Always Her (Lesbian Romance) Read online

  Now, years of yearning, dreaming, and imagining flooded back, so powerfully that I could hardly deal with being in the bar. My nostrils were full of the smells of that time. Not only the scent of her, which was so deeply imprinted on my memory – light, sweet but with a hint of spice – but the scents that I didn’t even know my brain had recorded. Who knew that the hallway where I used to wait for my French lesson every Tuesday, burning for the moment when she’d come out of her history lesson in the room opposite, had such a particular odor? But there it was: a chalky, slightly sour smell was atomized into my brain, accompanied by a froth of excitement and desire. Who would’ve thought that my mind had stored the tarry, rubbery smell of the sports ground that I used to pass on my way to math, dragging my feet, hoping to catch a glimpse of her playing soccer? Even the room where they produced the newspaper, and where she spent several hours a week, popped up with its cozy, inky scent.

  I badly wanted to go home, to pull myself together, and to reminisce, curled up on my bed with a tumbler of rum. But instead, Andie was elbowing me, whispering “your round, babe,” and I found myself standing up and walking towards the bar to order.

  We’d spoken on only two occasions before, ever. How could I speak to her now, when I was brimming over with so many memories and sensations? Somehow, I made it to the bar on shaky legs, clinging to the rail running around the edge for support, one surge of adrenaline hitting me after another.

  Up close, she was even more striking than I’d remembered. Her eyes were so dark and sparkling, and her features a flawless balance of softness and definition. But her smile was professional and there was no glimmer of recognition.

  “Two Hanky Pankys and two Martinis,” I said, my voice cracking. I watched her back as she selected the spirits, the long lines of her muscles moving beneath the fabric of her black, button-down shirt, her dark hair close-cropped on the back of her neck. I found myself longing to touch the soft stubble with the tip of my tongue.

  The bills I’d counted out and crumpled in my hand were warm and damp, and I hoped her hands were wet enough from making the drinks not to notice. She slipped the cocktails onto a tray for me, and turned to the next customer. I walked back to our table, my heart going pitter-patter.

  She’d made me a great Martini – perfectly dry and crisp, with a citrusy gin. I drank it in about two seconds, and the alcohol began to ease my jitters.

  “Drinks going down ok?” Elaine asked me.

  “Absolutely!” I replied, and clinked glasses with her. Reminding myself that I needed to make sure that my friend had a great 22nd birthday celebration, I turned myself in my seat, so I didn’t have a clear view of Jack any longer, and threw myself back into the conversation.

  Time whizzed by, as it does when you’re having cocktails, each one gone in a few sips, and you’re buzzing for the next. Apart from the birthday girl, we’d bought a round each, and Andie was standing up to get one final one. There was no way I could pay her back any time soon. My pocketbook was empty. I’d completely scraped it out buying that happy hour round. Yet again, I cursed the fact that I had well-off friends, who drank in places like this like it was no big deal.

  “Hey, I’m ok, I’ll just get my own,” I said, raising my eyebrow at her. She knew I was broke, and that it was a matter of pride that I paid my own way. She gave me the ghost of a nod, with the delicacy that I loved her for. I waited for her to go to the bar, and I followed her a moment later, on the pretext of visiting the restroom.

  The bar was quieter now, and Jack was right in the center, her hands resting lightly on the bar top. Knowing she didn’t recognize me made me calmer, and, as I’d done in too many bars before, I leaned in close, the metal rail pressing on my ribcage, and requested my embarrassing drink.

  Jack seemed amused, but without malice or mockery. And then her expression turned cunning.

  “How about I do a deal with you. I’ll give you a free drink, but you’ve got to be my guinea pig for a new cocktail I’m making?” she said, eyes glittering. I was so touched by her kindness, as well by as the loveliness of her eyes, that I couldn’t do any more than nod. She quizzed me on what I liked, and turned around and began sorting through a row of strange concoctions, like a Victorian chemist.

