Page 44 of The Lovers
We reach the boulder, chests heaving, blood pumping, resting our backs against the cool rock for support. The moonlight drenches her face. It’s hard to tug my attention away from the damp sheen of sweat puckering along her exposed collarbone, but when she reels her lids open, I manage to, right in the nick of time.
“I don’t think they saw us, do you?” she asks, breathless.
I hold my finger to my lips to signal for quiet and we both listen. In the distance I hear screeches of laughter, maybe the sound of someone being captured, but I can’t make out the words or voices. The only other noises come from the desert itself. The wind in trees, moving branches, rustling up the sand into tiny tornadoes.
“I think we’re good.” I point toward the opposite edge of theboulder and we both move to peer around at the yurt. The bonfire area is partially in view beyond the white edges of the building, and I can see Lisa and Maddie sitting in chairs they’ve pulled up to its side, holding skewers fixed with marshmallows they are roasting in the fire. Clearly, not too broken up about their quick defeat. “This is it—the chance.”
I’m standing beside her so that I can see beyond the boulder, since she’s a couple inches taller than me. When she moves her arms to put the flashlight in her other hand, our elbows brush. It’s not skin-on-skin contact because of our clothes, but it doesn’t matter. I still get a surge down my spine that makes me wobble.
“We will be the winners of the Sexy Times bag,” she says. Her use of those specific words hits a button in my brain, reminding me of Coco’s encouragement that I let my freak flag fly, a totally out of the question proposition. Loosening up is so not in my job description, and yet here I am willingly playing a game of hide-and-seek for a “pleasure for one” bag of goodies.
“Jesus Christ,” I snort. “I should probably donate mine.”
“Not me,” she replies. Her smile is sly; I hope the heat in my cheeks isn’t noticeable. The urge to ask her more is a swishy, seasick feeling in my stomach.
When you’re a queer girl and you come out in high school, you hope for acceptance from peers and family; you sigh with relief that you don’t have to pretend toonlynotice boys, or tojustwant friendship from girls. But coming out doesn’t make you magically equipped with a faultless gaydar; it doesn’t make you any more certain that you will find love in the hopeless landscape of adolescence. Your own queerness doesn’t automatically mean you know if someone else is also queer, any more than any person can ever be sure of another’s attraction.
I wasn’t ready.Her words outside the yurt before the tarot readings. But—
She kissed me first.
She kissed me back.
Just like every other adventure.
“I can’t imagine you’re satisfied in bed—sleeping just with men.” As soon as the words leave my lips, I wish I could retract them.
This is why I don’t cut loose. This is why I have firm boundaries, fixed rabbit trails. The only insurance against heartache is control.
I see the muscle in her jaw pulse as she clenches her teeth.
“I mean, maybe you are.”Shut the fuck up, Kelley.“Since you’re straight.” The word is said in heavily implied air quotes.Self-sabotage for one, please.
Kit flicks the flashlight on. Then off. She turns, whirls actually, and now we’re nose to nose. There’s a spray of soft freckles showing through her matte finish makeup, too covered up for me to see if the pattern has changed since high school.
“It’s shitty to make those kinds of assumptions about a person,” she says, her voice newly sharp.
“It’s not an assumption when the person once said it themselves.” I double down because otherwise I will wither.
“A lot can change in ten years,” she says, hooking her left eyebrow in a pointed expression.
“What, exactly, haschanged?” I edge closer, the curves of my body taunting hers. Her eyes drop to my lips but don’t linger. She flicks the flashlight back on, shifting to put distance between us, and turns her attention to the path ahead.
“Think we can make it? I hear voices getting closer.” Her tone flattens, like she is deliberately trying to control her inflection.
I force myself to focus. Dickish behavior (mine) aside, we’re in this thing together. She wants to win the Sexy Times bag, or she wants the glory, or she’s just trying to distract herself (like me) from all these confusing, conflicting, consuming feelings and this is the current best plan of action to do so.
“We just have to touch the yurt, right? Not make it inside or anything?”
“That’s the directive.”
She flicks off the flashlight. “Now or never.”
And it feels like she’s talking about more than just running for the glory of that Sexy Times tote bag. My eyes find hers. Trepidation melts away with the look she’s giving. These words are an answer, more than an olive branch.
“Now,” I reply.
I want her to want me.
