Falling For Raine (Ch’s 9 to 20)

Chapter 9. Savannah

Man, I’m so glad I’m queer.

I don’t have that thought very often—hardly ever, actually, because people are just people, aren’t they? If I learned anything growing up, it’s that the moment you start labeling everything, people begin focusing on our differences and ignore what makes us the same, and it all goes to shit.

But there are always exceptions, and six of them just walked in and sat down in my section. Cheryl, our hostess and the owner’s 19-year-old granddaughter, hands them all menus, announces that their server will be right with them—that would be me—and gives me a sympathetic eye-roll as she heads back to the podium.

Cuz, yeah, no kidding…

These guys are practically all in uniform—the uniform of young entitled dickheads who work at a famous tech firm downtown: pastel button-downs, tacky blazers, slim-cut dark-wash chinos and suede boondockers. Only two are wearing those big black-framed glasses, and all but two are sporting the ratty facial hair that always reminds me of a mangy rodent that’s trying too hard. A couple have man-buns, and one of the clean-shaven guys has an honest-to-god mullet. He’s wearing a pink shirt with tiny polka dots and olive pants that’re putting a vile taste in my mouth. The last guy is the odd one out. He looks to be just out of college and has on a white shirt and jeans with white sneakers that make him look endearingly normal.

I wish I could be less harsh, but I caught enough of them chatting while they were led to their table to know what I’m in for. If I had any doubts, the way they blatantly checked out Cheryl’s ass would’ve erased them. Cheryl’s hella pretty, I’ll be the first say that, but c’mon. The only saving grace is that it’s early so if I’m in luck, they have somewhere else to be later and won’t hang around for long.

Once their baskets of focaccia are delivered, I prepare to plaster on the nicest fake smile possible and walk over when Allie, who’s serving with me this shift, sidles up and puts a hand on my forearm. “You wanna switch sections?”

Allie’s my age, but she’s been working here longer than I have. She’s super cute, has cotton-candy pink hair, and I think a bit of a straight-girl crush on me; she’s always doing things, including (like now) offering to save me from dealing with a pack of skeezy tech bros. I try not to encourage that and keep her firmly in the work-friend zone. I like her and I don’t want the hurt feelings and heartache that inevitably come from giving in to that particular form of temptation.

“Nah, I got this”—giving her hand a squeeze. “But the next time we get a bunch of hammered middle-aged business dudes in here, they’re all yours.”

“Okay.” She chuckles under her breath. “Go get ’em, tiger.”

Smile in place, I make my way to their table and stand there with my hands folded in front of me. “Hello and welcome to La Vita è Dolce. I’m Savannah. What can I get you started with?”

Mullet Dude puts his elbows on the table and smirks at me over his steepled fingers. “I could go for an Orgasm.” His bros titter and laugh cuz that’s, like, so original. The guy with a weak chinstrap beard to his right pipes up with, “Sign me up for Sex on the Beach,” while the dude across from him—one of the two with glasses—chimes in to add, “I’m feeling like a Cunning Linguist, myself.”

“Yo! Dude! That’s rad!” Chinstrap Guy barks and they fist bump—for real, fist bump—across the table.

I strain to keep my eyes from rolling outta my head. Rad? He seriously said rad? What decade does he think this is, anyway?

The rest of them are snorting and laughing, except for the young guy, who’s staring into his lap with a faint blush on his cheeks. Before they can get more carried away and I give in to the temptation to send them to Pandora’s Box, a strip club across town that serves all those drinks and more, I tap a leather-covered menu.

“Drinks are at the front of the menu.” I sweeten my tone until it’s sugary enough to frost a pop tart with. “Would you like a few minutes to look it over?”

Mullet Dude fake-coughs, humpfs and picks up his menu, sticking his elbows out to make a show of it. “Nah, we’re good. Totally cool.” Amid the rustling as the rest of them pick up theirs, he squints at his. “How’s the martini here?”

“It’s excellent,” I answer smoothly. “And the Negroni is also very nice, if you like Campari.”

He raises an eyebrow, like it’s suave or something. Total fail. “Are you a Campari girl?”

“I make it a point to be familiar with everything here.”

Not getting the rise out of me he’s looking for, he slumps his shoulders a bit and wrinkles his chin. “Sure. Gimme a Negroni, then.”

Crap. I was kinda hoping he wouldn’t order that. I still associate that drink with Erin, since it was the first thing I served her, and I don’t like him getting the same thing. Obviously, I can’t do anything about that, but I sorta wish I hadn’t brought it up.

I take orders down the table—two more Negronis (it’s our most popular cocktail), a Panacea (another popular one, because it’s sweet and has a cute name), and a plain ol’ rum and coke—until I get to the young guy. “And for you?”

He puts down his menu and slides it a few inches away. “Just water, thanks.”

I offer him a genuine smile. “Filtered, mineral, or sparkling?”

He doesn’t look up. “Filtered, I guess.”

“Whoa! Noob!” Mullet Dude almost bellows from his end of the table. “Way to harsh your buzz!” The rest of them burst into laughter.

“Coming right up,” I say, giving the poor guy a nod. “Would anyone like to order appetizers? We have a couple of specials.”

That perks Mullet Dude up. “Hit me with your specials, baby”—waggling his eyebrows for emphasis. His bros love it, of course.

It’s hard to recite specials—beef tenderloin crostini with whipped goat cheese and pesto, and duck breast carpaccio with a pomegranate reduction—while biting your tongue, and of course there’s those words, “loin” and “breast,” but it’s my job and I manage. They cackle and think they’re hilarious.

What a pack of assholes…

♦ ♦ ♦

“… and hold the strychnine,” I add as I hand the drink order over to Jules. I’ve already dropped off their list of appetizers with the kitchen: three crostini, two carpaccio, and the new guy passed. They’re my only table right now, so once I deliver their drinks, I’ll have a few minutes to chill before I have to take the appetizers out and get their entrée orders. I could use it. We don’t get a ton of jerks here, but it’s not unknown and I don’t know why I’m so worked up.

“Hey, Matteo,” Jules calls to the other end of the bar where Matteo, our other bartender, is taking glasses out of the sterilizer. He’s only been here a few weeks, but I like him already. He’s funny and sweet, and has a boyfriend named Stefan, who looks like a fashion model (in real life he’s the sommelier at 6’s & 7’s, the Michelin-starred restaurant over by the Space Needle) and brings him roses after his shifts. Yeah, you could gag at how loved up they are, but it’s just nice to see. They make a cute, but unlikely looking couple: Matteo, with his scrawny frame, laughing dark eyes and uncontrolled mop of curly brown hair, next to Stefan’s 6-foot-4 of chiseled blond gay maleness. I can’t wait to see the wedding photos.

“Whatcha need, capo donna?” Matteo asks her, doing his best Robert De Niro impression. It’s actually pretty good and he gets a big kick out of it.

“Set these up”—Jules skates the bros’ drink order down to him—“and take your time about it.”

Matteo picks up the slip, pinches his lips white and squints at it like it’s a presidential order. It’s campy as all fuck and I have to bite back a laugh. He tosses us a wink. “Absolutely, capo donna.”

While Matteo retrieves the glasses and sets them on the bar like they’re eggshells, Jules pins me with a take-no-prisoners look. “So you’re in a mood this evening. Last night must’ve gone either really well or you put your foot in it up to the knee. Which was it?”

My cheeks heat and I glance to where Matteo’s making a show of selecting the liquor bottles. I knew this was coming and I should’ve had my answer worked out already, but the truth is I don’t have an answer. I don’t because Erin’s taken up residence in head and the more I think about her, the more confused I get about what happened and how we left things. Her number on the inside of my forearm is either a tease, a promise, or a curse. I’ll have to see her only once more and I’ve begun to doubt her saying she’d be back the restaurant. I’ve begun to doubt a lot of things and that’s just not like me.

“Umm… maybe a little of both?”

“Oh, honey…” Jules looks like she bit into one of the lemons Matteo is garnishing the Negronis with. “You didn’t.”

“No!” I whisper-shout. “Of course not. I didn’t plan on taking her home. It was an emergency!”

“What kind of emergency?”

“Her douche fiancée locked her out. She didn’t have a place to spend the night and her phone was dead, so I took her home. It was easiest.” I’m not going to share the part about Erin’s meltdown, even with Jules. On second thought, I’m not gonna mention morning cuddles, coffee, or lending her a outfit either. Jules means well—I know she’s only looking out for me—but I’m in deep enough as it is.

She raises one eyebrow while her stare bores holes in me. “So who took the couch?”

The pink in my cheeks has probably turned the color of a $2 rosé. “That was, ah… kinda an issue.”

“Savannah—”

“She’s stubborn, alright?”

Jules turns to Matteo, who’s waiting with the tray full of drinks. “Matteo? Take those out, will you?”

“At once, capo donna.”

Normally, I’d love the idea of those bros being served by a flirty gay man, but given the choice between dealing with them and Jules’ grilling, I might pick the bros.

“Stubborn, huh?”

I look down at my hands clamped on the edge of the bar. “Totally stubborn.”

“Uh huh.”

I look up to see Jules leaning her elbows on the bar top, her expression uncharacteristically soft. “Look, Savannah. It’s not about what you did… or didn’t do. You let her get into your head, didn’t you? We all love the sweet impulsive side of you, but I just don’t want anyone to get hurt. You or her.” She pauses for a second that feels scalding. “Unless you’re really like she-is-the-one serious?”

“Ah, no,” I mumble, wondering if my face has reached ruby port color yet. “She’s not available.”

“Alright then.” Jules straightens and picks up the towel we use to wipe down the bar. “You know what you have to do.”

Oh, I wish I did. I really, really do.

 

Chapter 10. Erin

“Of course, you can stay at my place.” Casey swirls her chardonnay at me. “Frankly, I’m a teensy-weensy bit offended you had to ask.”

I pinch my lips and swirl my chardonnay back at her. Yeah, we both still drink chardonnay even though the cool kids have all switched to pinot grigio. So cancel us. “You know I hate to presume.”

“Yes, I know you hate to presume. I keep thinking that with much careful nursing, you’ll get over it.”

I snort.

“So do you want me to go with you or not? Run interference?”

We’re at The Office, a bar across the street from our work. Folklore says it dates back to the 60s, when the line “Honey, I’m at the office” might actually have fooled somebody. These days, they’re known for okay wine and great happy hour specials. But the point of our being here this evening (aside from wine and happy hour) is to talk about getting my stuff from my apartment with minimal drama.

Casey’s offer is tempting. I think she might be the only person Maggie is intimidated by. Casey is younger, blonder, taller, prettier, and has a great “don’t fuck with me” face when she wants to. Casey “running interference,” as she put it, would definitely make this easier. But the idea sticks in my throat a little.

I sip to ease the feeling. “Do you think it makes me look cowardly?”

Casey leans her arms on the table and scowls. “What do you care? You wanna get your shit and get this toxic bitch out of your life. It’s not a contest.”

I raise my glass like a shield between us. “There’s my pride.”

“The fuck, Erin. It’s your pride that’s kept you in this mess in the first place. If it wasn’t for you and your pride, you would’ve seen what was going on and kicked her skank ass to the curb ages ago. Not bought her a fucking ring.”

That gets me to wrinkle my nose. “Y’know, I hate you a lot of the time.” Mainly when you’re right.

“It’s my love language.” She smirks. “You know that.”

“Don’t make me stick my tongue out at you.”

A wider smirk. “I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

Thankfully, I haven’t just taken a sip and therefore avoid spraying my wine all over the table. I’m never going to win these back-and-forth’s with Casey. That doesn’t stop me from trying, though.

“Fine, fine. We’ll go over together. I’ll pack my shit and you can make the bitches bow down.”

Casey salutes me with her wine glass. “Now you’re talkin’.”

♦ ♦ ♦

In the end, it’s all for nothing. Maggie isn’t home. I go into the bedroom, pull out a garment bag and my two largest suitcases and start throwing clothes in them. Casey goes into the master bath to pack up my toiletries, makeup, and hair products. Being my best friend, she knows what I use. I’m cramming some sweaters on top of the unreasonable number of jeans I own and my collection of casual tops, when I hear Casey drawl, “Oh, classyyy…”

I look up as she exits the bathroom, holding the small trashcan we keep under the sinks. “What is it?”

“You’ve got your answer. If you want it.” She puts the trashcan on the floor and stalks back into the bathroom. “Someone had fun,” she lobs over her shoulder as she disappears.

Biting my lip, I glare at the trashcan. Knowing it’s a stupid idea, I go and look. Sure enough, some used condoms and empty packets of lube litter the bottom. Maggie and her “friend” had been into the toys. I’d almost convinced myself she’d told the truth; that the woman had just been a work friend, someone Maggie called after our nasty blowout to drive her home, and they’d talked and nothing more.

So she’d lied. So what? Should I care? It was all just so… typical. I pick up the trashcan, march into the bathroom, shove it back under the sinks, slam the cabinet shut, and march back to the bedroom. Next thing I know, Casey’s hands are on my shoulders as I rip dresses off their hangers.

“Hey. Are you alright?”

“Peachy.” I give another dress a savage yank. Casey reaches out for my hand before I tear it—it’s one of my nicer ones. Taking it from me, she hangs it carefully in the garment bag.

“We can finish this later. I can even do it, if that’s better. Whatever you want.”

Hearing Casey sound so soft and sweet is a bit scary. She does have a sweet side, but she usually only lets it out for special occasions. And emergencies. She must think this counts as an emergency.

I step back from the remaining dresses. What do I want? All I feel is numb, but here I am, practically ripping half my wardrobe to shreds. If I ran into Maggie now, I honestly don’t know what might happen. I do know I don’t want to come back here. Not ever. What hurts the most is that Maggie defiled a place that meant so much to me. I could hate her for that.

I could really, truly hate her for that.

“No.” I grind the syllable between my teeth. “Let’s just do this and get the fuck out of here.”

“All right.” Casey starts gathering clothes with both arms. “You got it.”

♦ ♦ ♦

Casey owns a nice three-bedroom, two-bath house in the SeaTac suburbs, the kind of neighborhood I imagined Mrs. Jenkins should live in. It always strikes me as too sedate for Casey’s lifestyle. While I wouldn’t call her a player quite (she’s my best friend, after all), when she’s off work she does live the “lesbians just wanna have fun” paradigm to the max. Whatever Casey does, she does with laser-like focus. If that’s work, it’s work. Full stop. If that’s fun, it’s fun. Nonstop fun—until it’s time to work again. With her looks, Casey can have just about any woman she wants, and she pretty much does. While she isn’t strictly a one-and-done girl, a week counts as a long-term relationship for her. Because of all that, you’d think she’d prefer Seattle’s simmering downtown scene (Seattle isn’t San Francisco, but hey, neither is San Francisco these days), but I guess a house in the ’burbs has its advantages.

It certainly does as far as I’m concerned, such as a comfy bedroom to myself and my own bath, with no chance of nocturnal interruptions. Casey had jokingly suggested we get shitfaced after collecting my stuff and call in sick today—I think she was joking, anyway—but I vetoed the idea, joking or not. Aside from the potential work repercussions, I was in no shape to do much of anything. I did a faceplant into the down pillows within two minutes of arriving at her place, and within five, I was out like a light.

The disadvantages become apparent the next morning, at least for me. Her house is forty-five minutes from work, which means I have to get up an hour earlier than I’m used to. I am not a morning person, while Casey is a “Sleep? Pfft, who needs it?” person. Also, I wake up to the song of suburbia—gas-powered leaf blowers—which grates. Those are things I’m going to have to get used to until I get my living situation sorted out. I need to get on that, but getting on it means talking to Maggie, and that means I’m more than happy to kick the can down the road for now. I need this coming weekend to veg out and let my poor lobster brain begin to rebuild itself.

We stop by Casey’s favorite café for mandatory caffeine and baked goods—and so she can flirt with the cute barista while they brew our coffee fresh—and hit the road. As soon as I finish my chocolate-glazed donut (making me feel sorry for the one I pitched yesterday), I wish I was dealing with my living situation instead, because the instant the last bite passes my lips, Casey starts grilling me about Savannah.

Of course, she does. And she has a full three-quarters of an hour to do it. Granted, I can’t blame her, and I think I hold my own pretty well. But honestly, what do I think about Savannah?

Is she the seismic event that shifted my perspective? The forest fire that burned out the deadwood clogging my life? A savior angel who’d touched me once when I needed it, only to vanish as suddenly as she appeared?

Or is she a torturing angel, capable of putting knots in my tummy that last for days?

No idea. Maybe some of each? Whatever she is, she’s messed with my head and I can’t get her out of it. All I have to do is close my eyes for a second to see her face, feel her warmth, hear those sweet little kitten snores. Her morning voice—that delicious, rough, soft, sexy croon—fills my ears when there’s any hint of silence, and the memory of her whispering “Hey, beautiful” while I was lost in her amazing amethyst eyes makes me clench.

Trauma does weird things to you. The truth is that Savannah’s just a girl. A really young, sweet, caring, gorgeous, sexy as all fuck—

Stop, stop, stop. Rewind!

Savannah is a really sweet, really young girl with a big heart… who made me coffee and—

No, no, and NO! I want to scream and pound my head on something. Unfairly, there’s nothing available and screaming is also ill advised while Casey’s driving, so I bite the inside of my cheek instead.

Hard.

“She really fucked with you, didn’t she?” Casey eyes me from the other side of the car.

“You know Maggie,” I reply, being deliberately obtuse.

“I didn’t mean Maggie.”

“She’s a sweet girl.” Shit, now I’ve snapped at her.

“Sorry.” Casey’s voice softens. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way. I just meant she got into your head, didn’t she?”

I blow out a breath. That’s answer enough.

She has fucked with me—through no fault of her own.

Trauma does weird things to you. Don’t fixate…

Work. Work is the answer. So maybe I don’t believe in it like I once did. It’s what I have. And I’m going to bury myself in it. Submerge myself until I get my brain back. Until I can go five seconds and not think…

Savannah…

 

Chapter 11. Savannah

“Alright! That was excellent! Well done!” I clap hard and Amie applauds beside me as our eleven students fall into line in front us. This is our competition team and we’re lucky to coach them. They’re awesome kids and our praise is never forced. We started their individual routines this week and I couldn’t be happier. Meets start in a month and I think we’re gonna slay it this year. I’m stoked and I know Amie is too. “Tomorrow is a day off, so what do I always say?”

“Stretch, stretch, stretch!” they chorus.

“That’s right! And I always say several short sessions spaced throughout the day will keep you more limber than doing one long session. Right?”

“Yes, coach!”

“You got it. We don’t want anyone popping or pulling anything Thursday. Remember—”

“Cuz every day you lose to injury costs you six days of conditioning!” sings out a voice, dripping with teen snark. I turn my head slowly toward the tall girl sporting a shit-eating grin at the far end of the line—Tracie, the second oldest and by far the cheekiest.

“Ah, c’mon, coach. You always say that too!” She does that little flip thing with her hands. I deliberately wait a beat—I’ve learned it works wonders. Tracie likes trying to push my buttons, but honestly, she kinda reminds me of me at that age. I was always throwing attitude at my coaches and earned more than my share of punishment laps, although Amie was worse. Yeah, there might’ve been a bit of a competition there.