  I would love to know what memory hussled through all the others and forced its way up to the surface, but, suddenly, she knew who I was. Not my name, of course, but my high school affiliations. I don’t even speak to any of those girls anymore, but that’s what I’ll be known for. We were a unit. Five blondes and a brunette, all with long hair, similar dress sense, similar boyfriends. No matter that Alexa was really good at math, and I was on the track team, we were just known as The Plastics. There wasn’t a day of my life in high school when I didn’t wish that Mean Girls hadn’t been made. So I wasn’t a little bit surprised that this was how Jack remembered me. But it stung a little. Imagine coming face to face with your teenage crush, the biggest passion of your life to date, and finding out that she recalls you as a type, nothing more.

  “You’re Jack!” I said, laughing, irritated with myself for being so lame that I now had to pretend I’d only just recognized her. Did she think it was weird that I’d instantly realized who she was at the exact same moment that she’d realized who I was? If she did, her expression didn’t show it. She asked me what I was doing so far from our hometown, and I told her about my dad, and I skimmed over my mom’s loser boyfriends, especially Ed the sleaze, who was the reason why I’d left home for good, after he’d tried to climb into bed with me one morning. Anyway, we were talking. All the conversations I’d imagined having with her, and now we were having this everyday, catch-up conversation. My heart kept thumping away the whole time, and I hoped she didn’t notice how nervous I was.

  She explained that she’d picked her school because it was better than the local one.

  “It’s great you got to go to a good school,” I said, glowing with admiration as I remembered how hard she’d worked on the high school paper. She’d been there in the newspaper office most days, and she’d also produced this hilarious satirical magazine with some of her friends, and been really active in student politics. I’d always wondered how she’d also found time for her schoolwork as well.

  It wasn’t long before we were rudely interrupted by a drunken guy staggering up to the bar. Wanting to elbow him in the gut as I went, I turned and walked back to my friends with my out-of-this-world, insanely delicious cocktail. There was something a little erotic about drinking something that Jack had made for me personally, I thought, before giggling to myself at my own silliness.

  Later in the evening, just before we all left the bar, Jack caught me as I came out of the restroom. I’d been thinking about her so intensely while I’d been alone for a few moments, replaying our conversation in my head, that the sight of her startled me. And then she asked me if I was interested in modeling for her friend’s photo shoot. Modeling? Seeing her again? The two thoughts pinged around in my brain, firing up little sparks here and there as they collided with one another. I couldn’t have been more stunned if she’d sucker-punched me. The idea of modeling scared the hell out of me, but the chance to see her again, and to make a few dollars, was too good to pass up. I heard myself saying yes. I made some comment about my dad taking a lot of photos of me as a kid, to convince her that I’d be a good model. It was true, dad was always snapping photos. There were some where I looked so cranky, because he was always sticking that camera in my face. I just don’t want to miss a thing, baby, he used to say. And now he’s gone, I’d give anything for him to be standing there, taking my photo all day long.

  Jack gave me her number, and then gave it to me again as my fingers trembled while I typed on the keypad, bursting with excitement to be putting it into my phone. As she left me, she squeezed my shoulder, her fingertips scorching my bare skin.

  “See you Saturday,” I called, cringing at the breathiness of my voice.

  After drinks, Elaine wanted to go and s
ee her boyfriend. The guy who couldn’t be bothered to turn up for the drinks. I was relieved though. I didn’t have money to pay entry into clubs. Andie would’ve lent me some if I’d asked, of course, but I was drowning in debt and sometimes I got to the point where even a few dollars more seemed enough to tip me over the edge. We all air-kissed each other, and I slipped away to walk home while they were waiting for taxis.

  Like my high school friends, my college crew all had money. I guess you could describe them as plastics too. It was like I’d replaced one set with another. It’s how it seems to happen as a girl, when you look a certain way. Certain girls gravitate towards you, and before you know it, you’ve got a whole set of identikit friends, and you’re part of a sorority. It’s different for guys. They seem to pick friends who get their jokes, who they can have fun with. But girls pick friends according to looks. Andie was an exception. She was whip-smart, and funny with it, mocking everyone in sight, along with herself. She went through the motions, putting make-up on and wearing heels, but I suspected it was as much of a façade for her as it was for me.

