Page 20 of Arrogant Puck

I hesitate, looking to Emma to save me.

I’ve had two drinks. My skin’s warm. My pulse is buzzing under the surface.

I glance at Emma, who raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say a word.

And I think—Why not?

We’re girls. We love to dance. I love to dance.

So, I stand and follow her to the dance floor.

The woman’s hands are on my hips the second we reach the middle of the floor. She smells like mint and something smoky.

We move. I try to keep up. I try to stop thinking. I try to be the kind of girl who lets go, even just for a night.

Her hands slide to my back. Her mouth is near my ear. Then she turns me to face her and kisses me like this is normal behavior.

I stiffen, suddenly flashes of my ex and his friend running its course through my body like it remembers everything.

A shiver takes over me, and I’m frozen.

“Come here,” she says, and it’s her voice that brings me back to this moment.

I lean in because she doesn’t sound like Tyler, look like Tyler, feel like Tyler.

Maybe I just need feel something—anything—with someone else other than Tyler.

But all I feel is her lip ring pressing into my mouth. The stick of her gloss against mine.

And I pull back, not feeling it.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I thought—” I shake my head. “I’m not.”

She smiles, easy. “No big. You’re cute, though.”

She disappears back into the crowd.

I return to the table. Emma hands me water without a word.

I drink as she watches me.

“She tried to kiss me,” I say eventually. I drink more water. “I’m not gay. I kind of knew that.”

She shrugs. “Now you know for sure.”

There’s no judgment. No heat.

“I want to leave,” I blurt out.

She shrugs. “Okay.”

The next day at work, I feel it all in my bones. The fatigue, the self-consciousness, the lingering embarrassment of being kissed by a woman. The violation that my ex did living in my bones. It takes everything in me to not call in sick, but my work is all that I have for a distraction.

I show up early again. No makeup. Ponytail. Head down.

Riley’s waiting for me with another list—longer than the last. Tape count. Ice packs. Wrist sleeves. Email follow-ups. And—

“Oh, and Slater Castellano,” he says. “You’re following up with him again.”

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