“If you love laps so much, be sure to let your mouth keep earning them, Tracie.”

Tracie doesn’t mistake the look in my narrowed eyes and her smile dims. She knows it’s no idle threat and looks down at her feet. “Sorry, coach.”

As much sympathy as I have for Tracie, I also know where excess attitude can land you. It took me a long time to learn that being yourself didn’t have to involve throwing shade on people just because. Being respectful doesn’t equal being a doormat. “Apology accepted.”

Turning to Amie, I hold out a hand. She’s standing there, rocking on the balls of her feet in a leotard striped with all the colors of a South American poison-arrow frog, while the rest of us are wearing pewter and black team outfits emblazoned with our team name: the Tacoma Rocs. Speaking of attitude…

“Coach Rhinehart will lead you on the cool-down. Six laps, then hit the showers and bask in your good work.” Amie and I exchange a nod. “Take it away, coach.”

Amie lifts her hand and circles it in the air. “Alright, Roc warriors, let’s go! Hup two, three, four…”

It’s so GAF, but the girls love it. They laugh while Amie takes her place at the end of the line. As they jog off, Taylor, the girl right in front of Amie, steals a glance at me. It looks like I’m not supposed to see it, so I don’t react as I head to the broom closet they call our office to record the notes for today’s workout. But I wonder what it means.

♦ ♦ ♦

When I say our office is a broom closet, I’m only sorta kidding. A utility room might be more like it, but whichever it is, if it wasn’t for the glass brick wall at the back, it would be claustrophobic as hell. Amie and I “share” it, although there isn’t much to share. It fits only a single desk with a chair, two guest chairs and a four-drawer cabinet that—for all we use it—just takes up space. The coaches of the boys team share a similar space directly across the gym from ours. The married couple who own the studio and their small admin staff have real offices at the front of the building. Amie and me, and the boys team’s coaches, are all officially assistant coaches; the owners are still the head coaches, but only on paper. A year and a half ago, they stepped back from coaching to concentrate on promotion and fund raising.

I can’t blame them. At this level, there’s no money in gymnastics; no sponsorships or stuff like that. It’s only the kids’ fees, donations and maybe a small grant from the city, which after all the other expenses can’t do more than pay us minimum wage for a few hours a week and keep the lights on. We have some awesome talent on our team, girls who could really go far, but we don’t have a name yet outside of this area that could attract more attention. Amie and I intend to change that this season. Winning the regionals is only the first step. When we take those—no ifs, ands or buts about it—we’ll be invited to major national meets where our top girls can really shine. That’ll get us a national reputation and open all kinds of doors.

So I don’t mind the owners being hands-off about coaching, I prefer it. While they’re good people, they haven’t very active in the sport for the last ten years. Gymnastics moves faster than that and what earned medals a decade ago is routine now. To give our team the best shot, we have to get ahead of the curve, not copy what’s already being done. The owners figured that out and as long as they’re willing to let us run the team like we know how to, and can bring in enough money to keep us afloat, I’m more than willing to put up with meager pay and a dinky little office.

So here I am, in said dinky office, tapping away at the flaky keyboard of the ancient laptop they provide us with (the N key sticks, num lock doesn’t work and a bunch of the letters are worn off) while listening to the tramp of the kids doing their laps and Amie’s over-the-top whoops of encouragement. I gotta say, she’s such a dork sometimes, but she has a great way with the kids.

By the last time everyone trots past the office door, I’ve jotted down notes for Liv and Hannah, who are both solid, but I’m kinda stuck on Taylor. She’s our best athlete, the one with a real chance of the making the national team. I think she could go to the Olympics with a little extra push. But today she was… not off, but there was just something missing. We all have days like that, but I know her well enough that there’s gotta be something going on. She’s turning 16 in a couple of months and how well I know that’s like! But I’m hoping she hasn’t decided to, well… quit.

If she has… honestly, that would really suck. She’s smart, dedicated, disciplined, super talented—just a dream to coach. It would be so amazing to take her to the top. But that doesn’t mean her dream is my dream. I know that too.

I hear Amie announcing it’s time to hit the showers and a minute or two later, she’s sticking her head through the office door, leaning over sideways, with a little wave. “Hiya, bestie!”

“Hiya yourself.” I send a diagonal wave back. “Say, what did’ja think of Taylor today? Did she seem at all… I dunno… off to you?”

Amie shrugs. “Maybe a tiny bit? You worried about it? Just one of those days, huh?”

It’s my turn to shrug. “Not worried. Just wondering if there’s something on her mind.”

“She’s gonna turn sixteen. Kids always have something on their minds at that age.”

“You oughta know.” I snicker, and nod at the laptop. “Any other pearls of wisdom you’d like to throw down for me?”

“What d’ya got so far?”

I turn the laptop toward her so she can see what I’ve typed.

“Gotcha. You might say Tara could attack the vaults more—she’s still kinda hesitant on her approach. Maybe Sindy could get more air on her dismounts? Add a little extra flair, y’know?”

Amie’s all about flair. I think she embodies it. “Not everyone has to be as out there as you, bestie.”

She flashes me smile so bright you could read by it. “Ahh, why not?”

Shaking my head, I add both of her suggestions to the notes anyway. “Only you, girlfriend.”

“Now you’re talkin’.”

“You wish.”

“Of course!” More of that blinding smile. “Anything else you need?”

I drop my gaze down to the laptop. “Nah, I got it.”

“Mind if I head out then? I got an errand to run for Tiff before I head to work.”

“You guys wear out another vibrator?”—arching an eyebrow playfully.

“Up yours, dude.”

She didn’t deny it, though. I laugh. “In your dreams, sweetheart.”

“Sideways.”

“Go on.” I send her a half-wave. “Keep Tiff happy.”

“That’s my plan! Later alligator!”

“See ya,” I chuckle as she pops out of the doorway and I hear her practically skipping to the exit.

Such a dork…

Alerted by the soft tread of sneakers on hardwood, the rap on my doorframe a minute later doesn’t startle me. When I see it’s Taylor, that doesn’t surprise me either.

“Hey, Taylor. What can I do for you?” I keep my tone easy-breezy because she looks flustered. Wearing distressed jeans and black tee that would’ve had a band logo on it when I was her age—I guess that’s not cool anymore—she looks ridiculously young. She’s also doing that thing where she’s rubbing the toe of her lavender sneakers on her instep. God, that takes me back and it’s all I can do not to get up and give her a big hug. But I don’t think she’s here for hugs.

“Umm…” She looks at her sneakers studiously. “Coach Rhinehart looks happy.”

“She usually is.” Now, do I get up and pull out a chair for her. “You wanna come in?”

“Uh, yeah. Thanks, coach.” She walks in front of me and lowers herself into the chair, perching on the edge like a bird that might fly off any minute. I hope that doesn’t happen.

“Is this an open-door or closed-door conversation?” I ask, my hand on it, ready for whichever she says.

“Oh…” Taylor chews her lower lip for a long moment. “Yeah. Open’s fine. It’s cool.”

“Half shut?” I don’t want to second-guess her, but the poor kid looks nervous enough.

“Yeah, sure…”

I ease the door part way closed and go back to my desk. Sitting down, I fold my hands and look at her across them.

“So what would you like to talk about? You’re not pregnant, are you?” I wink to let her know I’m kidding.

She huffs a laugh and puts a hand across her mouth. “Oh, god! Like—No!”

Her reaction sends a clue where this is going—and I don’t think she’s here to quit anymore. “Cool. Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, is there something I can help with?”

Taylor fusses in her hair. “You and Coach Rhinehart are really… um, really close?”

“We’ve been best friends since the 6th Grade, so yeah, you could say that.” Is she going to ask if we’re a couple? Lots of people assume that. Does Taylor have a girlfriend? Or does she want one? I offer a warm smile to show her it’s okay whatever it is and wait for what’s next. I don’t have to wait long.

“I kinda… kinda looked some stuff up…”

Some stuff. Right. I nod to encourage her to keep going.

“You guys were like… totally out there when you were competing.” She’s practically tomato colored as she pushes the words out.

I nod again. “Coach Rhinehart has never believed in hiding who she is.” Which I love about her.

“How’d you decide… y’know, to do it?” Her face squishes into a frown as she bites her lip again. “I mean if that’s okay to ask.”

“Of course it’s okay.” I don’t bother to add that it’s obvious her question isn’t “asking for a friend.” She’s coming out to me, and while I’m flattered we share that amount of trust, I don’t want to push it. These are never easy discussions and I sure don’t want to fuck this up. The trouble is I’m not super sure what to say. We were young and impulsive, you might even say stupid, definitely isn’t the right thing, and the truth isn’t clear-cut. I think Amie and I both had an idea we liked girls when we met, and we found out for sure at a summer camp a few years later. Could we be any more cliché? Two teenage girls sneaking into a tent together after a swim in lake where… how’d that ancient jingle go? Let your fingers do the walking?

Amie wanted to tell everyone right off, but her parents weren’t the most openminded people. I figured my mom wouldn’t care one way or the other. Dad, though… he always talked acceptance, but how would he feel when it was his daughter? I wasn’t too worried, but I can’t say I was looking forward to it either.

So we made a pact: when we went home for summer break at the end of the school year, we’d text each other to come out at the same time. We made each other rainbow bracelets to seal it—totally a fifteen-year-old thing to do. I don’t know what we were thinking; it’s not like we thought the whole thing through. I “knew” it would be cool to walk down the street holding Amie’s hand; it would be even cooler to kiss her on a street corner. Yeah, my brain was a little clouded then.

I decided Amie should pick the time, so she could find the best moment for her. It didn’t matter though. My parents took it like I thought: Mom was happy for me, Dad was stoned that morning and I don’t think he even noticed until later. He didn’t say anything—just frowned then smiled, then frowned and went back to the garage where he was messing with one of the zillion projects he always left half done.

Amie’s parents though… fuck. How can people be such assholes? They completely flipped their shit and threw her out on the spot. She left with her phone, her backpack and what she had on—called us from a coffee shop a couple of miles from their house. She was crying. It freaked me out. Amie never cries. Never.

Mom and I jumped in the car and drove two hours to get her. She wasn’t crying when we arrived—just stone cold fucking pissed. Yeah… I was too. No one said a word the whole trip back. She slept with me that night, except neither of us actually slept. I hugged her the whole time. It was like hugging a marble statue.

The next morning, Amie still wasn’t talking but she didn’t seem so much like a ticking timebomb either. We ate waffles with strawberries. Around noon, her dad texted to “get her shit” off his lawn before the trash people came and took it. We drove another two hours and Amie ended up taking one box of clothes, three pairs of shoes and a collection of little stuff I and a couple of friends had given her.

She wanted to burn the rest, and I’m sure she would have if my mom hadn’t insisted on donating it. She called a local women’s shelter and when she explained the situation, they were cool enough to send a truck right away. I can see Mom’s side now but at the time, I sided with Amie. A little bonfire woulda been nice.

Amie moved in with us. She didn’t have anywhere else to go. Her only relatives were the same species of asshole as her folks. Mom filed for legal guardianship until Amie could be declared an emancipated minor. Her parents did not even respond to the notice. They were serious that she was dead to them. Amie felt entirely the same way. She wouldn’t touch anything related to them. She even changed her name as soon as she legally could. (I don’t know where she got it; I think she just made it up?)

That’s how Amira D’Angelo became Amie Rhinehart and started being her own personal neon-lit pride parade And life got a little crazy.

Okay… I’m making up the part about a little. We worked to earn a rep as the ‘Terror Twins’. So how am I gonna boil this down for Taylor, who’s perching there with her hands in lap, looking at me like I’m an oracle?

Simple answer: I’m not. I gotta adult my way through this. I’m not sure how but we learn by doing, don’t we? I do believe that if you’re old enough to fall in love, you’re old enough to understand the consequences. Not sure that’s really true, but I hated feeling talked down to at Taylor’s age, so I guess that’s a place to start?

“Every person’s experience and situation is different, Taylor. No one can tell you how or when to come out. All we can do is support you, whatever you decide. And when you decide. That’s what we’re here for, because, yeah… this is a very brave thing to do. It’s not all unicorns and rainbows. It can be scary and it’s okay to be scared. I think if you’re not a little scared, you aren’t doing it right. No one knows exactly what going to happen—unless they’re really lucky, I guess. It always best to be true to yourself, but don’t let people pressure you into what that means. You have plenty of time, if you want it.”

“Yeah…” Taylor’s lips pull into a grimace. “Everyone always says to live ‘authentically’.” She air-quotes authentically. I can’t resist a smile. We seem to be on the same page about authentic becoming just another buzzword.

“They do say that, don’t they? But how many of them really do it? Try to be different that way.”

She shrugs, expressing a whole boatload of feelings about adults. I probably agree with most of them.

“So now it’s my turn to ask you a question. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, sure.” Again with the shrug. No telling if I’m winning any points here, but the only way forward is… forward.

“Is it just you we’re talking about here, or is there someone else involved?”

Taylor’s blush climbs to the roots of her curling strawberry blond hair. “Yeah, there kinda is.”

“Have you talked to them? Because if you’re together and one of you is out and the other isn’t… That’s not always a problem, but long-term, if you don’t see eye to eye, it can make things… awkward.”

I wince inside because being in love is always awkward. Sure, it feels great for a few months or even a year, but then the happy brain chemicals wear off and all those little awkward things start to pop up. Like with Amie and me. I think we thought we were in love, cuz seriously, how else would you react to the only other queer girl you knew wanting to make out with you, especially one as drop-dead gorgeous as Amie? Later, we figured out we were better as best friends instead of a couple, but until we did, we were kinda friends with benefits (even if we didn’t know what that meant at the time), and we’re so lucky we kept the friends part when we ditched the benefits. I haven’t been so lucky since then—not even close—and I finally accepted that you can’t play with fire and not expect to get burned.

You know what you have to do.

Thanks Jules. Totally helpful.

Okay, head back in the game. This is not the time to be thinking about Erin.

“We sorta talked,” Taylor looks down like she’s talking to her hands curled in lap. “I like her… a lot.”

“Does she know you’re here?”

“Yeah, I told her. She’s good with it.”

“Would she like to be part of this conversation?” I hope that isn’t going too far out on a limb.

Taylor pulls out her phone and I take that as a yes. She taps out a text and not a minute later Sindy shows up in the doorway, nerves dancing all over her face. So they planned this. I knew Taylor and Sindy were friends but I hadn’t picked up on this vibe. Does that mean I’m getting old?

I invite Sindy in and she slides onto the chair next to Taylor. They reach for each other’s hand and their fingers automatically entwine. It’s so hella cute they do that. Taylor leans over, cupping her hand between them, and Sindy ducks her head with a shy smile as Taylor whispers in her ear.

If I thought they were hella cute before, this makes my heart crack a little. They look postcard perfect together—Taylor with her pale Irish freckle-dusted complexion next to Sindy’s flawless mocha skin and sleek braided black hair. Sindy nods and they both suddenly seem to remember I’m in the room.

“Sorry, coach,” they both murmur, with a quick glance at me and then each other.

“Perfectly okay,” I assure them, unable to keep my smile in check. And who’d want to? Young love can be a tricky proposition, but it’s still love.

Catching Sindy’s eye, I continue. “I know you guys have talked and I’m sure Taylor will fill you in, so I’ll just say we all know this is isn’t an easy decision and everyone here has your back. For what it’s worth, I think you should do what feels right to you. If you want to talk to someone else, go for it. People have been dealing with issues like this for… forever, actually. We can learn from their experience—we don’t have start from square zero. If you’re more comfortable waiting, if you want more time to get your thoughts and feelings in order, do that. It’s up to you.”

They look very solemn now, like we’re in church—how I imagine church might be, if I’d ever gone.

“Anything else I can tell you?”

They exchange a half-nod and I’m a little surprised when Sindy speaks up; she’s the quieter one.

“Yeah, there kinda is… I guess.”

“Go ahead.” I haven’t told them about my experience or Amie’s so I’m guessing now is the time. I don’t know either of their parents that well, but they seem chill, and SeaTac is about as queer-friendly as it gets. So I’m hopeful if they do decide to come out now, but in the end, take nothing for granted. “Ask anything.”

Taylor gives Sindy slight nudge and she responds with bashful dip of her chin. “Okay… is it true you and Coach Rhinehart mooned a reporter?”

Whoa! Not expecting that! You could’ve knocked me out of my seat with a feather. For the record, it was a paparazzi, not a reporter, and he was a complete douche-waffle. At the time, Amie and I thought it was brilliant. How the kids would’ve found out about it, I’d love to know. But I’ve never done a search for pics online and I don’t plan to.

“Yeah, we did”—keeping my voice as neutral as possible. “Probably not our finest moment. Learning from other people’s mistakes is a great skill to have. The sooner you figure it out, the easier things will be. And congrats. You’ve taken a big step today. Be proud of that. And we’ll be here for you, always.”

I added that last to change the subject, and also because they look embarrassed and really they shouldn’t. It was kind of a dumbass stunt on our part. Nothing to do but own it since it wasn’t going away. Life lessons are like that.

“Thanks, coach,” they offer together. I think I detect a note of relief in their tone.

“No need to thank me,” I say with a grin. “Just save us a space on next year’s Pride float, if you decide to go that way.”

Chapter 12. Erin

“Casey!” I squeak—honest-to-God squeak—as I grab her bicep. “What’s the matter with you! We can’t go in there!” I’m staring, aghast, at the elegant purple and blue neon signed that reads “Indigo Visions” in swirly letters. Even I’ve heard of this place; it’s famous—or infamous—in the Seattle gay scene.

Casey stares at my fingers digging into her arm. “What’s the matter with you? It’s just a club, Erin.”

“It’s a sex club!” I hiss under my breath, not wanting to call attention to us.

“Oh, get real.” Casey rolls her eyes and prods my hand off her arm, rubbing it absently where my nails bit. “That’s only Tuesdays and Thursdays. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

Casey prefers the British version of that expression—and it does sound better—but her verbal quirks don’t concern me at the moment. This club does. Casey’s offhand remark about “only Tuesdays and Thursdays” threw me. What has she been getting up to in her off hours? More important, what is she trying to get me into?

“Look…” Casey takes my hand. “I swear there’s nothing freaky happening in there. It’s just a bunch of queer girls out to have fun. No one’s gonna hit on you. They’ll think you’re with me—”

“Until you spot a hottie at the bar and then I’ll be on my own,” I snipe, not ready to forgive her yet for dragging me here.

More eyerolling. “I promise I’ll behave myself. You’ll be fine. If you really hate it, we’ll go.”

“Okay…” I relent. “I guess.”

“It’s been over a month, Erin. You’ve been stewing. You’ve been working crazy-ass hours, too—even by your standards.” Her hand squeezes mine. “I know how shitty it’s been. But you can’t go on like this. You need to lighten up. And I’d kinda like my best friend back too.”

Oh crap… “I’ll send her a memo,” I mumble. That last shot scored, big time.

