seem like an emergency shelter. Two recliners were angled toward a cozy fireplace that made the stylish room look more inviting. A red fleece blanket had slipped off the leather couch.
As it had been in the bedroom, large, framed prints dominated this room too. Next to the TV hung a large photograph of two gnarled, age-spotted hands cradling a tiny baby. In another print, half a dozen kids between the age of two and twelve piled onto Michelle, hugging her. All of them shared the same hair and eye color, like rich Swiss chocolate. Michelle, who was crouched to be at eye level with the smaller kids, looked as if she was about to be toppled over under the onslaught, but instead of catching herself, both of her hands steadied the youngest child, preventing him from falling.
“That’s a great picture,” Amanda said, pointing.
Michelle turned and regarded the photo with a fond expression. “Yeah. That’s my brother’s brood.”
Amanda stared at her. “Your brother has six children?”
“What can I say? Marty never knew when to stop.” Michelle set the bottle of Aspirin and a water glass on the coffee table. She bent, picked up the blanket, and folded it. Sweeping her arm, she invited Amanda to sit.
Amanda took two steps toward her, then stopped when the largest DVD collection she had ever seen caught her attention. Even her own paled in comparison. There had to be several hundred DVDs, filling shelf after shelf in a ceiling-high bookcase. “Wow. Apparently, you don’t know when to stop either.”
Michelle laughed. Not the polite little laugh or dainty giggle that some of Amanda’s colleagues had, but a full-out laugh that seemed to fill the air with joy.
At the loud sound, Amanda’s headache flared up. She winced.
“Sorry.” Michelle stopped laughing and pressed her fingers to her full lips, but her eyes still twinkled. “Yeah, I go a bit overboard when it comes to movies. Would I have anything that you’re in?”
Amanda had long since learned to expect that question whenever people found out she was an actress. “Do you tape commercials or bad soap operas?”
“Um, no.”
“Then no, you don’t have anything I’m in.”
An understanding smile spread across Michelle’s face. “Ah, so your career hasn’t yet
taken off. Don’t worry, it will. You’ve got the face for it.”
Amanda eyed her. Was Michelle one of these smooth-talking butches who complimented women left and right? After ten years in Hollywood, Amanda was immune to that kind of flattery. “Thanks, I think,” she said and crossed the room. “At least your lines are much better than those of my red-haired drinking buddy.” She winced as soon as she had said it.
“Lines?” Michelle shook her head. “Nope. I leave delivering lines to you actresses. I really meant it. You know, you remind me of my favorite actress of all times. I thought so as soon as I saw you last night.”
“So who’s your favorite actress? Sandra Bullock in Twenty-Eight Days?” Amanda couldn’t remember most of last night, but her behavior must have been just as embarrassing as that of the movie’s alcoholic main character. She took a step toward the coffee table to pick up the Aspirin.
Michelle laughed, though not as loud as before. “No. It wasn’t the fact that you were drinking like a fish that reminded me of my favorite actress. It’s the way you move and those earnest, big, blue eyes of yours ... You really look like a modern-day version of Josephine Mabry.”
Amanda crashed into the coffee table. She flailed her arms in a desperate attempt to regain her balance.
Only Michelle’s quick reflexes kept her from falling. “Careful.” Michelle still held on to Amanda’s arm but gentled her grip. “You all right?”
“Yes. Thanks.” Amanda knew she was gaping, but she couldn’t help it. She’s her favorite actress? Had Michelle just said that to flatter her? No. She couldn’t know. And Amanda believed her when Michelle said she wasn’t one to use pretty lines just to flatter people. She sank onto the couch and swallowed two Aspirin. “You mentioning Josephine Mabry just caught me by surprise.”
Michelle sat next to her and finally relinquished her hold on Amanda’s arm. She leaned back and chuckled. “What, you thought I just watch movies like Terminator and Rocky, maybe with a bit of sports and porn thrown in?”
Heat shot into Amanda’s face. Michelle wasn’t the stereotypical butch—if such a thing even existed—so she really had to stop making stupid assumptions. Ignoring her blush, she held Michelle’s gaze. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just that you’re not exactly in the typical age group for a fan.”
Michelle fluffed her short hair. “I’ll have you know I’ve got two gray hairs already. And I’ve been a fan for twenty-five years.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.”
“God, you Hollywood people are a mistrustful bunch. Twenty-five years, I swear.” Michelle held up three fingers. “I watched all her movies with my grandfather when I was a kid. I think he had a crush on Ms. Mabry. Well, and maybe, just maybe I had a tiny crush on her too. Who could blame us? She was quite the looker in her day.”
“Yes,” Amanda said, “she was.”
“Are you a fan too?” Michelle asked.
Amanda smiled. “Well, I guess you could say that. She’s my grandmother.”
Michelle’s eyes widened. “You’re not kidding, are you?” The leather creaked as Michelle turned toward Amanda on the couch. Her knee almost touched Amanda’s thigh, but by now, her proximity wasn’t as uncomfortable as before. “What did she think about you becoming an actress too?”
“I guess she’s got conflicted feelings about it,” Amanda said.
“Really? I’d have thought she would be as proud as a peacock of its tail feathers.”
Amanda chuckled. “She is. If there were an Oscar for commercials, she would try to get me nominated.”
The laugh lines around Michelle’s eyes deepened. “So where do the conflicted feelings come in?”
