Page 57 of Hot Tea & Bird Calls
Celene knew the implications there. She couldn’t even smile at Beaker grooming her feathers, out of her daze. “Types are weird. You follow those instincts because of your natural attraction. And when the relationship doesn’t work, you wonder if your type is for you. Take my ex, Quinn, for example.” Memories swept in. Many sad, some not so much. “I thought we’d been well-matched, but at my sister’s wedding, Quinn attended with her girlfriend, and it’s like she came alive. I couldn’t reconcile the difference. Don’t get me wrong—her girlfriend’s beautiful, but she’s so damn chatty and nerdy and unlike me, and they looked right together. I’d never seen Quinn laugh so much.”
“I looked up Quinn. Sorry.” Skye’s full lips warped into a clumsy smile. “Have you adjusted your type since her?”
“Not at all. I’m in a prison of my own creation,” Celene stated, her laugh humorless. “That’s why I’m attracted to you. You’re introspective, a natural listener.” Needing the moment to lighten, she tossed in, “She’s taller than you, though.”
It caught Skye off-course, hence her snort. “Well, I have no control over my height, so...”
“I love your height.” She knew her heavy stares got to Skye and attempted to hold back, but how could she? “I’ve never been taller than anyone I’ve dated. Quinn often wore heels, so I’d wear higher heels to split the difference. And while height gaps work for most people, I tire of looking up so often.” Celene held Skye’s gaze. God, what they would be doing if they were actual girlfriends in a house with all these bedrooms and furniture and rugs and counter space. Enunciation crisp, she said, “I’d been missing out. It’s nice to have someone in a tight little package.”
Skye blinked, but that expressed more than enough.
Seconds later, Beaker flapped her wings and tore off into the summer sky.
“This house must bepublic enemy #1 to the avian community,” Skye muttered, balancing on a steel freestanding ladder.
In the open plan’s kitchen, Celene stirred two blackberry mojitos, as the bird situation gave reason to drink. Conscious of Skye, she prepared her glass with a smaller portion of rum so that the bicycle-in-a-ditch joke wouldn’t become a reality. The ripe berries from the Farmer’s Market section of the Toast Festival provided the perfect garnish on top. “I shudder to think how many birds slammed into that gable window while nobody was around.”
Skye attached her third reflective decal to the window. “You’ll atone for your family’s sins.”
“Their blood is on my dad’s hands, not mine.” An apparent lover of the morbid, Celene highlighted that with the breathy laugh Skye daydreamed about.
Any icy, unapproachable edges of Celene faded to distant memory. She couldn’t fool Skye; she’d named Beaker and paced outside post-flight to make sure she didn’t fall. Peeling another decal free, Skye replied, “That won’t be a problem anymore.”
They’d pushed the reading session, instead hunting through apps and old menus stuffed in a drawer until they settled on sweet potato gnocchi and a spring salad for lunch delivery. Dating—uh,pretenddating—another vegetarian added a refreshing commonality. She used to wait at least twenty minutes after ex-girlfriends ate meat to kiss them. For the extreme pinkness of June’s beef, Skye would be too squicked out for most of the day.
Curtains drawn, sunlight touching overarching points of the living room, Skye and Celene had chatted over their fresh, simple lunch like they’d never severed ways over twenty years prior. In the middle of a big laugh about gossipy Ms. Greene from across the street, Celene placed her hand on Skye’s knee. Under the table, casually, as if that didn’t steal every intelligent thought from her head. Skye practically flew to the shed for a ladder to recuperate.
“Do you forage for blackberries?” Celene asked as she made herself comfortable on a new, modern couch. It certainly fit the developing semi-minimalist, semi-rustic ambience.
“I do.” Skye fought the urge to tug at the bottom of her shirt. Though long-sleeved, it was cropped, right above her shorts. The designer hadn’t accounted for the wearer to be on a ladder—good thing she wore a bra today. “They’re never as sweet as the ones at the Farmer’s Market.”
Celene stared openly. She made a show of lounging, languidly sipping her mojito. Twisting a finger into her long hair, she purred, “Take your time up there. I like the view.”
“A fan of decals?” Skye retorted, reeling at this flirty side.
“Oh, yes.Decalsdistracted me from my studies all through high school and college. I adore a nice, perky pair of decals.”
Skye braced her hand on a wall, snorting. “Don’t make me laugh. I’m too high up.”
“I’d catch you.”
Somehow, she didn’t doubt that. Skye bit her lip and finished her work.
Three mojitos later (two for Celene, one for Skye), they’d choreographed a smooth method of wiggling into the hammock. The alcohol hadn’t done a lot, just mellowed Skye out too much to care about Norwood’s Mistress and her bounty of sex-craved lovers.
“You have the most relaxed smile I’ve ever seen,” Celene said, lowering her paperback of the depressing gay book. “Did I overpour?”
“No. I’m just happy.”
Celene shifted a little, which was a lot on a hammock. They rocked as she rested her head on her bent arm, watching Skye the way she’d done earlier. “Thank you for helping me today.”
“Thanks for calling me.”
“You’re the only person I could think of.”
Letting go of any chance of reading, Skye shoved the book to her side.
Not to belabor it, but Celene was so wonderfully warm. Skye glimpsed up at the treetops and, interestingly, her daydreams didn’t take her on a fantastical outdoor ride. They conjured up a chilly winter’s night, sharing a blanket with Celene for a heat fix.