“You do that.” Casey winks and tugs on my hand. “Now let’s go have some fun.”

Right… fun. I could do fun. I owe it to Casey for putting up with me these past weeks. She’s been really great, letting me continue to crash at her place, giving me space when I need it; being there with hot meals, chocolate, alcohol and a sympathetic ear when I need that. My (nearly) work-myself-to-death strategy seems to be paying off. I can go whole days without thinking of Savannah. It doesn’t twist me up like it had, either.

I haven’t been back to La Vita è Dolce (despite what I said, I’m just not ready), so I’ve seen Savannah only once since that night—for maybe two minutes on the sidewalk outside my work when I returned the outfit she’d lent me and she gave me my clothes back. I’d had hers cleaned and pressed at the place Maggie and I went to (a wash-&-fold service by a lovely family that owns a laundromat and I still intend to use them, despite the fact Maggie probably will too—I’m not going to let her cost them my business) and slipped a gift certificate to Rebels and Lovers into the folds of the shirt. It seemed liked the least I could do.

She’d washed and ironed my clothes and wrapped them in a neat package—even tied it with a ribbon that matched her eyes. I tried not to read too much into that. I know what I felt that morning at her place but I was so messed up then. Savannah’s just the type of person who loves doing little things to brighten people’s lives. That’s all it was. I stashed the ribbon in the bottom drawer of my desk.

Savannah called to thank me for the gift certificate, but I was in a meeting and it went to voice mail. I agonized about when to call her back. Part of me wanted to pick a time when she was unlikely to be home so I could also leave a message but then I recalled what she said about people not even bothering to answer the phone these days and I couldn’t be that cowardly. She deserved more than that. I called that evening, we had a nice chat for a few minutes and I felt a lot better. Finally, I could congratulate myself for getting some perspective on the whole situation with her.

There’s been progress on the housing front too. I’m out of the apartment lease with Maggie; it cost but since we have less than three months left, I only had to pay my share for them. Maggie had been sullen about it but she didn’t put up a fight. Surprisingly, the fight seems to have gone out of her. I got the last of my things without drama—it wasn’t much. I didn’t want any of the furniture, nothing from the kitchen—nothing we’d bought together. Just my few books and some keepsakes I’d brought with me. I even left my jewelry, all but a few pieces I inherited from my mom. Maggie had given me the rest. I’m not much of a jewelry girl, but Maggie said she wanted to “adorn” me. At the time, I felt flattered. Now, it just felt like she was loading me with chains. It felt so good to leave that weight behind.

I’ve started looking for a new place to get out of Casey’s hair, but she mentioned buying instead of continuing to throw money away on rent. I’m certainly not too young to buy but it is a big step. And it would take time. I hadn’t planned to seriously think about it until the IPO. If I exhaust my savings, I could come up with a down payment now but that makes me nervous. And could I impose on Casey for as long as it would take for a sale to go through? That’s the big question. I hate the idea of overstaying my welcome…

Casey stops at the entrance where security is checking IDs, shaking me out of my thoughts. She takes out a card and flashes it at the pair of beefy guys in all black. They nod to her and lift the purple velvet rope for us.

“What’s that all about?” I whisper as we walk up an incline to the club. “Are you a VIP or something?”

She shrugs like it’s nothing. “I know the guy who runs this place from when I worked at Boeing. Him and his wife. He’s a laser physicist in real life. She’s a web designer. They’re good people.”

Okay… a laser physicist who runs a sometime-sex club. That’s a new one on me but I’ve lived a kinda sheltered existence.

We step into the club proper. It’s packed inside. As in bursting at the seams. And loud. No garden-variety loud either; that special shiver-your-liver loud. The DJ’s killing it. Music pulses off the walls and the whole place is awash with adrenaline and free-flowing pheromones. The action on the big dance floor is manic—like a charged field in which no one can stand still. It makes the skin between my shoulder blades tighten.

In the middle of the dance floor is a large octagonal stage with two brass poles mounted on it, running floor to ceiling. It has to be twelve feet across and three feet high. I wonder what happens on it but I think I have a pretty good idea. Casey assured me there wouldn’t be any freaky goings-on though, so I’m assuming not tonight.

Casey leads me through the surging crowd to a big plush corner booth in the back. We settle in and she turns to me. “I could absolutely use a mojito. What would you like?”

Oh boy. So Casey’s hitting the ground running. This could get interesting. I might have to remind her of her promise.

“Just a G&T.” Gin and tonics are always safe. Casey flags down a server and she comes over. She’s tiny and hot with latte skin, black and caramel ombré hair and more piercings than I go for, but Casey’s drinking her in. Yeah, there’s plenty to drink in, highlighted by her skimpy outfit and six-inch platform go-go boots. I marvel at how she can walk in them and still serve drinks.

The girl bends close to Casey to hear our order over the music, giving me a lovely shot of her cleavage that’s on the brink of overflowing. Even if she isn’t quite my type and I’m mostly a BoB girl (that’s “butts over boobs” not “battery-operated boyfriend”) I can still appreciate the view, can’t I? We’re here to have fun, after all. Certainly, this counts?

She nods, gives Casey a little pat on the shoulder, smiles at both of us and goes to get our drinks. She has a pretty smile, all dazzling white teeth, but she isn’t…

Nope. Having fun. This club is packed with uber-hot women. No need to bring her into it.

I lean into Casey. “Cute?”

“Absolutely scrumptious.” She’s watching our server weave through the bodies on the floor with practiced ease. “But no worries,”—tearing her eyes free to look back at me with a grin—“just gazing. There’s such a thing as appreciating beauty for it’s own sake.”

Hadn’t I just had the exact same thought? “Oh yeah. That’s totally a thing.”

Casey laughs. She’s already soaking up the atmosphere. Not that it ever takes her long.

To tell the truth, so am I. By the time our drinks arrive—less than 5 minutes, I’d guess—I’m smiling and bouncing my knee to the music. Casey thanks our server as she puts the drinks down and throws a big tip on her tray. She responds with a sexy little wriggle and blows us a kiss.

I pick up my G&T and sip. “I’m not cockblocking you, am I?” I can’t bring myself to use some of the terms our wilder friends employed when we were younger. ‘Clam jam’—just yuck. ‘Twat swat’? Offensive and gross. And ‘clitference’? Who thought that was a good idea? ‘Beaver dam’? Points for being sorta cute but “beaver damming” sounds just dumb. No wonder none of those terms (and some others I won’t even think to myself) ever caught on. Besides we wield cocks too—even better. So there…

“Not at all.” Casey squeezes my knee to reassure me. “But if you meet someone…”

“Not happening.” I cut that notion short. “I’m not in the mood for a rebound. Baby steps.”

“Right-O.” Casey clinks her glass against mine. “Baby steps, it is.”

I laugh and bump her with my shoulder but I do feel guilty about cramping Casey’s style. She hasn’t brought anyone home since I’d moved in out of respect for me, although there were nights she stayed out. That’s really sweet of her but I want her to be comfortable in her own house. Forcing her out like that just doesn’t seem fair. To be fair, a lot of things aren’t seeming all that fair…

Oops! Supposed to be having fun here…

“Hey!” Casey nearly shouts in my ear. “Drink up! Let’s dance!” She downs the rest of her mojito in one go and I suck it up and do the same with my G&T. Then I let her lead me to the dance floor.

Dancing isn’t so much my thing. I kinda like it? Dork dancing in my kitchen is more my speed, or was in college. I convinced myself I’d grown out of the dork dancing phase ages ago. Nothing remotely like dork dancing would’ve been acceptable around Maggie. Maggie danced stylishly and for maximum effect. It was just another way for her to show off—to impress. I wasn’t polished enough to be impressive, so little dancing happened after the first few months of our relationship.

Casey couldn’t be more different. When she dances, she lets go. It’s wild. People notice, stop, stare. That is totally fine. She revels in it and the more people watch her, the fewer pay attention to me. We dance through three songs, come back to our booth having broken a light sweat and order another round. This time, our server is a leggy blonde who reminds me a little of…

Nope. Still not going there. All good. Casey chats her up a bit but I get the impression she’s more into the first girl. Still, everything is so—what shall I say?—academic. She appears to be having a good time though and I’m more relaxed than I thought I’d be, certain avoidance maneuvers aside.

When our drinks come, we nurse them and play spectator. For me, watching Casey is as much fun as checking out the action on the dance floor. She smiles and chuckles, covertly elbows me now and then, and whispers in my ear. When her gaze sharpens and her nostrils flair, I know she’s found someone. Once, the tip of her tongue grazes her upper lip and I feel her tense. But she stays with me, keeping her promise.

We whisper and giggle our way through another drink before I insist we switch to water for the next round. Casey takes her revenge by dragging me onto the dance floor again. Temptation fills the air like a dense fog but she continues to resist. I feel like telling her to go for it. I’ve finally loosened up and I’m enjoying myself—she doesn’t need to babysit me anymore. When we make our way back to our booth, more than a little sweaty this time, I tug her close and tell her so. She gathers me into a tipsy hug—we’re both swaying a tiny bit now—and puts her mouth to my ear.

“Nuh-uh. A promise is a promise.”

Just then, the music dies down to a slow, quiet beat and a woman in a white tuxedo with a wireless mic in her hand strides out and climbs the steps onto the club’s stage. With her short black hair swept into a crest and smoky eye makeup, she reminds me of Adam Lambert in drag—a slightly older, stockier version.

Except she’s in a tux… so that’s not right, is it? Things are definitely mixed up upstairs, thanks to alcohol and the club’s intoxicating atmosphere. That’s okay—I can roll with it.

The woman raises her hand. “Hey there, girls! Y’all enjoying yourselves tonight?” Whoops and applause leave no doubt we are. She beams and circles her fingers in the air. “Awesome! Is Xochil keeping it hot enough for everyone?” She gestures to the DJ. Screams answer a resounding Yes! The woman throws her head back and laughs. “Wow! Take a bow, girlfriend!” The DJ stands up from behind her station, a tall muscular butch in a tight black leather vest with full sleeves decorating her arms. She waves to the cheering crowd, an ear-to-ear smile splitting her handsome face.

“Dayum! You’re gonna blow the roof off this place! I wonder if the insurance will cover it?” The laughter’s so loud I wince. “Maybe we can leave something standing for the boys tomorrow? What’dya say?” Hoots and catcalls break out. It’s pure pandemonium and beside me, Casey is yelling and clapping like a crazy person. The woman’s husky laugh cuts through the uproar. “Yeah, I didn’t think so either.”

Shit, this woman knows how to work a crowd. She struts a few paces across the stage while things simmer down a notch. “Well then… Now, that we’re all warmed up”—she drags the words out—“it is my extreme pleasure to introduce you to something I’m positive is gonna heat things up even more! Give it up for Raine and Layla!”

The crowd noise explodes in a fevered pitch that genuinely hurts. Some women climb on their chairs and whistle. The MC exits and the DJ starts up an intense beat. Colored spotlights illuminate the stage. I look wide-eyed at Casey. She spreads her hands in a don’t-ask-me gesture, eyes as big as mine. Clearly, we’re both clueless.

Motion in the corner of my eye snaps my attention back to the stage. Portals have opened in the ceiling around the tops of the two brass poles and legs are appearing. Two dancers slide down, spinning around the gleaming metal, the spotlights playing over their bodies. As their heads clear the openings, they bend backwards, flipping upside down and twirling and wheeling and swooping and Oh my God, I don’t even know what to call it.

Their bodies move in ways I never imagined bodies could move. They mock gravity, defy physical laws—fluid and graceful and strong and beautiful beyond imagining. My breath catches, my body heats. My nipples come to attention and without my padded bra, I’d be sporting a spectacular set of headlights. My clit notices too and opens a direct line to my nipples so they can yell back and forth.

The dancers are dressed—if that’s even the word—in filmy boleros over barely-there bras with gauzy tap pants, except these have side-ties. They’re matched in height but it’s hard to get a sense of how tall they really are. One has lustrous black hair and a sleek body and the most edible looking caramel skin. The other girl has perfect alabaster skin, a body with moderately deeper curves that’s more cut, and long dark honey-blond hair that swirls around her in a silken storm. Both wear a band of lace over their eyes, like a wide blindfold—white for the brunette and black for the blonde.

I don’t know why, but that makes them even sexier.

When the two dancers at last glide down to the stage—is it cheesy to think of a pair of angels descending to Earth? Oh, yeah, totally cheesy and I don’t care, not even a little—I realize the club’s gone almost silent but for the sensual ebb and flow of the music. Everyone’s as transfixed as I am.

And the strangest part? They’ve both taken their tops off at some point and I didn’t even notice.

Once they touch down, I expect them to take a bow and that will be it. Performance over, because how could they top this?

I’m wrong. They move together… no. They flow together, like their feet aren’t touching the stage. Their outstretched hands meet and they spin, whirling faster and faster until the brunette takes a flying leap and flips over the blonde!

Holy shit! I’ve never seen a move like that! The blonde catches her, spinning through a full circle as they slide to their knees together, hugging each other tight. The crowd sighs—one long, deep, wholehearted sigh.

Then the dancers kiss.

As in, kiss…

The spotlights bathe them in throbbing colors as their tongues meet and dance and tangle before their lips seal over each other’s. The crowd’s sighs become moans. The dancers’ hands coast over each other’s flanks—caramel over cream and cream over caramel—until they reach their hips…

And give those ties a simultaneous yank. The tap pants fly away, fluttering like flower petals on a breeze and land somewhere off-stage. The dancers are naked now—naked because their G-strings must be just to satisfy some legal fiction, for all they cover up.

Their hands continue to roam, their fronts pressed together, rubbing two pair of out-of-this-world breasts against each other, coral pink nipples kissing darker mocha ones. The blonde grabs the brunette’s ass, squeezing it as their bodies undulate.

Casey’s mouth is hanging open. Mine too. I want to close it but I seem to have forgotten how to breathe and my sagging jaw is the only way I’m getting oxygen into my system. The dancers have been doing a subtle crawl so the brunette’s back is to us, giving us a clear view of her extraordinary ass as the blonde owns it. She’s in the blonde’s lap by now, her legs straddling the blonde’s hips and grinding against her. I tell myself this is all just a performance—all for show—but Oh Dear God, it sure doesn’t look like a show anymore.

And that’s before the blonde put her hand between her partner’s thighs. The brunette arches into a deep back bend as the blonde reaches her free hand under that torrent of black hair and unties the white lace blindfold, revealing the girl’s gorgeous Polynesian features, glowing with rapture.

I almost bite my tongue and hear a grunt next to me. The Polynesian girl writhes, her ass clenching as the blonde’s fingers work her. Her eyes open and even from here, I can see her pupils are blown.

Fuck… this has to be real. No one, no matter how skilled, can fake this. That girl is about to orgasm onstage. And from the noises Casey’s making, she might be about to come right where she’s sitting. Labored breathing and half-smothered moans say the crowd is right there with her.

And me? I’m feeling like that night in Savannah’s bed—only more so. My body is raging out of control, hunger gripping me so strongly I can’t move. My heart’s beating like a hammer and the sensations trapped between my clamped thighs feel like a nuclear reactor heading for meltdown. Nothing like this has ever happened to me and—fuck!—I’m in public! If I don’t get some relief soon…

The blonde sweeps the brunette’s hair aside and dips her head, biting the juncture of the girl’s neck and shoulder. She bucks, rising up in a full-body clench as she cums—As. She. Cums—and her wild fingers rip the blonde’s blindfold off. The blonde looks up and—

I jerk like I’ve been electrocuted. The surge lifts me clear of my seat and I’d shriek if I could make any sound at all. Instead, the shriek just ricochets around in my brain through an explosion of white that leaves only one image behind…

Savannah…

Her burning violet eyes.

Staring right at me…

Oh… Holy…

“Fuuuck…” Casey groans, almost in my ear. That breaks my paralysis. I turn to look at her. Her cheeks are flushed and she’s breathing through open lips like she’s run a marathon. Her eyes flick to mine and away. It’s shocking to see Casey feeling self-conscious. Or is it even more than that?

God knows what I look like.

“I need a drink.” Her voice is hoarse and she blinks a few times. “You want anything?”

I’m not capable of forming words yet but I manage to shake my head. Casey nods, sighs and stands up. Her motor control is far ahead of mine. But then, she doesn’t know…

The stage is empty when I dare look again and see the whole club appears to have the same need as Casey. People are descending on the bar, those who can move, that is. Plenty are still in their seats. But the queues are already deep and the servers are all behind the bar, helping with the rush. Casey hurries to get in line before they’re even longer.

I sag back and close my eyes, struggling to get control of my feelings that are running riot. So much for getting Savannah out of my head. I’ve just had what might be the most intense sexual experience of my life—without even cumming—while a month’s worth of buried feelings blew up in my face.

Yep… I’m a total basket case. With no basket to keep things together.

How… how… am I gonna come back from this?

Alas, poor lobster brain, we hardly knew you…

Leather creaks as a body slides into the booth across from me. That was quick, but why is Casey sitting on the other side?

“Fancy meeting you here.”

Oh no… That voice. I want more than anything to disappear but regrettably we don’t have that technology yet. So I’m forced to open my eyes and there’s Savannah’s friendly smile. She’s wearing a satiny coverup. Not that it covers all that much. Just the important bits. Sort of…

“Hi,” I croak. What I’d give for a drink right now. Maybe hemlock…

Jesus, could I be any more dramatic?

Lemme get back to you on that…

Savannah leans on the table and laces her fingers. My hands are in my lap and I keep them there.

“I almost didn’t recognize you at first.”

“No?” I’m so confused, I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

She grins as her eyes flick to the top of my head. “The hair.”

Oh, right. The hair. I’d wanted a change after the whole Maggie shitstorm and Casey urged me to go bold. She’d suggested I dye it garnet red and while I was tempted, that just seemed a bit much. I settled on a turquoise ombré—turquoise and teal being two of my favorite colors, as half my wardrobe will attest (along with navy and, of course, purple—yeah, I know I’m predictable)—and Casey went along but she did insist I get a more dramatic style, shortening my collar-length bob to a pixie cut with swept bangs and a left-side undercut. I’ll admit I like it, even though the longer bangs falling across my right eye drove me nuts for a week.

Now I can’t tell if Savannah thinks it’s silly for a 30-something like me to wear an edgy cut like this—in turquoise—and despite wanting to keep my hands still, I can’t resist fidgeting with it.

“It’s awesome.”

My hand falls abruptly. “You think so?”

“Oh, yeah.” Her eyes drop to mine and her tongue teases the corner of her lips. “You’re rockin’ it.”

Good Lord, why does she have to do things like that? Seriously, a girl can only handle so much…

She takes mercy on me, breaking the intense eye contact. “I haven’t seen you here before. First time?”

“Yeah…” I swallow twice before I can finish. “My… friend brought me.”

Savannah searches out Casey in the crowd waiting at the bar. “The tall cool blonde in the black dress?”

“Uh huh.”

Her eyes come back to me. “Is she a new friend?”

Uh-oh. Savannah read too much into my stutter. “Oh no. We’ve been best friends since the 3rd grade.”

