Page 31 of The Lovers
I wasfinewith fine. I have been busy, anyway, building my channel, branding myself, living a goddamn lie that wasn’t hurting anybody.
Sure, lying is exhausting, and the truth about my attraction to women felt so natural—like knowing which side of the bed I like to sleep on, like deciding how to part my hair. But the lie was safe, it was proven, there was no reason at all to change that now.
“You’re kicking up a sand cloud,” Julia says from behind me. I whirl, defenses raised, eyes eating up the sight. She’s standing beneath a lantern, arms crossed over her bomber jacket, eyes sharp with focus.
“Call me Pigpen,” I say.
“You’re definitely more of a Lucy van Pelt,” she counters.
“And who are you? Peppermint Patty?” It’s too harsh. I regret it immediately. I want to backtrack.
Julia’s mouth twists.
“If we’re going there, I prefer Amity Blight fromThe OwlHouse,” she replies. “At least she gets to dance under the moonlight with the girl she loves.”
“I figured you’d go with Harley Quinn.”
Her brow quirks. “Harley was way too into the Joker for my tastes.” She smirks. “You know I—”
“—barely even like dudes.” We finish the phrase in unison.
Her eyes spark, the irises bright, the pupils wide and dark. She tucks a hand in the pocket of her bomber jacket, pulling the zippered opening closed with the other. I track up the line of the zipper to the sharp V where her blouse buttons are fastened.
“Enjoying the view?” There’s way too much satisfaction in her voice. My eyes lock with hers.
“We can’t,” I say.
“Can’t what?”
“Talk about us.” I can hardly get the words out.
“There is no us.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Refresh my memory.”
“I’d rather forget.”
Julia nods, takes a step closer. I should bolt. I can figure out how to level up my career without this opportunity. Nina would still let me crash on her couch, I’m sure of it. Millie would be pissed, probably bad-mouth me around town—that would be a problem, but I’d bounce back.
Eventually.
“You’restillplaying the girl next door looking for her perfect boy,” she says, not a question, not waiting for an answer. “Or was it unattainable vixen?” She takes a step closer. “Mysterious, wounded flower?”Closer.“Manic pixie dream girl.” I can almost feel her breath on my cheek.
“What happened to your nose ring?” I hold eye contact. Desperate not to flinch.
Her eyes trek over my face. Everywhere they touch is singed like the flame burning a matchstick down.
“What happened to you that morning?” She whispers the question. My cheeks heat with the warmth from her breath, the smell of it all minty and chocolate goodness. We’re almost nose to nose, but I’m taller. This close, the dark cerulean, silver haze, sea green flecks of her eyes are like jewels refracting the stars.
The Universe doesn’t owe me better karma but I wish it would try a little understanding. I was young and scared and I wish with everything I could take it back.
“Yours is easier,” I say, swallowing my nerves. I didn’t come here expecting to clean up this mess from our long-ago past, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try.
“It got infected.” I can’t get my smile under control fast enough. She smirks. “I had a cold and the doctor said I should take it out. The snot caked over the back and I had to use saline spray to loosen it, but it was all inflamed and red, warm to the touch.”
I cringe, she snorts, and we’re still standing so close that every move threatens contact.
