And I lean over and kiss Talia.
I finally let my damp hands move, digging them into the fabric of my skirt like a lifeline. The cloth is soft, but not as soft as Talia’s lips against my own. I experience sensory overload, the press of the seat against my bare legs, the front seat divider digging into my side, Talia’s minty but warm scent, her hair tickling my cheek, the wetness of her mouth mingling with mine until differentiating where I begin and she ends is impossible. It all sears into my memory so intensely it practically burns. I burn.
After a second and forever have passed, I tilt my face the way I used to with Lucas, the way I’ve seen every boy/girl couple do in this moment.
And then Talia pulls away.
She pulls away.
She pulls away and drops back into her seat, scooting as far away from me as possible against the car door.
“I’m—I thought you…” All the moisture from my mouth evaporates, words quickly following suit. I don’t know what to say or even how I would say it if I could think of anything, and the silence around us is so palpable, thick like a curtain of humidity but worse, so much worse, and my hands itch to reach out and peel it away, make one of us say something, anything. My desperation climbs up my body until my lips finally find purchase. “I thought you were bisexual.”
“I am,” she replies, still so far away in such a small space. The car grows with each ticking moment.
But still, a small sigh of relief leaves me. I’m not wrong; this isn’t wrong.
“But I’m not—I’m—I have a boyfriend.”
I was wrong enough.
“Wh—what? Who?” I ask, because what else is there to say. My mind torpedoes through a list of Talia’s known male associates, only two people. I mentally skip over Wesley with ease. But I freeze on the small smiles, jealous looks, and loaded gazes I’ve seen her share with the next boy. All the paintings in her room, signed with a Z.
“Zaq,” I say before she can reply. “You’re dating Zaq.” She nods slowly, but I don’t register the confirmation. I don’t even register my suggestion. “How long?”
She grimaces, like my confusion hits her harder than it’s hitting me. “We’ve only been together for a few weeks.” Her lips quiver, and she looks torn between crying and suppressing a smile. “When Wesley and Lindsay starting hanging out more, he and I grew closer. It started out as nothing, but one thing led to another and…” She trails off, possibly realizing how cliché she sounds, possibly realizing that I don’t actually want to know. “We didn’t tell Wes because we didn’t want him to feel like a third wheel, but then we joined your group and things … changed. We planned to tell him just before prom.”
“Because Zaq is your date,” I say. Another nod.
“You said you didn’t have a date for prom,” I whisper, looking down at my hands. They’re as dry as my lips are now, no sheen to memorialize what I felt only, what, minutes? seconds? ago. My heart rate is softer than the buzzing radio. I silently beg my body for a reaction.
She winces. “I never said that.”
My eyes drift to Sammie’s house. A few lights are on. Sammie is probably still awake, his sisters and parents too. I don’t bother thinking about my parents; I can’t right now. But I do wonder at the back of my mind, how it is that the rest of the world, the one just beside me, could keep trudging along while I sit here fracturing.
I kissed a girl. I kissed the girl. And she has a boyfriend.
“I said no to Lucas.” I pause. “For you.”
Something like a sob escapes Talia’s lips. A sound so tragic should have me feeling remorseful, but instead I’m internally heaving, desperate to empty myself of anything else that could hurt her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. Her dark eyes shimmer in the light from the streetlamps seeping in through the window. “But I didn’t ask you to do that. I didn’t know what to say when you asked me to be your date. I didn’t—I thought you just meant as friends.”
“Does your family know?” I ask. “About Zaq?”
“No,” she confesses, exhaling with the topic change. “If they knew I had a boyfriend, they’d think I’m ‘cured.’ Like I’m straight now.”
“So I’m the first person you’ve told,” I say, part question, part statement. Talia nods again. “Okay.”
I open the passenger door but can’t even shut it before Talia springs out of the car and races to my side, leaving her door open with the keys still in the ignition.
“I’m so sorry,” she repeats, louder and more frantic than before. “I had no idea you were—”
“That I’m what?” I interrupt, crossing my arms. Like Mom, like Eliana.
Talia freezes, shaking her head subtly and blinking wildly. “Oh. Well, I mean are you bi or pan or…?”
“We aren’t the same,” I insist, an awful heat coiling around my chest, begging to be freed with whatever horrible words I can throw at Talia. “I’m not Tori. You and I are not you and Tori.”
She takes a long breath, in and out. “I can come inside. We can talk about this. I’ve been here before, and I can help you. Nothing has to change between us.”
“Nothing has to change?” I feel slapped.
“Let me help you.” She reaches out for my hand, but I jump away before she can touch me, scared of what it’ll do to me.
“I don’t need you” is all I say before leaving Talia, the ruby-nailed girl, the shy government girl, the girl who kissed a girl and liked it but didn’t like kissing me, alone and half crying on my front lawn.
The house is still when I get inside. My parents are asleep, all the doors locked and lights turned off. I pass their room without hesitation, the blue glow of their television sliding on and off my face like water.
I go into my bathroom and run a bath for the first time in years, watching the tub fill. I strip off my clothes, my skirt feeling stiff and abrasive against my dry hands. I slip under the water and scream at the top of my lungs.
SIXTEEN
I don’t have words for what I feel. I wish I did, but I think I left them all on the lawn last night.
When I wake up, the sun shines through the gap in my gauzy curtains, the hum and scent of the coffee maker downstairs trickle in from beneath my door, and my mouth is dry and rough. I watch and listen and smell and taste, but feelings have left me.
I think of myself, nearly a year ago, crying in this very spot over Lucas. Crying over the way I’d never run my fingers through his hair or part his lips with my own or press my head against his chest ever again.
But right now, I only think of never making Talia laugh again. I think of never watching the fracturing sunlight bounce off her car window to catch on her nose ring and sparkling nails. Never again seeing her without instantly feeling like I’ve been punched in the gut.