“Sweet!” Her smile broadens and she glances toward Casey again. “She’s super pretty.”

Oh no… That isn’t why Savannah came over, is it? The image of her and Casey together—fingers entwined, eyes locked, parted lips approaching… Shit! Savannah and that other girl were so freaking hot they left scorch marks on my retinas but I could see her and Casey together. Honestly, they’d be perfect for each other…

“Hey?” One corner of Savannah’s lips pulls down. “You okay? You got a funny look just now.”

“Um, yeah,” I fumble. “Fine. I just…” Deflect, deflect, deflect… “thought you were a waitress.”

She chuckles and drops her eyes from mine. “I’m that too. This gig… well, y’know, it’s not always easy to make ends meet in this town. So every little bit helps.”

Huh? That’s all this was to her? A way to make ends meet? My God… Cirque du Soleil would fall all over themselves to have an act like hers. Maybe without the whole making-girls-cum bit, though…

I clear my throat. “So you’ve been doing this long?” Geez, that sounded lame…

“This?” Savannah orbits her head to indicate the club. “A while. I did some gymnastics when I was a kid. Then I got into pole dancing to stay in shape. But this”—she nods at the stage—“This kinda just happened when I… I guess when I found out I was good at and it was an option.”

Okay… How precisely does becoming a stripper “just happen”? My Spidey sense tells me there’s more to the story—and I shouldn’t pursue it. But now I know why her arms are so strong, so comforting, so safe… In my lap, my fingers go at it like a WWE match. “So which are you? Raine? Or are you Layla?”

She gives me that cute chuckle, bringing her dimple out in the open.

Oh, I didn’t need to see that.

“Raine. It’s my last name, if you can believe it.”

“Savannah Raine?” How… appropriate. Bringing much-needed water to a parched landscape…

Whoa… hold those thoughts. No one’s parched here.

“Yep.” She pops the ‘P’ adorably. “And my first name’s Summer. Savannah’s my middle name.”

“Summer Savannah Raine?” Wow…

“Uh huh.” Her eyes sparkle as she giggles. “Get’s better. My little sister is Autumn Jessica Raine.”

That shakes loose a giggle from my chest. “Alright, then. It’s a theme.”

She bobs her head, grinning. “Definitely. My parents are sorta hippies.”

Makes perfect sense. “I see. Are you close?”

Her smile dims a fraction. “With my mom, yeah. Dad… not so much. He’s a… free spirit, you could say. Haven’t seen him in… a few years.”

“Oh.” Now I feel bad. “I’m sorry. That must… kinda suck.” Ouch. Again with the lameness.

She combs her fingers through her hair. “It’s no biggie. I have my mom and my sis. We’re good.”

That’s when it occurs to me we’re chatting like two friends at the kitchen table over tea. Not in a crowded lesbian club where Savannah just brought another gorgeous girl to orgasm with her fingers, onstage.

Can she tell I’d been one step away from a freak-out and this is her way of setting me at ease? By just being normal? It seems to be working but I wish I hadn’t thought of her with “Layla” again. Are they together? Friends with benefits, maybe? What sort of relationship do you need to have to do that with someone on stage? Maybe they just work together, like people in the adult industry do?

“What?” Savannah is looking at me with a wry smile.

“What, what?”—doing my best to look innocent.

Her smile deepens. “You’ve got that ‘I have a question’ look on your face.”

Crap. My best must suck. Why had I thought differently? I’d been busted enough. “You and Layla. I was wondering how you guys started… working together.”

“Oh that.” She doesn’t quite roll her eyes but there’s definitely something going on. “That’s my roommate. We’ve been best friends for a long time and when the opportunity came up, we thought, why not? It helps us both out and it’s a lot easier to work with someone you know.”

My brain freezes at “roommate.” That was Amie up on stage with her? Amie who’d been so vocal about being… My face heats to the point where I’m sure my cheeks can be seen from orbit.

“Is that too weird for you?” A touch of hurt shows in Savannah’s eyes.

I shake my head quickly. “No. No. I’m sorry if I made you think that. I’m just… well. I haven’t led the most… I mean…” Shit, I’m making this so much worse. “I thought maybe you… you were together. Or something.”

Savannah looks out at the club, shaking her head. It stirs the dark-honey strands wonderfully. “Nah. We’re not. Amie’s… I love her to death. But she’s a little nuts. I wouldn’t wanna try to keep up with her.”

What the freak. So Amie is ‘a little nuts’? Like no kidding. But the fact Savannah thinks so…

She scans the club again and gets up. “I’ve gotta go. Thanks for chatting with me. I really enjoyed it.”

“Me too,” I murmur. And, despite how I felt when she sat down, I mean it.

Savannah smiles and I think she might reach out for me, but she doesn’t. “I’m glad you came.”

Oh no, she didn’t… “Nice to see you too.” What—what?—am I getting into here? This is so, so far from where things were supposed to go—from where I’m supposed to be. I need stability. I need a straight and simple path. I don’t need to be swept up in feelings that make a hurricane seem like a gentle summer breeze.

Summer… Her name’s actually Summer?

Freaking meow. I’m gone. I’m so entirely gone…

“Sorry that took so long.” Casey slides in next to me. “I got you some water anyway. Are you okay?”

I study the ice cubes floating in the glass she pushes in front of me. “Yeah. Why?”

“I saw you talking with that dancer. She didn’t seem to be bothering you.” The wink is clear in Casey’s tone. She takes a long thoughtful sip of her mojito. “Are you, um… interested?”

I pull in a breath and huff it out. “No… not really.” Casey looks at me like I just announced I’m suddenly straight. “That was Savannah.”

Casey nearly spits her drink across the table and starts coughing. “Hold up,” she gasps out between coughs. “That was Savannah? Your Savannah?”

I’ve never heard someone sound what you’d call legit thunderstruck before. I nod. It’s a night for firsts.

“Holy mackerel on a candy-coated fuck-me stick!”

Yep, Casey can be surprisingly colorful with a few drinks in her. I shoot her a glance. She’s sitting there, looking like she’s seen Jesus, Casper the Friendly Ghost and a three-headed unicorn all dancing in the moonlight.

“Sooo…” She wipes her lips and her mojito starts tipping. I nudge it upright. “Thanks. That other girl. The other dancer. That’s her girlfriend?”

“No. They’re not together. That’s her roommate.”

Half a mojito slops on the table. “Shit!” We both scoot aside and scramble for napkins. “Are you fucking kidding me?” Casey shakes her head as we dam the mini-flood.

“Uh-uh.” I look for a place to put the soaked napkins. “Her name’s Amie.” As if that explains anything. We shove the napkins into a soggy stack in the middle of the table. Casey stays silent for a full minute. Then…

“So what’s the issue?”

“What issue?” Suddenly, I feel very tired.

“You. Her. She didn’t come over to chat you up like that if she’s not into you. Especially after letting you sleep with her and coffee and everything. And I know how you feel.”

“Casey…” I can’t meet her eyes.

“What?”

“Can we just go?” I squeeze my eyelids together to keep the wetness at bay. “I’d really like to go.”

Casey puts down the remains of her mojito. “Sure. We can go.”

Chapter 13. Savannah

I blow out a hard breath and shake the twinges out of my aching shoulders. “Wanna go one more time?”

“Oh, right.” Amie snickers. “Like you haven’t tossed me into the cheap seats enough for one day.”

“Hey!” I pull a face at her. “That was only once! And you didn’t even clear the mats.”

“Tell that to my aching butt”—flaunting it at me in her shiny crimson athletic booty shorts. Paired with teal crop-top, she looks… well, totally Amie, while I’m dressed down in black yoga shorts and a black tank.

I gotta admit that Amie’s ass kinda has a point though. Maybe I did drop her more than once. But they were soft drops. Except maybe that one time… Still, when we get this new routine down, it’s gonna be epic. The national championships are coming up in the off season and I think we have an excellent shot this year.

It all depends on how our team does, of course. The national pole dancing championship can’t compare to a gymnastics championship and isn’t much good on your CV, but it’s more of a thing than most people realize and that’s not the point anyway. The point is I love pole dancing. I love it a lot and the championship is something I’ve wanted—and Amie’s wanted—ever since we started doing it when we were 18. So it’s not even about bragging rights or anything, but it’s still important, though obviously not as important as our team’s success. Once we get through the regionals, the big meets will be next January and February, while the pole dancing championship is in March. If we progress past the big meets—and I think we have a real chance of that—we’ll shelve the pole dancing championship until the following year and that’ll be perfect.

But that doesn’t mean we’ll slack off now. No one’s ever attempted a routine like this. It’s a single-pole act with us starting at the top, Amie inverted. Okay, so it looks like a 69 at first but outside Indigo Visions, where we’ll debut it, we’ll tone it down so we don’t give the organizers a heart attack; that cost us last year at the Nationals and we only placed fifth. So our first moves aren’t super original but they get us to the point where, in the middle of a spin, Amie does a backbend release as I grab her wrist. She grabs mine with her other hand and the spin throws her out into a flare. Then, at the maximum extent of the flair, she lets go.

That’s what’s never been done—a one-handed spinning flair. Amie is flying almost horizontal as we spiral around the pole. With her doing scissor kicks, it looks freaking awesome. But the real trick is the tuck. She has to pull her legs up as I swing her down so she can get back on the pole and that makes us spin a lot faster. But once she’s got a knee around the pole, she can grab it with her free hand and I can let go and do a backwards somersault to the floor. Then she kicks around into a flying dismount and—if we’ve timed it all perfectly—lands in my arms. We pirouette to our knees and…

Yes! We’ve made history! That’s our real goal, far above and beyond any championship.

It’s that damn tuck, though. When she pulls her legs up and we spin faster, the tension gets fierce. In that last second before she gets her knee around the pole, it feels like she’s gonna rip my arm right out of the socket. And if I let go… yeah, her sailing into the cheap seats gets real. Which is why we’re using a lot of mats for this routine!

“How about I tell your aching butt: Go big or go home?”

Amie rolls onto her knees and shakes said butt at me. “How about you kiss my ass, baby?”

“Oh? Would that make your owie better, sweet cheeks?”

More wriggling, and she snipes a glance over her shoulder at me. “You could always try, babe.”

I snort and shake my head. “Why don’t you call Tiff? Isn’t she the one who signed up for ass-kissing duties?”

She giggles. “Y’sure you’re not just jealous?”

“Sweetheart, I get plenty of time with your ass at Indigo. I’m good with that.”

“Totally true.” Amie gives her upper lip a tactical lick.

I roll my eyes at the double entendre. “You better not let Tiff hear you say stuff like that.”

“Why not?” She arches one slim eyebrow. “Tiff thinks you’re totally hot.”

I have to stifle a groan. “That’s cuz I am totally hot. But we’ve had this discussion. On stage for girls only. I’m not third-wheel material.”

Now she goes with the pout and puppy-dog eyes. Amie does have killer puppy-dog eyes. “Who says you’d be a third-wheel?”

This is getting a bit weird, even for us. “C’mon, Amie. Be serious. I don’t want to come between you and Tiff.” Her eyes light and her hand flies to her mouth as I realize what I just said. “Ah, fuck. You know what I meant.”

“But you said it.”

“For God’s sake. I am gonna drop you next time.”

“Bully.”

“You deserve it.”

“Hah! And I think you deserve to cum between us.”

Jesus, is she serious? “Amie… where’re you going with this? Cuz, as flattering as it is, I’m getting a little weirded out here.”

She spins around to sit cross-legged, rests her elbows on her knees and heaves a sigh. “Look, I’m just teasing. Okay? Mostly anyway. You just…” She puts her chin on her fists and looks away. “I dunno. You haven’t seemed happy for a long time now. You hardly go out. You haven’t brought anyone home in like… forever. That one girl you won’t tell me about doesn’t count, obviously. We used to have fun. Now we just sorta… hang out. At home. Sometimes. Yeah, I know we’re not that way except when we’re working. But…”

Shit, she won’t even look at me. “But?”

Amie shakes her head and then pushes her hair out of her face. “I dunno. Me and Tiff. I mean, just cuz we got kinda serious, it doesn’t mean I, like… replaced you. You’re still my bestie. I guess I haven’t been there like I used to be. I’ve been kinda a sucky friend? I don’t want you to feel, y’know, left out? That’s all.”

Whoa. I don’t know what to do with all this. “Okayyy… I mean, that’s super sweet. I just… dunno—”

She cuts me off with a shrug. “It’s totally fine. I didn’t mean to freak you out or anything. It’s just that I know Tiff would be totally cool with it and you know I would be, and… and I wondered if maybe you’d… have fun. I didn’t wanna make things weird. I’m sorry if I did. I just want you to be happy. I don’t know how… how to help.”

“Oh, Amie…” I crawl across the mats to where she’s sitting so I can hug her. Our arms encircle each other as she drops her face into the juncture of my neck and shoulder. “Thank you. You are my bestie and I love you. You haven’t been a sucky friend at all. Not at all. I’m sorry I made you feel that way. It’s not you and I…”

I have to lick my lip as I search for my next words. It’s not that I think Amie’s just offering me a pity fuck. She really does think sex solves all kinds of problems and, more than that, she likes to share. And it’s not like I don’t know the sex would undoubtedly be hot as hell. With our history, I might have been down with it a few years ago. But since I moved out here, hookups have worked less and less for me. This past year, they haven’t been working at all. Maybe it’s me. Maybe I just make crappy relationship choices—excuse too much, turn a blind eye too much, assert myself too little. I dunno. After my last trainwreck, I tried one night stands to avoid getting into it. But I’m not a one-night-stand girl. I need more. If I want an orgasm, I have fingers and toys for that (lots of toys, actually) and they don’t ask questions or judge me.

Amie and Tiff would never do any of those things, but Amie’s not like me. Maybe she is a bit of an exhibitionist, which is probably why she gets off on stage and I don’t. I keep my orgasms private and I’m not sure if I envy the freedom she feels or not. She can do no-strings fucking and be happy with it, which is why this thing with Tiff is so new and different for her.

It’s also why I’m sure she’s being sincere. But they can’t give me what I really want either. And I’m not sure I want them to try. I really want them to have a chance to be happy. I hate disappointing Amie—I hate making her feel rejected even worse—but I don’t want even a little taste of something I can’t have. As they used to say, been there, done that. It hurts too much. I don’t wanna go there again. It’s not worth it. I don’t see how it ever will be.

“What you and Tiff have is special,” I finally say, hoping it wouldn’t sound condescending or lame. “And I know you’re both cool with this and I wouldn’t mess things up between you two. But… it’s just not what I need right now. It’s not you guys. You’re awesome—you know that. I just need… something else.” The sound of sniffling comes from alongside my neck. Fuck… “Now did I make things weird?”

“Uh-uh.” Amie lifts her head, but not her eyes. “I get it. You need your own person.”

“Uh…” I force the sound past this damn lump in my throat. “I think… Yeah, I think that might be it.”

Now she looks up at me. Her eyes are damp. She smiles. “I want that for you, too. Y’know that, right?”

I squeeze her into me. “I know that.”

“Okay. Good.”

“So we’re good?”

“We’re good.”

The lump dissolves. The tension in my shoulders I hadn’t felt until now bleeds away. Amie slides a hand under my hair and along the side of my neck. “Can I ask something, though?”

I fight not to tense up again. I mostly win. “Sure. Anything.”

“That chick you were chatting up at the club last night. The pretty one with the freakin’ awesome hair. You know her from somewhere?”

Oops, I should’ve seen this coming. And I probably should’ve told Amie before this. I didn’t mean to keep Erin from her—not consciously, anyway. I didn’t even know if I’d ever see Erin again and I sure didn’t expect to see her at the club—not her scene at all, I could tell. But there she was, and it did look like she was having a good time. Maybe I shouldn’t have talked to her, but after our eyes locked like they did, it seemed just dumb to pretend it didn’t happen. And she did look freakin’ awesome with that new hair—looked so good, I couldn’t not go see her. I thought she was hot before, but I just love this new look, this new attitude, and after what happened to her, it made me so happy to think she’d changed it up and moved on.

It’s super clear she hadn’t expected to see me either, and I was worried it kinda freaked her out, and things were tense to begin with—like, no kidding—but by the time I had to leave, I felt we were pretty okay. I told her it was nice to see her—because it was—and when she said it back, she sounded sincere. But I didn’t see her after that, so she must’ve left with her hot blonde friend pretty quickly, so… I guess I don’t really know. The whole pole dancer/stripper thing is a big bomb to drop on people—and I did sorta soft peddle it—so… yeah. Maybe the whole thing was a mistake.

“Yeah, I… do.” I scrape my teeth over my lower lip and Amie scrunches her forehead. “She’s the girl I brought home that night—the one who needed a place to crash. Her name’s Erin.”

“Oh… Wow.” The crease between Amie’s brows deepens. “She’s hella hot. Are you into her?”

Trust Amie to get right down to basics. I answer with a lop-sided shrug. “Doesn’t matter. She’s not available.”

“Oh.” Amie’s expression falls into a pout. “That sucks. The blonde?”

That would be such an easy out but I can’t lie to my best friend—even though I kinda feel like I have been. “No, they’re not together. She’s just not in that place, that’s all.”

“Hmm…” Her lips pinch in at one corner while she bites her cheek. “I’m sorry. Feels like you like her.”

I smirk, because this has gotten heavy. “She is hella hot, like you said. What’s not to like? It is what it is.”

“Sure”—giving me side-eye.

That makes me chuckle. “And hey, I’ve got you! It’s cool.”

“Whatevs.”

Laughing, I let her go and ease back a step. “Exactly! So what now? Do I get to drop you again?”

She rewards me with an eye roll. “Fuck no! What we’re gonna do is get Thai food and a butt-ton of mint-choc ice cream and binge watch either the most horrendous show we can find or—”

“Wynonna Earp?”—with a smug grin.

More eye-rolling. “God, we’ve seen every episode like fifty times. You recite their dialog in your sleep.”

“I do not! Besides, how would you know?” For all the teasing, she could be right. We’ve been watching Wynonna Earp since high school.

“I know you.”

“But it’s still way hot!”

She squints at me. “You’re never gonna stop saying that, are you?”

“Why should I?” I quip. “It’s a epic. Besides, with the new finale coming out, we oughta brush up.”

“Fine. You win. Just cuz you’re my bestie—not cuz you deserve it.”

“Yay! Epic! Thai food first?” I knew I could wear her down.

“Ice cream first.”

“Of course. What was I thinking?” I can eye roll too. I’m actually really wicked at it. “But first…” I switch gears to more serious. “Are you sure about this? You don’t have plans with Tiff tonight?”

A gentle headshake as she keeps her arms laced around my shoulders. “Nope. Nothing firm. I’ll call her anyway—she’ll be cool with it. She knows when I need some bestie time with my bestie.”

I give her hips a squeeze. “You’re the best bestie.”

“You’re right. I totally am. I’m the awesome in your awesome sauce.”

I make gagging noises. “You did not just say that.”

“I totally did. And you know it’s true.”

“Right. Is today totally ‘use totally in every sentence’ day?”