  I walked through the peaceful streets, going extra fast because I’d forgotten to bring a jacket as usual. Three years here, and I couldn’t get used to how much the thermometer dropped at night. The breeze brings a chill that whispers through layers of clothes, not stopping until it’s got at your skin. My purse was too small to squeeze in a pair of flats, so I was still wearing heels, but they didn’t slow me down much. I loved that I could let my guard down here, put my ear buds in and daydream, because it’s one of the safest towns in the US. There’s almost no violent crime, and few issues with drug addiction and homelessness. It sounds almost boring, and it would be if it wasn’t such a charming place.

  She goes to my university, I whispered to myself, over and over. I’m going to see her again on Saturday! I pulled my phone out of my pocket, and looked for a certain song. I wasn’t sure if I still had it in my collection, as I’d long since banned myself from listening to it. But there it was. I hit play, and as the first few bars of Evanescence’s My Immortal reached my ears, butterflies of excitement and longing and wistfulness fluttered around in my stomach. Fragments of memories kept coming at me. I pictured myself lying on my bed in my teenage bedroom, playing the same song on a loop, and dreaming. Imagining what it would be like to kiss her, to have my arms around her, wishing she was lying next to me, listening to the song with me. Wanting her and not being able to have her had been so intense that it had physically hurt. It had been the perfect teenage angst, full of sweet suffering and unsatisfied craving.

  The music stopped, indicating a call was coming through. Annoyed at the intrusion, I reached for my phone. It was Jared, wanting to know if I was home safe. I couldn’t speak to him right now. My emotions were too overwhelming. I pressed the power button until the screen went black. I’d make out that the battery had died just as I’d picked up his call. And, with a pang, I realized that this was the first time in our six-month-long relationship that I’d be lying to him. In the grand scheme of things, it’d be a pretty innocent lie. I pulled out my ear buds and dropped the phone in my purse, and listened to silence instead.

  Seeing Jack again had floored me. Not only because I was seeing my high school crush again, but because I’d long since put my attraction to girls in a box marked ‘teen’, along with my cheerleader uniform and my high school report cards. My feelings were a secret, half-exciting, half-shameful, that I’d never told another soul. Jack wasn’t the only girl I’d looked at and wanted. I’d spent my teens talking about guys, thinking about girls. I had posters of boys on my walls, and I studied them so I knew what to talk to my friends about, but it was the curve of a hip, the softness of a waist that I really yearned for. Luckily, magazines aimed at girls are full of pictures of girls, and I devoured fashion magazines, a flash of cleavage, a pair of tight bikini pants like dynamite to my fevered teenage hormones. Occasionally, I’d pick up a copy of a men’s magazine at a newsstand, and flip through it, seeking out the skimpiest outfits, the most provocative poses, wishing I was brave enough to walk up to the counter and buy it.

  In my fantasy life, I lusted after long-haired feminine girls, but in real life, it was the tomboys that caught my attention. It was a discrepancy that I’d noticed, but spent little time analyzing. I loved the messy hair falling in the eyes; the check shirts and baggy pants, not quite concealing the feminine curves beneath; the white wifebeaters, revealing muscular shoulders; the unaffected insouciance. Jack encapsulated all of those things. She was the perfectly put-together tomboy, so comfortable in her skin that no-one questioned it.

  Putting my desires away hadn’t extinguished them, of course. I still checked girls out, but in the way that people checked out movie stars, wistfully, knowing it was never going to happen. In my first year at college, I’d been with a few guys, none of whom I’d liked much, but anything to obliterate the pain that the loss of my father had caused me. When I’d been with these guys, I’d thought of Jack, and turned myself on, and then, in being turned on, I’d convinced myself that everything was ok. For almost a year after that, I’d gone the other way, and not been with anybody. And then I’d met Jared. He was a nice guy, easy going, with all-American good looks. He was popular, but not superficial, and he studied hard for his pre-med. He was a good influence on me, I knew that right away, and when I discovered, three months in, that he was falling for me, I respected his feelings, even though I couldn’t return them.

  There was always something missing. My father had left a hole in my heart, and I didn’t think that anyone would fill it. Sure, I was planning on getting married and having kids – that was what my father had wanted for me – but the idea still seemed as nebulous as the likelihood that I’d one day have a career and own a house. My father was casually homophobic, in the way of the older generation, and I guess that cemented things for me. I always wanted to make him proud of me, and now he wasn’t around to tell me that he was proud, I didn’t want to do anything he disapproved of. But there was Jack. I was dizzy with the things I wasn’t supposed to feel, and my head ached, as if it was too full.

