Page 69 of Fade into You
“I. Don’t. Care.”
She’s staring me right in the eyes and I see the ocean-green color of hers, ringed with blue, looking determined, ready to take on the world. She has no idea what the world can dish out.
“You live with the fucking enemy, Bird. She will decimate you. You’ll care when they’re calling you dyke and queer and chucking food at you. You’ll care when the assholes corner you and threaten you with a ‘good deep dicking.’ You’ll care and then you’ll hatemefor bringing you into it all.”
She’s shaking her head, her hair a beautiful curly curtain, another urge to touch, another urge to fight that touch. I drop her hands and turn to the mirror. I see myself, I look rough, eyes red-rimmed, bags under from not sleeping, strain showing through every part of my face and body. This isn’t easy. But so often the right thing isn’t.
“I’m trying to protect you, Bird.”
I see her reflection walking up to me, feel her arms as they wrap around, that safe, happy feeling in me fighting against all the good sense I have.
“Jessa, I don’t need that kind of protecting. I can take care of myself.”
“Like you did at the club?” I can taste the sneer in my words.
“Don’t do that,” she says, not pulling away. “Don’t go mean to get out of this. Tell me why. Tell me why you think we can’t be together.”
She’s right. It’s my reflex to make things mean. But I’m tired of sniping. I’m tired of hurting others in the name of survival and protection. I’m just tired.
“?’Cause you’re straight, Bird. And I took advantage of you being high and this is all gonna wear off and you’re gonna want to go back to guys, and then you get to try to repair your reputation, and that means cutting me out. I’d rather be friends than nothing. You see?”
She pulls back and I can’t turn to face her. I squeeze my eyes shut so I don’t see her walk out. I wait for the sound of the door slamming, but instead her hands are on my waist, turning me around, her finger on my chin, tilting my head up, and when my eyes open she’s standing there with a confused look on her face.
“Okay, first: You didnottake advantage of me. I was barely even buzzed when I kissed you, and I knew exactly what I was doing. And second, why are you just assuming I’m straight?”
“Dade said you had a boyfriend at writing camp, that you had sex with him, then it all ended, and maybe I’m a substitute, but not a good one.”
Her lips form a firm line and I can tell she’s mad, but instead of taking it out on me, she puts her hand on my cheek, the one with the slightest touch of yellowed bruise left.
“Well, I think I have a better idea of who I am and what I want than a guy I’ve said five sentences to my entire life.” She pauses and I can see she’s breathing heavier. “Besides, that was never meant to be shared. I told Kayla that in confidence, and it wasn’t even the full story. You’re not the first girl I’ve kissed.”
“What?” I breathe.
“I knew what I was doing—it wasn’t like some rebound substitute or whatever you’re thinking. I like you. I tried not to like you, but I do.”
“If you can be straight, you should. It’s easier. It’ssafer.”
“I don’t think it’s that easy. It’s not a choice I can just make.” She pulls away and opens her bag, starts rummaging through until she pulls out her notebook—the one she carries with her all the time. “Look, at camp Silas and I were together, sort of, and yes, we did have sex, but…” She pulls out a picture, one I’ve seen before. It’s her sandwiched between a guy and girl, looking happy. “I also spent time with Kat. We kissed. It was great, but scary, and I wasn’t ready to deal with what that meant.”
“So you lost both of them, right?”
“No, we all realized that summer would end and we wouldn’t likely get together again regardless. I think they were both hurt and I wish I could’ve handled it differently, but I was confused.”
“See, you’re just confused, you—”
“Iwasconfused,” she cuts me off, “but I’m not anymore, and I’m starting to understand that for me it’s always been about the person—who they are inside.”
“So you’re saying you’re, what, bi?” I ask her, allowing myself to feel the tiniest sliver of hope.
“I don’t know, that’s not how I’ve ever said it, but…”
“Well, how do you usually say it?”
“Idon’t. I mean, I haven’t ever actually said it before.” She stops and exhales. “So, yes. I am.”
I try to set aside my own anxiety because I know this is a big moment for her, and one you don’t get to do over if it doesn’t go well.
“I’m bi,” she says, and her voice is trembling in a way I’d think would mean she was about to cry, except she’s smiling as she looks down at her feet. “That’s the first time I’ve ever said that out loud.”