“Oh!” She wriggles on her butt. “That’s a totally awesome idea! Can we?”

“God, you’re ridiculous.”

“Totally ridiculous.”

“Alright! Alright! Enough or I’ll veto the mint-choc ice cream.”

“Oh, you tot—”

I clap a hand over her mouth. “Time to go, oh-soon-to-be-former bestie. Unless you want to forfeit your ice cream.”

She blinks innocently over my hand and gives her head a little shake.

“I’ll be good.” Her voice is muffled by my palm.

“Fantastic.”

Now if only I could believe it.

Chapter 14. Erin

“I just don’t see what the problem is. You say she’s sweet…”

Casey had given me a day’s grace on the whole Savannah encounter, going all day Saturday without bringing it up. But it’s Sunday morning and my less charitable side is suggesting that her letting me off the hook yesterday had more to do with her being hungover than wanting to give me a break. Whichever it was, it’s apparently over. By the time I’d showered and gotten dressed, she’d run out to get an order of coffee, loaded bagels and raspberry croissants—an obvious softening-up routine.

I’m determined to remain unsoftened. “Sure she’s sweet, but—”

Biting into her croissant, Casey chops her hand to cut me off, unwilling to hear any buts. “We both know she’s off-the-charts hot. She dances like a goddess. I’m kinda shocked her moves around a pole aren’t illegal—they probably would be if certain parties found out about them—and she appears to be, shall we say, very good with her hands—”

“Casey!” Blood rushes to my cheeks—an alarmingly frequent phenomenon whenever Savannah comes up—making Casey chortle around a mouthful of pastry. She swallows and licks her lips.

“Okay, okay. I’m just sayin’. I mean, what’s not to be bowled over about? Don’t tell me she’s just a kid. That ship has sailed.”

Fine, I humph with my inside voice and hide behind my coffee. So there’s everything to be bowled over about. And no, she’s not a kid, but she is ten years younger than I am. I’ve learned how these things work. Or don’t work. Age gap aside, we’re too different: she has wings; I have feet of clay. Our worlds are too different. Hers: carefree and wild; mine: PERT charts, GANTT charts, schedules, meetings and milestones. Besides, I’m on the cusp of achieving the most important goal in my life. I don’t have time for anything else or anyone else. And rebounds never end well. They’re not fair to anyone. The best I can do is stay away.

“You know I can’t get involved right now,” I grumble. “It’d be stupid to start something—”

This time, a full-on laugh interrupts me. “Oh my flippin’ saints! I’m talking about a little fun and you go immediately to U-Hauling!”

“It’s not about U-Hauling! It’s about…” The protest dies on my lips. What is this about? Am I just being a prude? I thought Savannah was a waitress, who happened to have a sexually out-there roommate, not a stripper who had actual sex on stage with said roommate. While staring straight at me. While eye-fucking me. While nearly making me come as I watched. How am I supposed to process that? It’s all so…

“It’s just all so weird. I mean… isn’t it weird to you?”

“Weird how?”

Okay, so Casey’s more open than I am and thinks a dose of fun cures most issues, and if it doesn’t work at first, rinse and repeat. But she’s pretending to be clueless here to draw this out.

“C’mon… The fact she shows off her naked body to strangers for money isn’t an issue for you?”

She pretends to think. “Hmm… If she showed off her naked body to strangers for free, I might—”

I unleash a spectacular eyeroll. “Casey, I mean it. You really wouldn’t have an issue dating a stripper?”

“Oh, don’t tell me that’s really bothering you. What’sa matter? Are you just looking for excuses?”

Of course, I’m not looking for excuses. I’m trying to process. That’s absolutely what I’m doing…

“Look.” Casey skewers me with her I know what you’re up to gaze. “First, she’s girls-only, correct? She’s not working in a skanky strip club or turning tricks out of a cheap motel?”

She has a point. I can’t imagine Savannah doing those things. “No, she’s not doing that.”

“Okay. So she’s stripping for us lezzies of her own free will. She’s not being coerced or exploited.”

Dammit. Casey should’ve been a lawyer. I hate lawyers… “I guess that’s true.”

“And we like it.”

I scowl at her. You can throttle your best friend, can’t you? Best friends are supposed to understand about that?

“Make bitch-face all you want, but I saw you. She made you wet. You were ready to explode. How’d you even make it home?”

“What the fuck, Casey…”

“I’ll take that as a yes. So what’s wrong with getting, y’know, a little release?”

Oh fuck… I scrunch my face, glaring at Casey. I’m not going to think about what I did in the shower as soon as we got home, or what I did again before I fell asleep. I’m not going to imagine myself dancing on Savannah’s nimble, knowing fingers again. I’m not going to remember the seismic shocks that crashed through me as warm water cascaded over my sensitized skin, and then again under the cool sheets, leaving me shaking and breathless. And I’m certainly not going to remember how I denied myself this morning, just to prove I could… and the state it left me in. That I’m still in…

God help me, I’m in so much trouble.

“I’ll have you know”—sharpening my glare to puncture Casey’s smug bubble—“that I’m perfectly capable of handling the release issue all by myself.”

She shoots out a hand, palm up, in a classic stop gesture. “TMI, woman, TMI. I didn’t ask for details. But since you’ve admitted she gets you all worked up, and the feeling seems to be mutual, why are you trying so hard to make an issue out of something you both enjoy?”

“You know I hate you, right? You know that?”

“Sure. Be that way. I know she made me wet.”

“Thanks so much for the nonconsensual overshare.”

“Hey, you started it. The point is, if I like it and we decided to date—not that I have any plans or whatever—wouldn’t I be a hypocrite to tell her, ‘Hey, while we’re together, keep your damn clothes on’? If she’s not hurting herself while she pleases me and our crew, isn’t that what I’d be?”

Crap. There’s that word again—hypocrite. “Fine. So you’d be totally okay with dating a stripper?”

“I can’t see anything wrong with it. So maybe there’d be a twinge seeing all the lust in other women’s eyes. That’s natural, I guess? Or maybe it’d be an ego stroke, knowing she goes home with me? I guess I’m not sure. But I can say, if she looked like Savannah, my principles are liable to be a bit flexible. So there. Does that help?”

“No.” I pout. “Did I already say I hate you?”

“Yes. We’re making progress now.”

“Yep, hating you is definitely progress.”

She laughs and swats my arm. “Just think about it.”

Right. As if I could do anything else at this point. Thankfully, Casey isn’t the only one riding my ass these days. There’s Manny and his milestones and, even if I wanted to see Savannah, until we meet those I’ll be lucky to be able to schedule pee breaks.

Jesus! Did I just think I’m thankful for Manny and his fucking milestones?

Oh, I’m gone. So totally gone. And these next couple of weeks have gone straight to the special Hell.

Chapter 15. Savannah

I must be outta my mind… outta my mind.

I’m sitting on the edge of my bed on a rare day off, staring at a lingerie set. It’s gorgeous: purple silk—though they call it aubergine, probably because it’s French—with black lace trim on the demi-bra and garter belt that has more straps than I’ve seen before. The matching retro thong is black lace too and the whole set is decorated with seed pearls.

It’s not the sort of thing Rebels and Lovers typically carries, which might be why it was 50% off, and it happened to be my size, which makes me think it was fate, except in this case, fate’s being a bitch.

Erin’s gift certificate covered it—another sign it was fate?—so how could I resist? I obviously couldn’t and I didn’t and I know it’s cuz I’m outta my mind.

There’s only one person I want to wear it for and that’s a spectacularly bad idea. It’s been ten days since I saw Erin at the club and that was a complete fluke. She hasn’t been back to the restaurant and regardless of what she said, I doubt she will be. Why would she? Her last time was utter shit and I don’t even know if I’d wanna go back after that. Jules hasn’t said anything since that time we talked and even Amie has left it alone, which is a little scary. But she’s spending a lot more time with Tiff these days, so maybe that’s why?

I’m sure they both know I can’t get Erin out of my head and nagging me won’t help. Seriously, I don’t think anything’s gonna help. Even if it wouldn’t be a rebound for her—I’d rather jump on a landmine—what do I have to offer her? She’s a tech wizard girl with a rockin’ career and while we might make each other feel good at first, in a few months she’d be tired of dealing with someone my age, of waiting for me to “grow up” and get “serious”—not stripping and pole dancing—and then we’d start being polite to each other, doing the eggshell thing cuz no one wants to hurt anyone’s feelings and she’s so super sweet she probably catches spiders and puts them outside, till one of us gets up the courage to say it’s not working and…

Fuck.

Erin would break my heart so gently, with all the tenderness in the world, and no way am I ever coming back from that. Heartbreak is supposed to be brutal so we learn not to go there again. And I know that. I totally know that. But with Erin, I just can’t help myself.

I am so fucked…

My landline rings as if to add an exclamation point to my thought. Most of the calls I get are spam and right now I’m in no mood to go check the caller ID, so I let it go to the answering machine.

“Hey, big sis! Pick up! It’s me,” my sister’s voice carols from the machine. Crap, I should have checked this time. Fortunately, she’s used to it. I haul myself off my bed to grab the cordless handset.

“Hey, Jessie. What’s up?”

I hear a muffled snort. “You are, aren’t you?”

“Totally original, baby sis. Is that why you called? Just to get me up?”

“C’mon… do I need a reason to call my beloved big sister?”

“I guess you don’t, but you usually do. Spill.”

“Okay, you got me. I wanted to know when you were coming out again. We miss you. As unlikely as that may seem.”

“Same here, brat.”

“So when?”

“Thanksgiving. Like usual.” I’d never miss Thanksgiving with my family—it’s our favorite holiday—but I’m not going to give Jessie the satisfaction of sounding gushy about seeing them again.

“Bringing someone? Or are you still on your sex strike?”

There she goes with the needling again. I roll my eyes. They will just never give it a rest about my single status. “I’m not even gonna answer that.”

“What? Gimme something to work with here. Y’know Mom’s always on my butt about whether you have a girlfriend or not.”

I do know she is. Ever since Dad left and especially since she got sick, Mom’s wanted nothing more than for me to be in a stable relationship. Dad left a big hole behind and she’s looking to me to fill it. I can’t really blame her; the cancer was fucking awful, he stole from her the thing she wanted most and the thought of me not having that either really tore her up. She’s been in remission for over 3 years, but she still hates that I’m alone. She just can’t understand that I prefer it that way. In a way, I love her for it but I also wish she could find a path to her own happiness. She’s pretty much given up dropping hints to me these days and instead bugs Jessie for updates. Jessie likes to pretend it annoys her but I know that secretly she wants me to have a girlfriend almost as badly. They were there when my last relationship tanked and I think it hit them, especially Mom, harder than me. I think they’re also convinced I’m still hurting from it.

Maybe I am, but not the way they believe. Yes, it did hurt—it hurt a lot—but I learned from it and despite everyone’s opinions, I’m happy with my life now. Okay, maybe not perfectly happy, but who is? There’s nothing about it I particularly want to change.

“Have you dated at all since you moved?” Jessie prods me. “You live with Amie. You seriously want me to believe you haven’t met anyone?”

Erin’s face flashes in my mind’s eye and I wince. This is a reason not to do video calls. I’m not even going to try to explain about Erin—absolutely captivating, completely unavailable Erin. That I can’t get her out of my head, as that lingerie set proves, is not something I’m ready to talk about. Not even with my well-meaning but nosy family. Maybe especially not with my well meaning but nosy family.

“What about you?” I deflect. “Why do you get a pass on this?”

This time, I clearly hear her snort. “Cuz I’m the baby of the family. No one expects me to date.”

“Oh, yeah. Right. You’re almost 20. Do I get to use that against you, now that you’ve admitted it?”

“Haha. Nice try. Like I’d have time anyway. Besides, boys are gross and girls are… difficult. And someone should stay outta my nonexistent love life.”

“Haha,” I echo, wondering if she’s speaking from experience. “I feel the same way. Total shock, I know.”

I hear a huff that signals we’re finally done with this topic, so I change the subject.

“How’s school?” Jessie is studying veterinary medicine at Tufts. She’s always near the top of her class and I’m super proud of her. She downplays it because she’s 19 and horrified at seeming enthusiastic about anything and I tend to play along. But maybe I should come out and just say the words more often? It’s kind of weird that I can coach teens, but sometimes struggle to find the right words to say to my sister. I love her and Mom more than anything and I do anything for them.

Except the girlfriend thing, I guess.

Shit.

“It’s school-like,” Jessie answers with an audible shrug. “We did get to observe an emergency surgery on a newborn foal to correct a malformed intestine. That was so cool! She was so cute, too!”

Wow! Excitement! I feel a happy little glow in my chest. “That’s awesome! What else have you been up to?”

We chat for a few minutes about her school and for once, she drops the jaded ennui bit. I feel I should too.

“Holy shit! You’re really rockin’ this, Jess. I’m so thoroughly proud of you!”

“Jeez,” she snarks. “How am I supposed to handle my big sis going all gushy?”

See? Told ya. “Fail a couple of classes so I can go all hard-ass on your butt. That’d do it.”

“Uh huh. I’ll take that under advisement. Could be worth it in the end.”

That makes me chuckle. “Yeah. Think about it. Anything else?”

“Hmmm…” I imagine her putting her finger under her chin as she glances theatrically at the ceiling. “I guess there is one tiny thing. Happy birthday.”

My birthday isn’t till Friday but it’s sweet of her to mention it and I say so.

“What are you doing? Going out with Amie?” she asks.

“Working, actually. Amie’s not here.” In fact, she left this morning with Tiff.

“Oh, that sucks.” Jessie sounds genuinely disappointed.

“No, it’s all good. She and Tiff flew to Montreal for Tiff’s moms’ 25th anniversary. It’s kind of a big deal.” I hope that doesn’t come across as defensive. It is a big deal and I’m so happy Tiff and Amie are serious enough that they’re going together. “We’ll do something when she gets back next week.”

“Okay.” She doesn’t sound 100% convinced, but she also doesn’t pursue it. “Eat something bad for you, though. And call us. We’ll sing.”

“Boy, someone’s gotten bossy.”

“Just looking out for you, my I’d-rather-be-alone big sis.”

God… She had to slip that in there, didn’t she. “Sure you are. Is that it?”

“Yeah, pretty much. Mom’s going in for her checkup tomorrow, but that’s all.”

What? My stomach drops. Mom gets a cancer screening annually now. It was every six months before last year but this is early. Why did Jessie wait until now to bring this up? “Is she okay?”—fighting to keep the surge of stress out of my voice. “I thought she wasn’t going in until October?”

“She’s fine.” Jessie sounds a bit too nonchalant. “She’s been feeling a little tired, so her doctor thought she should get checked early. I don’t think it’s anything to worry about. Doctors always play it safe. I know, cuz I’m gonna be one.”

“Alright.” I know it sounds forced but I can’t help it.

“I mean it. Don’t stress. It’s just a precaution. I’ll call as soon as we get the results.”

“You better.” I mean that to lighten the mood but I don’t think it works.

“Like I’d forget,” she teases. “Gotta go. Test tomorrow. The guy’s a complete hard ass… speaking of hard asses.”

“Go kill it, baby sis.”

“Roger that, old sis. And do… not… worry.”

We end the call. Fuck…

Now I wish I hadn’t stopped drinking. Getting through these next two days is gonna be an absolute bitch.

Chapter 16. Erin

“Casey, what are you doing?”

I’m standing at the entrance of La Vita è Dolce and Casey, who should be right behind me, is still in her BMW. We drove here together to celebrate our big project review with the investors today—which went very well, thank you very much—and we’d been planning to come here all week, no matter what the outcome. Only now Casey looks to be going off-plan and I’m bewildered.

Not just bewildered, to be honest. I haven’t been back since the blowout with Maggie and I’ve also never been here alone. I was kinda-sorta counting on Casey for some moral support, not to ditch me at—literally—the last moment. I also don’t like that she’s looking pleased with herself. That grin does not bode well.

“You’re going to dinner,” she announces with smug satisfaction. “I’m going out.”

“You’re going out?” My voices pitches up. What is it with her? Last time, she dragged me to a sex club and now she’s going out when we’re supposed to be having dinner together? I’m about the rethink the whole best friend thing. “We had plans. You made them.” I don’t even try to keep the accusation out of my voice.

Her grin widens. “I did. Reservation for one, in Savannah’s section. You have five minutes.”

“And no car,” I snap. She deserves a good snap.

“I’m sure Savannah does.”

“Casey…” My voice drops a full octave as my hands drop to my hips. “You are not setting me up.”

“And now you can drink. If you need a Lyft home, that’s on me.”

“Casey…” It’s a full-on growl now. This whole debacle’s on her.

“C’mon, Erin. The last two weeks have been insane. You aced the review. Live a little, for god’s sake.”

“Since when does ‘living a little’ equate to setting me up? Baby steps, remember?”

“It’s only dinner, Erin.” She smirks and I glare. “It’s not even dinner with her. It’s not a date. How much more baby-step-ish do you want? Get you toes wet.”

I shake my head. “I don’t need any help from you to get my toes wet.”

That earns me a laugh. “That’s rich! Go on. You’re about to be late.” She checks her watch. “For that matter, so am I. I’ll see you at work Monday. You can spill the deets then.”

“I swear, Casey, you are—”

“Your best friend… Doing what best friends do. Have a lovely dinner. Gotta run.”

She puts her bimmer in gear and backs out of the parking space before I can think of anything else to say. It probably wouldn’t be very nice anyway. But as much as I might like to carve out her interfering little heart and spit-roast it, I grudgingly have to admit maybe she has a point. The last two weeks have been so busy, she stopped harassing me about Savannah, which is saying something. I know now it was saying she’d been plotting, but the point stands. And I did ace the review this time. Even Manny smiled—I hope he didn’t hurt himself doing it.

No, I’m kidding. I could care less if he hurt himself. What matters is we’re past that milestone and now things will be less intense. Manny made it clear our year-end funding depended on this review and with that assured, we can all breathe easier.

I deserve a nice dinner, regardless of Casey’s meddling. Wanting her along for moral support… okay, that is not the best look. I should be able to do this on my own. I can do this on my own. I can grab a Lyft—that’s no problem. I can see Savannah. That’s… no problem.

Sure…

Baby steps. Maybe getting my toes wet is a good thing? It’s nothing more than that. What’s the harm?

Don’t answer that…

I push the door open and step in to be met with by the pretty hostess’ beaming smile. “Ms. Lancaster. Your table’s right this way.”

I’ve never gotten a greeting like that before. Is everyone in on this? She leads me to a table near the back where it’s more secluded. With a lit candle on it. My jaw tightens. At least there’s no rose. I guess they drew the line at that. I sit down.

“Savannah will be right with you.” She dips her head cutely. “Enjoy your evening.”

I nod and try to smile as she walks away. Yep… definitely in on this.

“Welcome back.”

I look up and there she is, a drink in each hand. Seeing Savannah in her server outfit after the club is—is…

Giving me goosebumps, that’s what it is. I’d say something but I can’t seem to remember any words. Or how to breathe properly.

