Page 46 of The Lovers
“Like the wine.” I had to work extra hard to keep the quaver in my voice from tripping a fault line as a visual of Julia materialized in my brain without permission. The slight olive hint in her skin tone from her mom’s side of the family—Sicilian—would offset the color beautifully. Her tiny waist showing through the sheer flowing fabric of the slip; her sturdy, taut thighs strapped into the garter— I clenched my fingers around the corners of the bag and looked away.
I knew that feeling would eventually subside. It always, always did. The tweak to my nipples, the pressure between my thighs, so warm and aching—I’ve learned how to ignore it when I feel it for other women. That particular itch was too scary to scratch, but still my brain materialized the image of the finger vibrator in the Sexy Times tote bag and how it could help. How good it would feel to think about her when I used it, if I used it before I fell asleep— That stupid train of thought only made the ache expand.
I made it through the ride back to Celestial Sands without exploding, mostly by picturing my safe place and ignoring everytap tap tapfrom the image of Julia trying to invade it.
We’re standing outside the lobby doors now, and it feels like we’re the only two people awake in the world. The compound is quiet, probably most have fallen asleep by now; even the nocturnal animals seem to have muted their late-night hums, but neitherJulia nor I seem ready to make the first move away from each other.
She tugs her phone from her jacket pocket, illuminating the screen.
“I have to be up in four hours,” she says. “The rest of the guests start arriving bright and goddamn early.” I see an Instagram notification on the screen as she checks the time, so that confirms it. She’s on Instagram and she receives at least some of her notifications. “I should be filled with regret right now.” She pockets the phone again and looks up. The tip of her nose and her cheeks are pink tinted from the chilly air. “But I’m not.”
Her words warm me all over and I don’t want to push the feeling away. Knowing she doesn’t regret the game we played, even if it’s not because she played it withmespecifically, makes me feel hopeful that maybe this chasm between us can be breached. I don’t even know why I want that, but I don’t question the feeling. It’s there. It’s undeniable.
“Your assistant—what’s her name? Zoe?” I ask, refocusing.
“Zoe, yeah.” Her brows shoot together like she’s surprised that I remembered her assistant’s name.
“She’s sharp. I bet she could hold down the fort for an extra hour.”
“She’d love the chance. She’s always complaining—in the most respectful way possible, obviously—that shein factdoesn’t need me to regurgitate her job at her like a mother bird feeding her young.” The image of Julia standing open-mouthed over the wild-maned form of Zoe, holding a flower arrangement and table linen swatches, is a little too vivid.
“Okay.” I blink, eyes tearing with exhaustion. “I justvisualized that metaphor in graphic, Tim Burton–style detail. Time for me to call it a night.”
She nods, stepping up to the lobby doors to swipe her key. She pulls one heavy side open, motioning for me to enter.
“Will it immediately age me if I skip skincare tonight?” I ask, yawning. The way she sways a little toward me as I pass by her and through the door could be intentional, could be exhaustion, or just my imagination. Fuck—I really have to stop reading into every single tremor of movement or look she tosses my way.
“It’s morning, so maybe just go extra hard on your a.m. routine when you get up,” she replies, also yawning, her tongue curling toward her teeth like a cat. My eyes fix on the move for an overlong moment—thankfully, she doesn’t see the slip in my attention.
We walk through the dimly lit lobby, where the only person awake is the night clerk. She’s sitting at the desk, engrossed in some game she’s playing on her phone. She doesn’t look up as we walk past.
“Candy Crush?” Julia asks when we’re out of earshot. “Tetris, maybe?”
I snort, flicking my eyes behind me. “No, look at the swipe. That bitch is catching Pokémon for sure.”
“Gotta catch ’em all,” she singsongs, her voice raspy with exhaustion.
We’re outside in the courtyard, which has brightly colored lanterns that light the way toward the paths leading off to the bungalows and my Airstream. It takes every ounce of courage I have to hold eye contact with her in this warm, low, romantic lighting.
My brain is screaming,This is her! This is the only girl you’ve ever kissed. This is the girl you ran away from. This is Julia, she’s right FUCKING HERE—FREAK OUT ABOUT THIS, PLEASE!
“See you tomorrow”—my tongue trips but doesn’t stutter—“Julia.”
“Later today,” she corrects, her nostrils flaring as her eyes drop to my lips for a blistering second.
I walk in the direction of my Airstream trailer before I lose my courage, or worse, say one of the ardent, rambling thoughts breaking out all over my brain like tiny wildfires. That didn’t happen. We didn’t just play hide-and-seek in the dark. We didn’t just look at each other with so much yearning we can’t possibly ever abate it. We didn’t just exist in the same space for hours and not implode from the closeness.
Twin Flames always find their way back to each other.
Can that be what’s actually happening right now?
Madame Moira can’t have known we were both queer when neither one of us knew it ourselves, but maybe the cards somehow did. Saw into the deep, dark corners of the closets in our hearts and illuminated it for that split second we sat side by side at the tarot table.
The cards never lie, but neither do rom-coms.
Or, at least, that’s what I’ve always wanted to believe.
Movies about blissful, unmarred Happily Ever Afters between men and women were selling fantasy instead of the truth. Romance is mostly messy. Love is dynamite, not a bouquet. My parents have proven as much.