  I’d been walking for 40 minutes, and around one more corner was home, the small, cozy apartment in a street of red brick buildings that I shared with my sister. As I got close, I dragged my feet, not wanting to call Jared. But before long, I was there regardless. I let myself into the apartment. I didn’t know if my sister was home, but I turned the latch carefully, so as not to attract attention to myself. I tiptoed across the hallway to my tiny bedroom, and turned a couple of lamps on, keeping the lighting low. I unbuckled my heels and kicked them off, and brought my purse over to my bed. Lying down and making myself comfortable, I took my phone out of my purse and called Jared to say goodnight.

  Chapter Three

  Jack

  There was a weight shifting on the other side of my mattress. It was followed by a whisper of hair and then soft skin touching my back. An arm slid around my waist, arranging itself carefully. Gentle breath blew on my ear, and there was the ghost of a sigh. I stayed motionless, trying to fall back into the dream I’d been having. But it was no use. The strip of light coming between my curtains was blinding, indicating that it was closer to lunchtime than daybreak. My limbs were heavy though, and I didn’t want to move yet.

  “What time is it?” I mumbled.

  “A little after 12,” a husky voice whispered into my ear. I came to life instantly.

  “No way!” I said with a groan.

  “You messaged me goodnight at a quarter of six, babe, so you haven’t actually been asleep for that long.” I turned onto my back and rubbed my eyes. My paper was finished. Who knew if it was any good. Writing in the depths of the night yielded unpredictable results, usually at one of two extremes.

  “You want me to read it?” Christie asked. I nodded. She knew my paranoias well. She bounded out of the bed and picked up my laptop, then jumped back in again. I typed the password in and handed it back to
her, then I lay, staring at the ceiling, worrying at my cuticles while she read it through.

  “It’s amazing, babe!” she said, eventually. “It’s really engaged my interest, and your expression is really succinct and clear. And your research on the period is almost worthy of a history major!”

  “Is that so?” I said, and pulled her down for a kiss. Her lips were crimson, as always, and met mine with a slightly slippery traction. I held myself away from her.

  “Are you sure it’s good?”

  “Jack, I wouldn’t bullshit you,” she replied, her pale blue eyes narrowing as she looked down at me. “I hope you can trust me that far.”

  “I do know that. I just always worry about my writing, you know?”

  “You have no reason to. I wish I could write half as well as you!” I grinned. Christie’s waffling was legendary. She had lots of ideas, and they tripped out one after another, after another. I’d long since given up on trying to fix her style; it was just the way it was. Her grades were good because there were plenty of incisive comments mixed into the soup, but I pitied the poor professor who had to go through and extract them.

  Her lipstick was already smudged from our kiss, and it would soon be smudged a lot more. First thing in the morning was the only time I didn’t mind getting covered in it.

  “Why are you still wearing clothes?” I said.

  “Umm, I could ask you the same question!” She was straddling me, and I eased her back so I could sit up. I pulled my black wifebeater over my head, and shuffled around until I managed to slip my underpants off too, then I lay back and watched, as Christie slowly unbuttoned her navy polka-dot shirt. She was proud of her body, justifiably so, and she always liked to give me a show. Opening the final button, she slipped the shirt off, casting it aside. Then, she arched her back, reaching behind for the fastener on her bra. The motion tensed the muscles in her belly and made her breasts swell, pushing against the cups and enhancing her cleavage. Opening the catch, she looked me in the eye as she eased the cherry-colored straps over her shoulders, allowing the cups to slide lower and lower, until her nipples, and then the whole of her breasts were revealed. She threw her bra on top of her shirt, and paused, looking at me, her black bangs perfectly straight across her forehead. The sliver of light coming through the window illuminated her large, round breasts, and the roseate nipples, the right one adorned with a tiny silver bar. Her skin was pale, creamy and amply tattooed. Intricate, colorful designs enlivened the top of her chest, both upper arms, her back and her left side. I sat up, holding her against me, and lifted her, so her left nipple was level with my mouth. I flicked my tongue against it, as my left hand closed on her other breast, and she sighed, throwing her head back.