Savannah lifts each drink in turn so I can pick. “I brought a Negroni and an SCA. Jules isn’t working tonight but Matteo does them really well now. Which would you like to start with? They’re on the house.”

Finding my voice with an effort, I gesture at her right hand. “The Negroni, please.” The SCA has more kick to it and while a bit of a buzz sounds comforting right now, I should play it safe.

She sets the Negroni on the table, takes a menu out of her apron pocket and slides it next to the glass. “The appetizer specials are grilled scallops in a balsamic reduction and pinot noir braised duck breast with roasted baby turnips and artichoke hearts. That’s available as a second course, too. For the main course, our special is Bistecca alla Fiorentina with Calabrian chile and lime. It’s kinda pricey but we use Hardin-Steele Ranch wagyu instead of porterhouse. We also have two new desserts: Hardin Farms key-lime ice-cream sandwiches and ginger-chocolate shortbread with Sulawesi vanilla bean ice cream. I know you love the chocolate torte, but these are absolutely to die for. Do I you need a moment with the menu?”

I need a moment to control my heartrate. It’s also at to die for. “Uh… the scallops to start, please.”

“Coming right up!”

She sounds so cheery I think we’re going to play this straight—like I’m a regular customer and she’s my server—until she reaches out as if she’s going to touch my shoulder, but doesn’t. Her voice does go soft though and I hear the echo of that sexy morning croon from I woke up to as she says, “I’m glad to see you.”

My heart goes thud and my tummy trips in that way that isn’t supposed to happen after you reach drinking age. Then I make the mistake of looking up and meeting her eyes. They’re dazzling, mesmerizing… I don’t know what. I only know I never want to look away. This is not getting my toes wet. This is a deep dive into an unknown sea. This is want. No, craving. This is desire. No…

This is a disaster.

“Thanks.” My brain can’t handle more than a syllable right now. She acts as though she doesn’t notice and saunters off while I tear my gaze away and pick up the menu. The words in it are mere symbols, my brain is full of Savannah. Nothing like this has happened to me before… okay, not since two weeks ago. Or the time before that. Or nearly every time I look at her. But is something different tonight? More than just being flirty?

Lobster brain, you did not go there.

Yep, disaster… Cue the music—this ship is going down…

No, fuck me! Not ‘going down’! And not ‘fuck me’ either! Jesus fucking Christ…

I grip the menu like it’s a life preserver. Only now it’s shaking. Putting it on the table, I hide my hands in my lap as if that’ll help. At last, I decide on a simple arugula salad with goat cheese, mango, avocado and toasted pine nuts in a champagne-pear vinaigrette for my next course. After that, I’ll go with the specials—the braised duck and the wagyu steak, cost be damned—and let Savannah pick a dessert. She’s good at that…

And I’m so fucking lost, it’s not funny…

The scallops arrive within a few minutes—but who’s counting?—and I place my order. On impulse, I add chef’s suggested wine flight which gets Savannah’s eyes to light up. When I tell her to pick my dessert, she looks positively elated.

What would it be like to go on a date with Savannah? If she gets this excited serving food, what’s it like to eat it with her? My mind flashes back to eating that torte with her… Okay, I’ve got a hint.

More than a hint, actually… and god damn it, stop thinking of words like eat.

The scallops are amazing, of course. But try as I might, I can’t concentrate on the superbly melded flavors. The sparkle in Savannah’s eyes keeps eclipsing them, along with those… other thoughts. I finish without being fully aware of it and she appears with my salad as one of the other staff takes my plate.

“Good?”

The arch of her eyebrow and her soft intonation makes my breath hitch. “Beautiful…” I snap my head as the word registers. “I mean… good. As in, great. Wonderful.”

Her smile turns a shade devilish. “I’m so glad you enjoyed it.”

Uh huh… There’s a lot more than blood pumping through my veins now. It feels like fire. If she keeps this up, I’m gonna short-circuit.

“I’ll bring your duck as soon as you’re finished there.”

I’m already finished. As is, done for. I gulp the last of my Negroni—probably not the best idea. “Th—thank you.”

“Thank you…” You forms her perfect lips into the shape of a perfect kiss. I manage a wobbly nod in return and that’s it. I need to get a grip here but I’m not sure there’s enough of me present to get a grip on. Studying my salad, I pick up a fork. Continue to study it, as if the arugula, goat cheese, mango, avocado and pine nuts hold the answers I’m looking for. Like how I’m going to get through this evening without doing something incredibly stupid.

Casey would love it if you did something ‘incredibly stupid.’

Thought I told you to shut up, lobster brain.

You wish…

After a long moment, I begin to eat. I take it slow, savoring each bite. I owe that to myself. I guess I owe it to Savannah, too—she’d be tweaked if I wasn’t tasting this. It takes time and lots of slow, careful bites, but I feel my control coming back; feel like I can conduct myself like a rational human being, not a raging mess of hormones.

Only somehow, I don’t think this is just hormones. So what is it? Chemistry is a term I always felt was overused in romance. Mostly an excuse to get to the sexy times as fast as possible—unless it’s slow-burn, in which case, it was excuse for lots of angsty pining and fretting before the fun begins. Okay, I’m not much of a slow-burn girl—I like the sexy times in my reads and I prefer not to wait too long. So I can forgive them using ‘chemistry’ to get me there, even if it felt like a shortcut, even if it didn’t seem real.

Except this seems real. As in…

Real trouble…

 

Chapter 17. Savannah

Back by the kitchen, I down the SCA I brought Erin like a shot. I know I shouldn’t but holy shit! why does she have to be so adorable? She’s obviously nervous. Her blush gives that away. It’s her first time back since she was here with that bitch and the night at Indigo had to be a shock to her, too. Making her uncomfortable is the last thing I wanna do. The idea she might be anxious makes me want to hug her and tell it’ll be okay. Which would absolutely make her uncomfortable… and anxious. Or straight-up freak her out.

But I could swear there’s more to it than that. Like under the nerves, there’s this smolder going on. I feel it when she looks at me—especially when our eyes lock. Am I crazy? Maybe, but why does she have to be so damn sexy, even nervous? The way she looks up through those long lashes with her silver-flecked blue eyes. The way her tongue peaks out at the corner of her mouth. The way she nips the left side of her lower lip…

That freakin’ slays me every time. And she doesn’t even know she’s doing it!

I know I’m smiling too much. I know I gotta be coming across as flirty. I don’t mean too. I simply can’t help it. When I heard she had a reservation tonight—in my section and alone—I said I was gonna play it cool. I was gonna be cool and I had a whole list of things I wasn’t gonna do. I wasn’t gonna flirt, I wasn’t going to tell her she was hot, sexy, scrumptious… or beautiful.

Well, I haven’t called her beautiful…

Beautiful… She said that and I’m pretty sure she wasn’t talking just about the scallops, either. Yeah I hear that a lot and objectively, I guess it’s true. I am a stripper, after all. Typically, I ignore it. What people think of my body isn’t important—they don’t know me. I like that it makes them happy and that’s it. But when she says it… I can’t ignore it. It matters. It really does.

It shouldn’t. It can’t. That only leads to a dark and dangerous road—one I hope I have the good sense not to take… Except that—

“Savannah, il mio bell’amico,” Matteo’s voice jolts me. I glance over and he’s holding up the house phone. “Call for you.”

My heart jumps into my throat. People know not to call me at work unless it’s an emergency. Amie might be an exception, but I already talked to today when she called to wish me happy birthday. So… Emergency.

“Who is it?” My voice is all pitchy and weird.

Now Matteo looks worried. “Your sister.”

Oh fuck… “I’ll take it in back, okay? Can Allie cover for me for a bit?”

“Absolutely. We got you.”

Shit. He didn’t tease me. I’m scaring him. I throw out a wave and jog back to the breakroom.

Once through the door, I kick it shut and snatch the phone off the wall. It still has a cord and I stretch it as I collapse into the nearest chair, waiting for the click of Matteo hanging up. As soon as I hear it, I bark “Jessie!”

“Whoa! Hello to you too, sis.”

“Jessie…” I drop my head and suck in a big lungful of air. “What’s going on? Why are you calling?”

“To give you panic attack, I guess?”

“Jessie! Fuck!” She’s so infuriatingly deadpan. “I’m at work! Tell me what’s happening!”

“Deep breaths, big sis.”

“Jess!”

“Okay.” She sounds like she’s finally gotten the message to not fuck around. “I didn’t call to freak you out. I wanted to give you an update on Mom. So don’t freak out.”

“It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?” The irony that I’m the big sister and Jessie is the little sister and she’s having to talk me down is not lost on me. And I don’t fucking care.

“Alright, alright. We got her results back. They’re admitting her overnight to check a few things—”

“Oh my god…” A headrush makes the room spin and I have to close my eyes.

“It’s not a big deal,” Jessie tries to sooth me. “They only wanna rule stuff out. It’s probably nothing. We’re not taking chances, that’s all.”

I try to open my eyes but things are still all gray and sparkly. I shut them again. “Right. Right. Okay…”

“It’s gonna be. I’ll call you tomorrow as soon as I’ve been to the hospital and talked to the docs.”

“You’re not staying with her?!” My voice pitches way up again.

“Summer…” Fuck, she first-named me. “It’s okay. Mom can spend a night in the hospital by herself. You know she’d chuck me outta the room anyway. I’ll see her first thing in the morning. It’ll be fine.”

“Yeah… Okay.” Deep breaths. In through the nose. Hold it. Out through the mouth. Do it again…

“Believe me.”

I exhale the last breath. “Right. You’re the wannabe doctor.”

“That’s gonna-be doctor to you, big sis.” We’re back to sassing each other. That’s progress. “Don’t worry—”

“Uh huh. Sure—”

“Try not to worry.”

“I’ll work on that.”

“Good. I’ll call you tomorrow morning.”

“Right.” Another deep breath. Hold it… “I gotta get back to work. Love ya, baby sis.”

“Love you too, big sis. Talk tomorrow.”

“Uh huh.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.” The line clicks as she hangs up. I hold the phone in my lap until I feel like I can stand. Then I get to my feet, stagger a few steps to the door and open it to find Allie waiting there, her brow creased. She glances at the way I’m holding onto the doorframe.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” I take my hand away and straighten up, feeling a little steadier now. “It’s really okay. Thanks for covering for me.”

She doesn’t reply but her eyes question me. I don’t say anything. I have my shift to finish and Erin’s here.

Fuck… I guess there is one thing that can distract me from Erin for a few minutes. But this is so not how tonight was supposed to go. Goddammit to hell…

I need to get my shit together. As we walk back to the bar, I force my expression into something like a smile. There’s a tray of drinks waiting for the only other table I have and Erin’s next course will be ready any moment, if it’s not already. Drinks first though. That’ll give me another minute to gather myself.

Allie shoots me another questioning look, but I shake it off and pick up the tray. I turn, balancing the drinks, take two steps… and smack straight into the busboy coming back with a load of dishes.

♦ ♦ ♦

Next thing I know, I’m on my knees, picking up shattered glass and broken china. I hear voices but can’t understand them until hands grip each of my arms and pull me up. Matteo’s on one side and Allie’s on the other and they guide back past the end of the bar. I start to protest but Allie shushes me.

“We’ll get it. Dante’s already gone for a broom and a mop. Don’t worry.”

“I need to clean it up,” I say stupidly.

“We’ve got this,” Allie insists. “Savannah, you’re not okay. Take the rest of the night off. We’ll tell Marsha it’s an emergency.”

It is an emergency. I want to struggle, to say no, to get back to work. Get back to Erin. But I can’t. Nothing… nothing’s working quite right.

Allie’s standing in front of me, her hands on my shoulders. “Savannah, my break is in 20 minutes. I’ll take you my place. It’s only a few minutes away.”

I shake my head. “I can’t… leave.”

“Savannah…” Her voice drops, becoming low and insistent. “Go. I’ll come get you on my break. Matteo’s calling Robyn and she’ll come in and cover. Wait for me out back. Now, go.”

My resistance folds and I give up. “O–kay.” She’s right. The back lot’s safer than the breakroom. Nobody will see me there. Then I remember. “Erin—table 6—she asked me to pick her dessert. One of the new ones.”

“I know her.” Allie nods. “What should I bring her?”

Dammit… Which one would she prefer? I can’t think. “Fuck it. Bring her both. They can charge me.”

“Okay. I’ll bring them.” She gives me a little shove. “See you on my break.”

I nod again. If I don’t go, they’ll probably frog-march me out. Allie turns to head back to the dining area. As I walk to the exit, I pass the liquor room. The door’s open—it’s not supposed to be—and there’s a bottle of Jack on the shelf next to it. We don’t serve much Jack, but Jules and Matteo keep a couple of bottles handy in case someone asks for it. I’ll bet he was getting this one to restock the bar when I crashed into Dante.

Fuck this night. Just fuck it…

I start to walk by but my eyes return to the open door. The shelf. The bottle. We have plenty of Jack. They won’t miss it. I just gotta get through tonight. This isn’t going back to that place—only to take the edge off so I can get through the night and sleep. Dunno where, since I can’t go to my apartment. I was planning on my jeep and I don’t wanna give Allie the wrong idea by staying with her. She’s so sweet and it will only hurt her later. But maybe it would be okay? We’ll see how it goes…

I’m sure Jessie’s right—she’s the med student, not me, and we’re all mammals. Gotta be close enough…

I can’t believe how I badly lost my shit. So humiliating. All this will blow over tomorrow. Tomorrow…

I grab the bottle and quickstep for the exit.

Chapter 18. Erin

Finishing my last bite of salad, I put down my fork. It’s delicious and just the thing I needed to clear my head. I feel I can actually interact with Savannah like a normal human when she brings out my duck. I can enjoy and appreciate the rest of dinner, giving it the attention it no doubt deserves. Maybe we can chat a bit, if she has time. I’ll find out which of those two desserts she picked. I’ll draw the line at sharing it with her, though. Despite how I was feeling earlier, I’m sticking to the baby-steps plan—sharing dessert again is not part of it yet. Then, I’ll say goodnight, order a Lyft and go home.

Monday morning, I’ll brief Casey on what happened and present my bill for the Lyft. I’m sure I’ll also find out the story on her weekend—the PG version—and who the lucky lady is, or was. Lucky that is if she’s happy with 48-hours of fun and saying adieu, au revoir, arrivederci, auf wiedersehen, do svidaniya, ciao, or adios. Casey is fluent at good bye in a whole bunch of languages. And she’s typically adept at picking girls who are on the same commitment-phobic page she is.

She says she’s happy though and I can’t throw stones. Look where my belief in commitment got me. And in spite of being conned, I’m happy she’s taking this weekend for herself. Casey hasn’t been out for more than an evening since I moved in, and I know I’m keeping her from bringing girls home. That’s not fair to her, so I can’t blame her for this, even if it was a teensy bit underhanded. But when it comes to me and Savannah, she’s gonna have to learn to live with disappointment.

Speaking of Savannah, I haven’t seen her since she dropped off my salad. I’m sure she has other tables. I do a quick scan of the restaurant and don’t see her, but I do see my duck being brought over. Not by her, but another server I know, Allison. She’s waited on us a few times since we started coming here. She’s about Savannah’s age, I’d guess; sweet, attentive and very pretty. That didn’t sit very well with Maggie, but she was shit-outta-luck there; all the staff at La Vita è Dolce are pretty. At least, Allison never pinged my gaydar like Savannah did and maybe that made her more acceptable to Maggie, although she could rarely resist mentioning what “bitches” young, pretty, straight girls were. It’s makes me sick to think how I put up with and excused Maggie being so awful and intolerant for so long, thinking things like ‘she’s just in a mood’ or ‘she’s having a bad day.’ Really, there’s no excuse for what I excused and…

Shit. I didn’t come here to think about Maggie.

Allison distracts me by sliding the plate in front of me along with the first glass of my wine flight. Her smile as she picks up my salad plate seems a trifle… apologetic?

“I’m afraid Savannah had to leave unexpectedly,” she says, explaining the look. “I know you requested her, and she regrets it.”

“Oh…” I punch down the pang of disappointment—of course something would happen as soon as I was feeling better about the situation—when I recall hearing a crash from the back of the restaurant. “Is she okay?” My voice is a little shaky with concern for Savannah and the reverberations of being such a selfish bitch.

“She got a phone call…”  Allison’s tone tells me she shares my concern, although not my shitty initial reaction. “I don’t know what about. But I’m sure she’ll be okay. Savannah always lands on her feet.”

I’m not sure how to parse that last sentence and I know she means well, but neither it nor anything else she’s said is particularly reassuring. I open my mouth to thank her, but she adds, “She did tell me about your desserts. I’ll bring those out when you’re ready.”

Those? Why the plural? “Thanks. What did she pick?”

That turns Allison’s smile a shade brighter. “She couldn’t make up her mind, so she ordered you both. They’re on us, though—she wanted to make up for having to leave.”

Of course, she did. “That’s very sweet.” My brain won’t produce anything better to say. “Please thank her for me.”

“I certainly will. I’ll be back with your entrée when you’re ready. Wave if you need anything.”

Allison leaves and I’m alone again with sumptuous food and uncomfortable thoughts.

♦ ♦ ♦

It’s been over fifteen minutes and I’ve hardly touched my duck. I’ve had barely two sips of the wine; enough to know the pairing is perfect, but I’ve lost my appetite. I take out my phone for the third time (breaking a self-imposed rule about no screens during meals, even if I’m alone) and simply stare at it. Savannah doesn’t have a phone, so I can’t text her to see how she’s doing, but even if I could, should I? It seems  invasive. We’re friendly but hardly friends. We’ve met only four times and one was all of two minutes. Whatever happened is none of my business.

Do I want it to be my business? Is that even a question?

Yes, it should be a question. And the answer should be no. So why can’t I get the message?

“Is everything okay?” Allison is standing there. She must’ve seen me staring at my phone and neglecting my food. I look up and nibble my lip. Moment of choice…

“Um… actually, would it be possible to get the rest to go? Something has come up.”

“Absolutely. I’ll pack it up for you.” She sounds chipper but I can tell she’s not buying what I’m selling. “Your entrée should be up very soon.” She stops to think. “But those desserts… they’re both ice cream. Are you going far?”

“Maybe ten minutes.” Casey’s house is ten to fifteen minutes away, depending on how many lights I hit.

More thinking. “Do you have to leave right away? We should have some dry ice in the back that will keep them cold enough that long, but I can’t get it until my break. Would that be okay? Savannah will be heartbroken if you have to leave without trying them.”

She would say that. Does she think there’s a thing going on between Savannah and me?

Probably. Everyone else seems to. “I… uh, don’t have to leave immediately.”

“Great!” She flashes another smile. “I’ll pack up your duck and your entrée and bring them out. You won’t be charged for the wine flight, of course.” Honestly, I couldn’t care less about that, one way or another. Her voice drops. “Can you meet me around back? Say ten minutes? I’ll have your desserts ready to go then.”

I don’t think this is part of the normal service. She’s going far above and beyond and I hope she won’t get in trouble. I hand her my card with a nod. She thanks me and goes to get my dinner packed up.