“She knows the business,” Amanda said, surprising herself with how willingly she answered this stranger. “Most actresses never make it in Hollywood, and if they do, it’s at a price. If you want to make a living as an actress, you’ll have to take parts you don’t want, work with people you don’t like, and smile through it all. Some people even say you have to sell a piece of your soul to make it in Hollywood.”
“I never got the impression that your grandmother did that.” Michelle turned a bit more so that she was fully facing Amanda and laid her left arm along the back of the couch. “I mean, she made some movies that were highly controversial in their time, and she refused to let herself be typecast as a demure damsel or a seductress.”
Amanda nodded. “And that’s why few people other than you and your grandfather have ever heard of her. She won a few Film Critics’ Awards, but she never starred in blockbusters. She didn’t care for fame or money; she just wanted to act. But then, she had a husband who made good money, and she knows I’ll never have that. That’s why she worries about me.”
“So she knows you’re gay?” A blush crept up Michelle’s neck. “I mean ... if you are gay. Just because you couldn’t keep your hands off me when you were smashed, I shouldn’t assume that ...”
For once, Amanda wasn’t the flustered one. She smiled. “Relax. I’m gay. And yes, my grandmother knows. She was the first person I came out to.”
“And she’s fine with it?”
“She says if that’s what makes me happy, then she’s all for it.”
Michelle casually touched Amanda’s shoulder. “That’s what my grandfather said to me too. Wow, too bad those two never met. They would have made a great couple.”
Amanda considered it for a moment. If her grandfather married my grandmother, that would make us siblings or cousins. She shook herself. The longer she talked to Michelle, the more she liked her—but it wasn’t in a sisterly way. The thought took her by surprise. You’re not attracted to her, are you? No, of course she wasn’t. Besides, she was too hungover to feel anything but nauseated. “Maybe,” she said, “but I really can’t imagine my grandmother with anyone but my grandfather.”
“I know what you mean,” Michelle said. She pointed at one of the DVD shelves. “Do you want to watch one of her movies? I have them all.”
Amanda glanced at her watch. She had more than enough time, but was it really a good idea to hang out here for much longer?
“It’s just an offer,” Michelle said when Amanda kept hesitating. “I can drive you to your car now if you want, but it might not be a bad idea to let the residual alcohol wear off and give the Aspirin some time to kick in.”
Finally, Amanda shrugged. “Sure, why not?” She hadn’t seen her grandmother’s movies in a while, and if she were at home now, she wouldn’t do much beyond hanging out on the couch either.
“Which one?”
“How about Spur of the Moment?”
“Good choice. It’s my favorite.” Michelle got up, picked a DVD out of the shelf without having to search for it, and headed over to the large flat-screen TV in the corner. On the way back from the DVD player, she hesitated in front of the recliner but then returned to the couch and sat next to Amanda again. “Want to do the honors?” Bowing as if she were handing over a scepter, Michelle held out the remote control.
“Thank you, kind ... um ... lady.” Their fingers brushed as Amanda reached for the remote control. She bit her lip and started the movie.
* * *
When the closing credits rolled across the TV screen, Amanda realized that her headache was now just a dull pressure instead of a constant throbbing. She had kicked off her shoes and curled her legs under her. Her shoulder touched Michelle’s—and probably had during half of the movie.
Michelle moved a few inches to the right, as if she had only now realized it too. She turned her head and trailed her gaze over every inch of Amanda’s face. “I wasn’t imagining things. You really look a lot like your grandmother.”
Amanda blinked. “Yeah?” She liked to think so, but most people thought she was a carbon copy of her mother, who looked nothing like Grandma. “You really think so?”
“Of course. You have this ...” Michelle reached out as if to touch Amanda’s cheek with one fingertip. At the last moment, she withdrew her hand. “Um ... The
curve of your cheekbones is exactly like hers. And your smile.”
They stared at each other.
Amanda’s skin seemed to heat beneath Michelle’s intense gaze.
Then Michelle looked away and stuffed her hand into the back pocket of her jeans. She cleared her throat. “How’s your head?”
A little confused. But of course, that wasn’t what Michelle was asking. “I’m fine,” Amanda said. She gulped down the remainder of her water.
“All right. Then let’s go.” Michelle turned off the TV, and they headed for the door.
* * *
Amanda smirked. At least one stereotype was true—Michelle’s means of transportation was an SUV.
“So why doesn’t the promising grandchild of the grand dame of romantic movies believe in love?” Michelle asked as she unlocked the car and held the passenger side door open for Amanda.
Amanda waited until Michelle had gotten in on her side and had started the SUV before she answered, “Who said I don’t believe in love?”
Michelle waited for another car to pass and pulled out of the parking space. When traffic stopped at a red light, she glanced over at Amanda. “You do?”
Was there a hopeful tone in her voice?
Amanda mentally shook her head. No, they had established once and for all that they weren’t interested in each other. “Well, there was a week when my girlfriend left me for a double-D bimbo from a Brazilian telenovela ... but other than that, sure.”
“Then why did you attend the Anti-Valentine’s Day party?”
Michelle’s hands resting on the steering wheel looked sure and strong. For some reason, Amanda’s gaze kept wandering back to them, taking in the long fingers and the tendons playing in the back of her hands. Resolutely, she directed her gaze at the taillights of the car in front of them. “I don’t believe in the commercialized version of love. A friend of mine set me up with the only other lesbian he knows, just because he thought I’d find eternal love on Valentine’s Day. Needless to say it was a disaster.”
“Ah.” Michelle nodded as if she had been through dates like that too. “I’ll never get why people think two lesbians will fall in love just because they’re both gay.”