This evening is completely going sideways…

♦ ♦ ♦

As I leave La Vita è Dolce a few minutes later with the most expensive meal I’ve ever had in an insulated container, I begin to think going sideways may be an understatement. Savannah’s jeep is still here, so she hasn’t gone anywhere yet. What made her leave, but not leave? Or did she get a ride?

They didn’t have to call an ambulance for her, did they? I never heard anything but an ambulance leaving a restaurant with sirens blasting certainly wouldn’t be good for business, so maybe they wouldn’t do that? With this and some other equally scary—and I hope entirely silly—thoughts racing around in my head, I circle the building to the back parking lot where I agreed to meet Allison. As I cut through some grass, walking on my toes to keep the heels of my pumps from sinking in, I see a shadow between the two dumpsters, huddled out of the glare of the street lights. I stop when the shadow moves. Then I hear a sob.

I don’t know quite how, but I recognize that sob. Hurrying over, I find Savannah sitting in the dirt of gently sloped flower bed between the parking lot and a retaining wall. She sniffles and raises a bottle while I squeeze past the dumpsters to reach her.

“Savannah?”

She lowers the bottle and turns toward me, a slash of light falling across her tear-ravaged face. Her hair is out of its ponytail and straggling over her shoulders. “Fuck.” The syllable is a gurgling hiss. I see her blink and rub her eyes with the back of her empty hand. “Fuck,” she repeats. “Wha… what’re ya… you… doin’ here?” She’s slurring so badly it’s hard to make out the words.

I step over beside her and sit down. The ground’s damp and cold against my ass and grass stains will ruin this skirt and that’s fine. I’m only worried about Savannah, and why she’s in this state.

“I’m meeting Allison. She’ll be here in a little bit.”

“Al… liss… son…” Savannah waggles the bottle in my direction. “Allie. Do y’like her?”

What does that mean? “She’s sweet,” I answer carefully.

“Sweet.” Her head bobs. She’s so hammered. “Swweet Allie. So sweet. So straight… So sweeeetly fuckin’ straight…”

Uh oh… Have I stumbled into a drunken straight-girl crush here? “Do you like her?” It’s a risky question, but I want to know.

“Yep.” Savannah raises the bottle again. I hear it slosh. “She’s awesome. An’ pretty. An’ pretty awesomely straight.”

Oh shit… I reach for the bottle. “Mind if I try this?”

“Go ’head.” She hands it to me. “Knock yerself out.”

I take it. Jack Daniels. I wrinkle my nose. How can she drink this? That’s scary. More scary: how can she drink this much, this fast? She’s been out not quite thirty minutes and I’d say she’s less than an ounce away from an alcoholic coma. I honestly don’t know why she isn’t in one already. Leaning forward, I pour the rest into the gutter. Then I wonder who gave it to her. I can’t imagine one of the staff being so irresponsible. But you never know…

“Where’d you get this?”

She frowns, squints. “What?”

“This.” I hold the bottle in front of her. “The Jack Daniels.”

“Oh… That. Jack Daniels. Funny ya call it by, like… his whole name. We’re on a first-name basis. ”

Wow. What’s she trying to tell me here? “Where did you get it?”

Her head drops between her knees. “Stole it.”

I blink. “You stole it?”

“Uh huh…” It comes out a clotted mumble. “Stole it. Now I’m gonna get fuckin’ fired on top ’a everrry fuckin’ thing else.”

I set the bottle back down. This is very not good. “What happened, Savannah?”

She lifts her head and sways for a moment. “What din’t fuckin’ happen…”

I put a hand lightly on her shoulder. “Allison said you got a call.”

“Oh, fuck yeah. I got… a… call…” She starts to topple backwards and I grab her. That would be bad.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“Fuck no.” Her eyes close and open, twice. “Y’wanna hear a funny story instead?”

“Sure. I love funny stories.” I should keep her talking until Allison comes out. Hopefully we can get some water into her. I’m not sure how we’re going to get her back home in this state, though. A forty-minute drive isn’t looking to be in the cards. Casey’s not home. Maybe I could take her there? Would she freak out if I tried to? Is there a thing between her and Allison? What she said wasn’t exactly an answer.

“This one’s a fuckin’ doozy.” She waves an unsteady hand in the air. “My dad…” She burps. “Dear ol’ dad… Pops. Was a fuckin’ asshole. Y’know what he did?”

“No.” I keep my hand on her shoulder, steadying her.

“Puppets.”

Huh? Not at all what I expected to hear. “Puppets?”

“Yep…” She pops the P sloppily. “Fuckin’ puppets. Y’see…” Another burp. She’s gonna lose some of that alcohol shortly. “He was a teacher. Kinda, anyway. But he din’t like it. Boring. Hadda watch his smokin’. Couldn’t test positive for weed! Or grass. He still called it grass.” She laughs but it sounds more like a groan. “So he decides he’s gonna go… back… to… school. Get a M–F–A… that stands for mother–fuckin’–asshole in… puppets.” She blinks again, her eyes unfocused. Or not focused on the here and now. “So… he’s gone. Badda-bing, badda-boom. A year.” Her voice trails off and she sits, swaying gently as I try to keep her upright. “Then he came home. Becaaausse… puppets… suck. I was… sixxx–teen.” The words tumble over themselves, slurring together. “Edge ’a… seventeen. Cool song.” Another silence. More swaying. “Y’know what he spent?”

I wait for her to tell me, but she doesn’t. So I ask. “No, I don’t. How much?”

“All our savings,” she mumbles. “One… hunnerd… thirrrty… thousand… bucking fucks.”

My breath stops. Literally stops. Her dad spent $130,000 on an MFA on puppetry? Holy fuck…

“What happened then?”

Savannah shrugs, her shoulders loose. “Left. He asked for his teaching gig back and… fuck no. He’d split! The job was gone. So he left. Up and… bam! Outta here. What a fuckin’… loser… asswipe.”

Oh my god… What do you say to that? Not that I’m being called on to say anything, but… fuck. What sort of parent does that to their child? Or children, because I think Savannah told me she has a sister. I do remember her saying she wasn’t close to her dad.

No kidding.

This isn’t a thing you can process all at once. At least, I can’t. The feelings aren’t immediately identifiable. It all feels… swirly. Wrong. And sick. I wonder what happened to him.

“What happened to him?” The question is out of my mouth before I consider whether I should ask it or not.

Savannah shakes her head, her loose hair falling in her face. “I… dunno. I think…”

I tighten my hand as she sways harder. “Think what?”

“I’m… gonna hurl.” She lurches sideways—away from me thankfully—and I just have time to get her hair back before she looses her stomach contents in the dirt. She heaves again while I hold her hair and rub her back through the spasms. What’s probably a couple of minutes later, but feels like an hour, she finally gasps and spits and I hear a voice call “Sorry that took longer than I expected, but I have your—Oh shit!”

I look over to where Allison is stepping out of the back door, holding an insulated package in both hands, her eyes huge and her face shockingly pale in the yellow street light. “Is she… How did she…”

I poke the empty bottle with my toe and see her mouth what looks like Oh fuck. “Can you get us some water, please?”

“Of course. Absolutely.” She puts the package on the ground and rushes back inside.

I keep rubbing Savannah’s back. “Any more left I there?”

She groans, hacks, and gags. There doesn’t seem to be. Allison reappears with two bottles of water. I uncap one and hand it to Savannah while Allison shifts nervously from foot to foot.

“Don’t swallow,” I murmur in Savannah’s ear. She grunts, takes a small mouthful and spits it out. Allison taps my shoulder and gives me a towel that I hand to Savannah. I forgot to mention that and it’s awesome she thought of it. Savannah wipes her mouth with a little whimper. I point to the empty bottle in the gutter. “Is there a liquor store nearby?”

Allison cocks her head with a look that’s almost a wince, clearly confused by my request.

“She said she stole that. I guess that means she took from storage? I’d like to replace it—I don’t want her to get in trouble.”

“Oh!” Allison’s face clears with comprehension. “Oh, right. Yeah, there’s one only a couple of blocks from here.”

“Can you get a bottle?” Letting go of Savannah, I reach into my purse for my wallet. “Do you have time?”

“Yeah, sure. I have time.” She seems a little less frantic now.

I hand over a pair twenties. “Thank you. This should cover it, I hope?”

“Oh, that’s more than enough.” She stuffs the bills in a pocket. “I’ll be right back.”

Allison sprints off and I hear a car start and pull out of the lot with a slight squeal. I hope she doesn’t get into an accident, but I don’t watch. My attention is all on Savannah, who’s still clutching the water bottle in one hand. My experience with drunk people is limited, but I don’t think she should drink much yet. Maybe a little would be okay, though?

“Try a sip.”

She rinses her mouth again and spits, then swallows a couple of sips. I put an arm around her shoulders. “Feeling any better?” That seems like a stupid question—how could she?

Savannah burps. “Fuck…”

I guess that’s a no. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to try to get back to your place.”

Another watery burp, louder.

Uh oh…

“Oh, Fuucckkk…” She turns and loses the water she swallowed, groans and starts coughing. Rinsing her mouth again, she gives her head the slightest shake. “Can’t…”

I take the towel and wipe her mouth. “Can’t what?”

“Go home. Jeep.”

Jeep? Does she mean she was going to sleep in her jeep? That makes no sense. “Why can’t you go home?”

“Gas leak,” she mumbles. “Whole place locked up till they fix it.”

That would explain it… Casey’s place it is then. “Alright, we’ll go to my place. As soon as you’re able. It’s close.”

She presses her hands to forehead. “M’kay.”

I hear a car pull in—I hope it’s Allison—and a door slam. Then quick footsteps and Allison is standing next to us. “I got it. Here’s your change.”

“Keep it.” I glance up at her. “Thank you so much. I really appreciate it.”

“Sure. Of course. It’s totally fine.”

“Do you think you could get us her keys and stuff? I should take her back my place. It’s not far.”

“Um… yeah.” She looks flustered and bites her lip. “Yeah. Just a sec.”

“Thank you.” Keeping my arm around Savannah as Allison hurries back inside again, I get the feeling I’ve made this awkward.

The back door opens and closes once more as Allison returns. She holds out a set of keys and a bag. “Here you go. Don’t forget your desserts.” I see she has them in her other hand.

In fact, I had. Now I’m wondering how I’m going to get Savannah and the food into her jeep. I’d leave the food, but that would look bad after all the trouble she went to. Allison is still hovering.

“I’m sorry… I know you have to get back, but could you give us a hand to her car?”

“Yeah. No problem.”

Together, we maneuver Savannah to her jeep and get her and the food inside without incident. I feel like giving Allison a hug, but that doesn’t seem appropriate. “You’ve been great. Really. Thank you again.”

“No problem,” she repeats, trying and failing to hide a worried look.

When she doesn’t continue, I nod and smile. More of a half-smile, I guess, because I suck a reassuring people right now. “I’ll take good care of her. Does she know your number?”

“Uh huh. She should.” Allison drops her head and shoves her hands in her back pockets.

I give her arm a squeeze. “You’ve been amazing. We really appreciate it. I’ll make sure she calls tomorrow.”

Allison thanks me, and with that, I climb into the jeep and start the engine. Savannah has her head leaning against the passenger’s door window, eyes closed. I can’t tell if she’s passed out or just resting. Mentally crossing my fingers, I slowly back up and turn on the street. It’ll be a gentle drive back.

And hopefully an uneventful one.

 

Chapter 19. Savannah

What the ever-loving fuck? What happened to me? Did I get hit by a train?

Not possible. No train wreck ever felt this bad. And it would be over… quick.

Fuucckkk, my head hurts. My body hurts. My feet hurt. Everything hurts. My mouth tastes like a whole family of nasty rodents nested there. And died…

I wanna die. Curl up and die. Right here. Right now…

“Just so y’know, dying’s not allowed in this house.”

Huh? Erin?

I crack an eyelid only to have blinding light stab it like a ice pick. Squeezing that eye shut, I contract under the covers to escape and…

What in hell? Erin can’t be here, cuz—Hold up… This isn’t my jeep. This isn’t my bed either.

“Where…” My voice is so broken and clotted I have to start over. “Where—wha… what happened?”

“You had a bad night.” Her voice is barely above a whisper but still makes me wince.

“Yeah…” Bad night. No shit…

“I brought you back to my place.” I clench my teeth at her soft murmur. “Here”—a muted clink as she puts something next to me—“There’s a glass of water and Advil when you’re ready. The bathroom’s right here… if you need it.”

A bathroom. The word brings two feelings raging to life. I need to pee… And I’m gonna puke.

Struggling out from under the covers, I clamp one hand over my mouth against my roiling stomach. Squinting in the searing brightness, I see the open door. I can make it. Hunching over, I ease my legs out of bed. This is gonna be close. My feet touch the carpet and I force down a burp. Lurching into staggering lunge for the bathroom, I make it just in time, then collapse on the cold tile floor three heaves later, shivering.

Happy birthday to me…

♦ ♦ ♦

The rest of the morning (cuz yeah, I did figure out it’s morning) went by in blur—or make that a fog. I drank the water Erin left, took the Advil, and hoped I’d be able to keep them down. After I don’t-know-how-long, I won my fight with my stomach and burrowed under the covers again until my head didn’t feel quite so much like a wrecking ball was banging around in it.

As vicious throb eases, memories come back in snarled-up fragments—Erin, the restaurant, stealing that bottle of jack, and Jessie’s call…

Oh, fuck… that call. Mom, tests, hospital…

My hands ball into fists and my teeth grind so hard I think I’ll break a molar. It’s worse than the wrecking ball in my brain. How could I lose it so fucking badly?

I have to call Jessie and… My whole body contracts and another wave a nausea washes over me. I don’t have a phone. I’ll have to borrow Erin’s phone. I chant “fuck” under my breath like a mantra and then force myself to stop and breathe like I did when Jessie called. Same drill. In through the nose, hold it, out through the mouth. Repeat…

Right as I’m about to try to get and call Erin, there’s a soft knock on the door.

“Yeah?” It’s comes out no more than a croak, but the door opens a few inches and Erin peeks in.

“Hey?” Her expression is worried, her brow tight with concern. “I only wanted to see how you’re doing. Can I get you anything?”

I lift painfully into a sitting position. The covers slide down to my lap, reminding me I’m only wearing panties. Erin must’ve undressed me when she put me to bed but it hardly matters. We’ve already seen each other practically naked—I did finger-fuck Amie in front of her that night at the club—but being that way in her bed does bring out more than a touch of shyness.

Along with a whole boatload of embarrassment at her seeing me so wrecked—absolutely shitfaced like I haven’t been in years. God, what did I say? What did I do?

But Erin’s simply standing there in the doorway, not a speck of judgement on her face. And I do need to call… “Uh, yeah? I need to make a call. Can I borrow a phone?”

“Of course. Absolutely.” She hooks a thumb over her shoulder. “Just a sec. I’ll get mine.”

I ease back down against the pillows and right after my head settles into them, she’s back with her phone in hand.

“Here.” She puts it on the side table and notices the empty glass. “More water?”

I try to nod, but that’s a spectacularly bad idea so I stop and croak, “Please.”

“I’ll be right back.”

Picking up her phone, I’m relieved it’s not an iPhone. That’s right—she said she wasn’t a fan of Apple. It also means I have to figure out how to use it. Thankfully, the phone icon is at the bottom of her mercifully uncluttered home screen. As I tap it, she comes back with more water. I force a smile—I’m sure it looks awful—and she smiles back, leaves and closes the door silently.

I guess she must have experience dealing with people who have Hangovers from Hell, but that’s none of my business. I’ll have to think of a way to thank her for rescuing my positively fucked-up drunk ass, but that will have wait till I talk to Jessie.

I enter Jessie’s number and take a couple of sips of the water while it rings. Five rings later, it goes to voicemail: Hey, you’ve reached Jessie. Leave me a message or if you want a faster response, send me a text message.

Shit. This one time, I thought she’d pick up. Then it hits me—she doesn’t know this number. It probably wouldn’t even ring. Dammit…

I find the messaging app, open it and tap out a text; not so easy when your eyes are crossed. Laying the phone next to me, I sip more water and wait. Within three minutes, the phone chimes with a text notification. I swipe it open.

Is this really you? Whose number is this? Why are you using it?

Yeah, it’s me, lil sis, I reply, fingertip stumbling across the itsy-bitsy keyboard. Really-o, truly-o, little pet dragon. That’ll convince her—it’s been our own secret phrase for “you gotta believe me” since we were little. I couldn’t go back to the apartment last night, so no landline. I’m borrowing this from a friend.

Her text zings back in seconds. A FRIEND??? Did you MEET someone???

No. Not like that. How do I explain without letting on that I got stinking drunk? She simply gave me a place to crash.

Likely story, big sis. I want all the deets.

Really. It’s not like that. How’s mom?

She’s with the docs now.

Jesus. My nerves are about to fly apart and go kamikaze. I’ll call.

Fraid I can’t. Talking to the docs now. I’ll call back. SPILL THE DEETS!

Groaning, I drop the phone on the bed with a soft thud. Now she thinks I’m dating and she’s gonna tell Mom, who going to get super excited till I have to say it’s all a misunderstanding and throw ice water in her face while she’s in the fucking hospital!

When she calls, I’m gonna have to convince her she misunderstood and if she’s told Mom, ask her to break it to her gently. And finally tell me what the fuck is going on. Only my hangover keeps me from ripping my hair out waiting for Jessie’s call.

When Erin’s phone rings at long last, I almost drop it in my haste to pick it up. “Yeah?”

“Hi, sweetie. It’s so lovely to hear your voice.”

“Mom?” My brain freezes a moment in alarm. When did her voice get so weak and raspy? A chill runs down my arms. What did Jesse tell her?

“Jessie tells me you’ve met someone.” Oh crap… “Is it serious? How long have you known her?”

“Mom, I…” My eyes squeeze shut, holding back sudden tears. “We’re just… It’s not…” I can’t force the rest of the sentence out.

“I understand, honey. This is all new and it’s been quite awhile since you had anyone. We’re happy for you, sweetheart. Please feel free to invite her along when you come back—we’d love to meet her.”

“Mom…” The tears start to seep past my scrunched eyelids. I can’t do this. I can not do this. “Yeah… right. Mom.” I fight to drag in a breath. “How are you? How are things there?”

“Oh, I’m fine, dear.” Sure, you’re wheezing. “Everyone here is perfectly lovely. I’m in good hands. The very best.”

Don’t scream, don’t scream… “I’m… glad to hear it. Glad they’re… taking good care of you.”

“They truly are, dear. Nothing to worry yourself about.”

Do Not Scream… “Good.” More deep breaths. “Good. Mom? Can you hand the phone back to Jessie? We’ll talk more soon.”

“Of course, sweetheart. Here she is. I love you.”

“I love you too, Mom. Always.”

I squash a hand across my eyes while she hands the phone over.

“Jessie,” I bark as soon as I hear her on the line.

“Hold on, big sis.”

Her tone chills me to silence and I hear a door open and close.

“Sorry,” she says a handful of painful heartbeats later. “I had to go into the hall.”

“Jessie, what the fuck!”

“Savannah…” My blood runs cold—she never uses my name. “It’s… this is… not good.”

I think my heart is gonna shatter against my ribcage. “The cancer’s back.”

“Yes. You gotta come home.”

This feels like a nightmare where you wake up in cold sweat. If only… “I will.”

“I have to go back into Mom’s room. We’ll talk more when you’re here. Please come home fast.”

“I’ll be on the next available flight.”

Chapter 20. Erin

I hear the door to my bedroom open and look up from my work laptop. Savannah’s standing, or leaning, in my bedroom doorway. Her hair’s falling half across her face in a messy tangle and when she pushes it back, I see swollen red-rimmed eyes, pale lips and cheeks as colorless as white glass. She’s still has on only the cute, sensible white cotton underwear left her in when I nervously undressed her last night, and is holding one arm across her breasts while the other braces against the doorframe in a pose of aching vulnerability. She looks like a suffering angel in a Renaissance painting and my chest constricts.

“Hi.” I mouth more than speak the syllable.

“Hey.” Her reply is a husky whisper. “I’m… I wanna apologize. This is all so… messed up. Really—”

“Don’t apologize,” I interrupt. “You were there for me that night. I owed you one.” That’s intended as a little joke, but it doesn’t land well. She drops her head, hair hiding her face again.

“No. No… you never owed me. Don’t say that.” A tremor runs through her body. “This isn’t… normal for me. I promise. I’m so sorry I’m imposing. I ruined your evening—”

“Savannah.” The sound of her name stops her. “No worries. I mean it. You didn’t ruin anything. I know you’re not like this.” I do know that. I’m not sure how I know, but I do. And it’s time to change the tack of this conversation. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

She heaves a sigh. “Um, yeah. If it’s okay. I’d like to take a shower and there’s a bag in my jeep with some clothes and stuff. If you could get it, I’d really appreciate that.”

“Of course.” I’m already standing up. “You don’t even have ask about the shower. Use anything in the bathroom you want. There’s a new toothbrush in the cabinet and shampoo and bodywash and other things. I put your clothes in the laundry. They’re ready now.”

“Thanks.” Her voice catches. “Yeah, umm… thanks. I’ll be quick.”

“Take all the time you need.” I offer my warmest smile as she nods and closes the door. Then I grab the keys to her jeep and head out to get her bag. My heart is wrapped in funny feelings. Seeing Savannah like this has cracked open everything I’ve been trying to resist about her. My parents liked to say, “The genie is out of the bottle.”

She really, really is.

What am I going to do?

♦ ♦ ♦

I leave Savannah’s bag and clean clothes on the bed. The shower’s running and, leaving my phone in case she needs it again, I retreat to the kitchen. I don’t know much about curing hangovers. Guys in college insisted a double-bacon cheeseburger with an egg, Gatorade, vitamin C and Alka-Seltzer did it. Frat boys should know all about hangovers, but regardless I can’t believe that works for ordinary humans. Other people insisted milk was good, which seems more reasonable and I do believe the Gatorade and Alka-Seltzer part. Electrolytes, after all.

What I have on hand is limited but there’s saltines, milk and the electrolyte water Casey drinks after she works out. I’ve also got the ingredients for bowl of pho if she wants something more substantial. Bringing in the first three items on tray, I slide them onto the coffee table as Savannah walks out dressed in a loose T and baggy shorts with her damp hair pulled back into a low pony. It looks like the shower has done her a world of good and she smiles when she sees the bottle of electrolyte water.

I quirk the corner of my lips into a hesitant smile. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah, much. Cold shower. Really helps.”

I cringe. There’s nothing—nothing—worse than a cold shower. “I’ll have to take your word for that.”

Still smiling, she gestures at the tray. “This is so funny. That morning I dropped you off at your work, I came back and Amie was on the couch, completely blitzed. I got her that exact same water. We drink it after practice.” She rolls her eyes. “What goes around, comes around, huh?”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I do what I tend to do: deflect. “Is there anything else you’d like? I can make something. We’ve got noodles, eggs…”

Her chuckle has a harsh edge. “No. You can’t cook for me after I cheated you outta dinner.”

“Oh, you didn’t!” I insist hastily. “I had it last night, afterwards. It was amazing! I even saved dessert.” That’s true, although it’s also true I would’ve enjoyed it more if I hadn’t been worried about Savannah. And I did save the desserts. They’re waiting in the freezer. “So if you want, I’d be more than happy.”

“No, this is great. Thank you.” She picks up the water and a cracker, and I motion for her to sit on the couch while I take the opposite end. Drinking half the bottle, she nibbles the saltine without meeting my eye.

“I guess I oughta explain what happened.”

“You don’t have to,” giving her a small wave-off. “I’d never want to intrude.”

Her lips pull up on one side. “You’re sweet but here I am, intruding. It’s only fair.”

“Well…” I mull over what to say next, unsure of what she remembers from last night. “You did talk about your dad… And Allison said you got a call. Was that it?”

Savannah scrunches her face as she take another drink from the bottle. “Oh… Allie. I gotta call and thank her. God… Doing that at work. I sure put an end to that job.”

My hand starts to reach out but I pull it back. “I doubt it. It was an emergency. We—I mean Allison—replaced that bottle, if you’re worried about that.” As soon as I say it, I wonder if it’s the wrong thing to say because her jaw tightens. “You guys didn’t have to do that.”

“I didn’t want you to get into trouble. You mentioned it, so I thought it was the right thing to do. Sorry.”

“Hey. Don’t apologize.” She drags a hand down her face. “That was really thoughtful. I just…it’s not fair to have others clean up my mess.”

“I didn’t mind.” My reply is soft and probably overly cautious.

“That’s cuz you’re sweet.” There’s that edge of a wink in her voice. She takes a deep breath, finishes the rest of the bottle and the cracker, then picks up the milk and chugs it. “That’s good. Thanks”—setting the glass down carefully. “Can I borrow your phone again? I really oughta call Allie, if that’s okay.”

“Perfectly okay. I left it by the bed.”

“Thanks again.” She gets up with a rueful look. “I hate being a pest like this.”

“No worries. Go call”—nudging her with a gentle wink. She goes back into the bedroom and I go to refill her milk. Within two minutes, she’s back with a uncertain expression on her face.

“Did you get a hold of her?” I ask. “Was it okay?”

“Left a message,” she explains. “She wouldn’t know to pick up, I guess.”

“Anyway… what I think I said last night—about my dad—that’s not exactly the whole story.”

Silently, I fold my hands in my lap and wait for her to continue, afraid of interrupting. Savannah runs her fingers through her hair, eyes downcast.

“Yeah, he abandoned us after the whole puppet thing. Mom took it hard and it was rough—everything—she really did love him and it absolutely broke her heart, just shattered it. It was worse cuz…” She stops and I notice the tension in her shoulders as she gathers her thoughts. “I think I told you my parents were kinda hippies, but my dad—he was… more out there. He’s actually locked up now.”

“Prison?” I blurt out and immediately regret it. I’m supposed to be listening, not judging. But it did catch me off guard; I’d assumed he just the selfish asshole, not a criminal.

“Uh huh.” Her shoulders hunch up. “He got into this weird crap after he left—we’d get letters from him now and then. The last one was some shit about ‘extradimensional DNA’ from the Earth’s core making AI want to kill us. Can ya believe it?”

I can’t. In fact, I barely keep my mouth from falling open.

“A little later, Mom heard he was busted for trying to blow up a 5G cell tower.” Her eyes roll. “I guess you can tell things weren’t the most… stable when I was growing up. Dad wouldn’t stay in one place. One year it was beekeeping in Utah, then this weaver commune in Kentucky, then a sheep farm in New Mexico. We lived in Oregon for awhile with this shaman. He was cool. I think the longest we stayed anywhere was in a yurt in this goat pasture outside Yreka. That was… eighteen months, maybe? My mom had Jessie there, my little sister, and after we moved a few more times, she got fed up. We went to Vermont where our grandma—Mom’s mom—was and lived with her. I was eleven, Jessie was six and Mom wanted her to go to school in a stable environment. That was my first time living in a real house and I started 6th grade there—my first time in a public school.” Savannah pauses and exhales a slow breath. “Sorry. I’m rambling.”

“It’s okay,” I offer, hoping I’m being encouraging.

She nods and I wait while she chugs more milk. “Anyway. What I mean is stability’s a big deal for Mom. And we had it, for awhile. Sorta. Dad was teaching, Mom was running Grams’ business. It was okay. But Grams passed away and that was hard on Mom—Grams was like the glue who held things together. The next year Dad took off for that fucked-up MFA thing and it all fell apart. And I…”

She pauses again to set the empty glass down. “It’s sorta my fault too. Amie was living with us, we were in high school and when we graduated, we got…” Her head tilts from side to side. “Pretty out of control. We were queer and rural Vermont wasn’t our thing, so we split to Boston, got into the scene, started stripping, got wild. Then Mom…” Her breath hitches again. “Mom was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. We moved back home, spent two years there until she went into remission. I had a girlfriend back then but we broke up and Mom thought we should get out of the house and live our own lives—she hates being taken care of—and Amie had this idea to move to the west coast, so we ended up here. That was three years ago.”

I’m sure I know where this going, but all I can do is try to hide the sinking feeling in my stomach while Savannah shakes out her shoulders and keeps talking.

“It was all the stress. I know it. Heartbreak and stress is why she got sick. If I hadn’t gone to Boston, if I’d stayed home and helped more, I could’ve made a difference. And now…”

As much as I want to cry it’s not her fault, that horrible things simply happen, I know too well the guilt that ate into me over my parents and how bitterly I resented well-meaning friends telling  me: “That’s life. It’s not your fault.” The guilt twists through me again as I wait for Savannah to finish her sentence.

“Now…” she repeats as I watch her hands wrestle in her lap. “Last night, that call was Jessie telling me Mom was admitted to the hospital for tests. That’s why I lost it. And this morning… this morning she told me the cancer’s back.”

I knew that was coming but knowing does nothing to soften the blow. It hits me hard, forcing my breath out.

“Oh Savannah… I’m so, so…” My throat closes up around the last words, strangling them.

Her eyes don’t leave her hands twisting together. “I gotta go back.”

She sounds absolutely devastated and I haven’t felt so helpless since my own mom died. “Of course.”

“It’s…” Resting her chin on her fists, she stares straight ahead, eyes focused on nothing. “Y’see… my mom hates that I’m single. When I broke up with Carrie, she took it harder than I did. They’ve been on me about finding someone ever since. I think she’s afraid that Dad leaving made it so I can’t trust people or have real relationships or whatever and she blames him and feels guilty for getting sick and… I dunno. I know it would mean the world to her if I was in a serious relationship, but I just…”

Her eyes flick in my direction, almost a look of apology. I can’t imagine why. She pinches her lips.

“Thing is, when I used your phone to call, Jessie assumed I’d met someone since I’d spent the night here. I didn’t admit what happened. She knows I don’t do hook-ups so she thinks if I’m spending the night, I must have a girlfriend. She got all excited and told Mom and when I talked to Mom, she’s all excited too and now they want to meet my new ‘girlfriend’”—she air-quotes the word—“and I… just couldn’t tell her it was all a misunderstanding.” Her head shakes once, a lost look on her face. “So I gotta go back and when I show up alone, I know Mom’s gonna be crushed right when she needs support the most.” Savannah drops her face into her hands again. “I totally screwed this up. I don’t know what to do.”

I jam my hands between my knees where Savannah can’t see them clench. I get it. I truly get it. The only thing worse than a cancer diagnosis is a recurring cancer diagnosis. We all know the odds there and having something to live for matters most. What could be more important that seeing your daughter growing in a loving relationship, especially when your dickwad husband stole yours? And what could be worse than getting your hopes up, only to have them shattered at the most crucial time in your life?

This is life-threatening but the only thought that bubbles up is so ludicrous, I can hardly bring myself to acknowledge it. Sure, I’ve read more Sapphic romance than may be healthy, but it has no business infecting my brain this way. I also can’t bear what Savannah is going through right now. What she’s about to walk into makes what I went through with Maddie look like a picnic.

At the same time, it’s hard to fathom why Savannah doesn’t have a girlfriend. She did and apparently it was serious, so she’s not against relationships per se, is she? Did she swear off them because of her breakup? Was it that bad? She didn’t say it was though—her mom took it worse? Maybe that’s only her brave face?

Good Christ, I’m seriously overthinking this—a bad idea in my current lobster-brain state. Still, that she’s alone when she’s the kindest, sweetest, most genuine, fun, smart, caring, volcanically hot woman to ever bless this Earth with her presence is simply…

OMG! Pump the brakes, girl! Your lobster brain is about to melt!

About to? I stare into my lap. I think we’re a little late on that one.

My internal struggle is noticeable enough that Savannah looks over at me, brow furrowed. “I’m sorry. That was… a lot. Am I freaking you out?”

“Oh no!” Wow, I said that way too fast. “You’re not. I mean… yeah, this is a lot—I mean serious—but you’re not freaking me out. You have every right to…” Bloody hell, could I be any less articulate? “I’m really sorry that you’re going through this, and your mom too—all of you. I’m sorry and I wish there was something I could do.”

Savannah doesn’t look away. “You’re doing a lot, Erin. You didn’t have to any do of this.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Like you didn’t have to rescue me, give me a place to sleep, clothes to wear and make me coffee?”

That gets me a cautious smile. “Ahh, yeah. Like that. Fair point, I guess.”

I smile back but that one absurd thought keeps battering its way into my consciousness. My mouth opens without thinking and I snap it shut.

“What?” Her brow’s furrowing again.

Dammit. I need to control my reactions better. “Never mind,” I mumble. “It’s way too personal.”

“I think we’re way into personal territory, aren’t we, Erin?”

Her words and their gentle invitation tug right on my heartstrings. I take a breath. Here goes…

“I… I was wondering why you’re single.”

Her shoulders lift and fall as she looks away. “Oh. That.”

Shit. I’ve truly blown it now. “Savannah. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s okay,” she interrupts, meeting my eyes again. “First off, I’m bi.”

I wouldn’t have guessed that but now that I think about it, it makes sense. Savannah’s one of those rare people who thrives on life lived without limits, outside of any box.

“Okay.” I nod. Bi-erasure is a real thing and though I’ve never been on the sharp end of it, I know what it can do. “I’m sorry if you’ve had to deal with bigots. No one should be erased.”

She lifts a shoulder again in a half shrug. “Yeah, there’s some of that. ‘Is that a real identity?’ ‘Are you half straight and half gay?’ ‘You’re just confused.’ ‘When ya gonna pick a side?’ It never bothered me much. Am I half anything? No. I’m 100% me who’s 100% bi. No…” Pausing, she rubs her palms together. “It’s more that being bi makes guys creepy and girls anxious. I’m bi so I’ll fuck anyone. Guys like it cuz maybe I’m down for a threesome with their girlfriend. Girls hate it cuz maybe I’m down for threesome with some guy and his girlfriend. Or maybe I’ll cheat as soon as I’m craving some dick. Or whatever.”

She sighs. “Worse, I pole dance and I strip. So now I’ll absolutely fuck anyone. Guys think it’s cool to date a stripper for like a month, then they get all weird and possessive. Girls just hate it—I’m slut. A whore. I’ll fuck anyone for any reason. No trust. Even a lot of pole dancers don’t like it because of people who feel being a pole dancer equals being a stripper—it’s a thing in the community. The people who think they’re cool with it mostly believe it’s a phase or I’m only doing it for the money. I’ll get over it, grow up, get a real job.

Savannah snorts, lets go another sigh and looks off into the distance again. “I like stripping and pole dancing. I’m picky about where I do it and who for and I won’t appear on stage with anyone but Amie. But it’s fun—moving, dancing, letting myself go but being in control at the same time. That’s a rush. I love the discipline of it. That makes me happy and I think it makes our audience happy, too. I’m not gonna give up pole dancing or stripping or being me to satisfy people’s stupid prejudices.”

Her shoulders slump “Try explaining that. We’re so trained to think negatively about our sexuality, our bodies, ourselves, that people believe there has to be some big scary reason to get over those feelings. It can’t be that it’s just fun; that I enjoy it. They won’t accept that. Even people who don’t call me a slut or a whore don’t get it and want to know why. I’m not ashamed of what I look like. It’s so true that modesty empowers some women and nudity empowers others and no one has any right telling us which it should be, but when people keep asking me why I strip and don’t understand what I say, it makes me feel like a weirdo. It’s exhausting, the whole mess. Things never last. I gave up.”

Now, I’m sitting here feeling like crap for what I said to Casey the morning after our night at the club. I never thought I was part of the problem, but I guess I am.

“That’s not fair of them, Savannah,” I say after a few long seconds of silence. “You’re wonderful. What you do it beautiful. Unbelievably beautiful. You’re wonderful and beautiful and an amazing person and no one should ever treat you that way.”

She lifts her head and her smile is like the sun breaking through dark clouds. “Yeah?”

“Absolutely.” I’m swept up in that smile and before I can stop it, that insane idea breaks out. “What if you had a girlfriend. A girlfriend to go back with you and introduce to your mom?”

Her head tilts. “What d’ya mean?”

Bat crap. I’ve really put my foot in it.

“Uh, nothing. Brain fart. Hey?” I fake the most chipper look I can manage. “How are you feeling? If you’re up for it, I have those desserts. Wanna share one?”

Her puzzlement morphs into downright incredulity, as if I’ve gone round the bend. Maybe I have…

“Okay, yeah… But what did you mean? If I had a girlfriend? How?”

Double bat crap. Of course, she wouldn’t let this go. “Nothing. I was being stupid. That’s all.”

She gives me a look. “I don’t think you can be stupid, Erin.” Her teeth catch the side of her lower as she frowns. “Wait…”

Uh oh…

“You don’t mean like a romance schtick, do you? A fake girlfriend arrangement to get someone out of the jam they’re in?”

“Of course not.” I wave a hand feebly. “That’s ridiculous. Why don’t I get that dessert? Which would you like?”

She pins me with a smirk. “You totally did.”

I deflate against the arm of the couch. I’ve never been so flat-out lame in my life. “Savannah… no. It was a silly, silly thought. I hate the situation you’re in, I’ve read too much, it… popped out. Please don’t—”

“Where would I find this fake girlfriend?”

Her smirk is firmly place and I’m going to die. “You can’t be taking this seriously. No…”

“She’d have to be beautiful, smart, charming…”

Mortification is drowning me. That’s how I’m going to go out. “Savannah, please—”

“I’m teasing.” Her wink pokes me and I shut my eyes and groan under my breath.

Thank flippin’ god…

“But…”

But?! My eyes snap open. Her smirk is gone. Oh no…

“Would you?” Her voice drops. “You’d do that for us? Cuz there’s only one person I’d ever trust that much. Only one person who could pull it off. Would you?”

For the second time today, she has me utterly transfixed. “I’d…” crawl through broken glass naked if it would “help in any I can.”

Her expression softens in way that does things to my chest I can’t hope to describe. “I am feeling better. Wanna get that dessert now?”