Hunter by Eliza Lentzski (6)

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER TEN

 

 

“Can I get you something to drink?” Professor Graft opened her refrigerator door and looked inside.

I smoothed the front pleats on my skirt. “Whatever you’re having is fine.”

Her head popped above the refrigerator door. “I was thinking about opening a bottle of wine. Is that okay?”

The words caught in my throat, so I nodded instead. I wasn’t yet twenty-one, but sometimes my parents let Brian and me have a glass of wine with dinner on a holiday like Christmas or Easter. It wasn’t a holiday, but I did feel like celebrating. 

I’d finished The Bell Jar and found myself in my former professor’s living room. But I didn’t feel like a former student. Sitting on her couch in her living room and being offered a glass of wine, I felt like a peer—an equal.

While Professor Graft uncorked a bottle of sauvignon blanc, I ran my hands over the textured material of her couch. The white shag carpet was soft on the bottoms of my feet.

“So did you like the book?” She carried two filled wine glasses into the living room. A copy of The Bell Jar was tucked between her elbow and her side.

I waited for her to sit down and set the wine glasses on the coffee table. 

“I did,” I confirmed.

There was plenty of couch and a whole other loveseat, but she sat beside me, close enough that our thighs nearly touched. I was thankful that for once she wore pants so our bare legs wouldn’t inadvertently press together. I was going to have a hard enough time keeping up with her, talking about one of her favorite books, without being distracted by the feel of her skin touching mine.

She touched her index finger to my wrist. “I like this top.”

I could practically see the miniature thunderbolt zap between us.

“Thanks. It’s new.”

“Is it cotton?” She took the material where the sleeve opened at my wrist and rubbed it between her fingers.

“I’m not sure.”

“It’s a pretty blue. It nearly matches the color of your eyes.” She abandoned my shirt and swept her hand across my forehead.

I was frozen in place, like a deer trapped in headlights.

“I like it when you wear your hair pulled back. There’s nothing to hide your face.”

“O-okay,” I stumbled out.

“I’m so glad we were able to get together to do this.” Her hand fell to my naked knee, and she gave the area just above my kneecap a firm squeeze.

“Me, too.”

Her long fingers remained curled around my upper knee.

“I could recommend some other books if you’d like,” she offered. “We could keep doing this.”

I bobbed my head when words failed me.

“Plath is legendary, but Jeanette Winterson is one of my favorite contemporary authors.”

“I’ve never heard of her,” I admitted.

“Her writing is effortless, but it isn’t for everyone,” she cautioned. “I find that people either become obsessed with her books or they don’t care for her at all.”

Her middle and index fingers walked from my knee to just below the bottom hem of my skirt.

“But she writes about some … mature themes.” Her fingertips skimmed along the bottom hem of my skirt. “I don’t know if you’d be into that.”

I released a shaky breath. She was sitting too close not to have noticed the hitch in my breathing. “I’m-I’m interested.”

Her fingers curled under the bottom of my skirt, which she slowly dragged up, drawing the material higher up my thigh.

“You should try some of the wine,” she urged. “It’s nice. Not too sweet.”

She continued to talk, her tone unassuming and nonchalant. It sounded so normal, it was hard for me to believe anything was happening below my waist. But it was.

I leaned forward and grabbed the wine glass closest to my reach. As I brought the glass toward my lips, Professor Graft’s fingers continued to travel under my skirt. My throat constricted, but I somehow managed a brief sip of the wine.

“What do you think?” She was asking about the wine, but she couldhave also been asking for my permission. 

I licked my lips, tasting the wine on them. “I like it.” My response came out in a smoky rasp, foreign to my ears. My vocal register seemed to have dropped several octaves.

My hips shifted on the couch, moving of their own volition. My thighs slightly parted, and her hand disappeared beneath my skirt. I felt her fingertips brush against the lacy border of my underwear.

I exhaled noisily into the bell of the wine glass. My breath fogged up the glass like the inside of a car windshield.

Her free hand—the one not stroking my inner thigh—curled around my wine glass. She gently pried the drink from my tensed fingers and returned the glass to its place on the coffee table.

She leaned toward me and wet her lips. She was so close, I could smell her shampoo or lotion—whatever it was that gave her that warm vanilla scent. I felt her eyelashes flutter against my cheekbone, and yet I remained immobile. I couldn’t even breathe.

“Hunter,” she whispered.

Her fingertips brushed over my panty-covered center.
I inhaled sharply, and a tingle of pleasure shuddered up my spine.

“Mmhm?”I managed to whimper in response. 

“Wake up.”

“Hmm?”

I heard the command again, but this time it was no longer Professor Graft’s voice bidding me: “Wake up.”

My mom stared down at me, and I winced into the bright morning sun. “Are you going to sleep away the entire summer?” she scolded.

I could hear the chirping of birds through my open bedroom window and the sounds of lawnmowers and leaf blowers in the background.

“I’m getting up,” I groaned.

“I need you to pick up milk on your way home from work.”

An unintentional displeased noise came out of my mouth.

“Don’t even start,” my mom warned. Her voice was sharp, and I knew enough not to put up a fight. She could single-handedly ruin my summer if she had a mind to.

“I’m not,” I promised.

“You’d better get moving. You don’t want to be late on your first day.”

Despite my mom’s warning, I stayed in bed a moment longer. I exhaled noisily as I stared at the ceiling. Of course it had only been a dream. 

 

+ + +

The first day of anything made my stomach do uncomfortable flip-flops. The first day of work at Nikole Pendergast’s landscaping company was no different. When I drove up the long driveway to my new employer’s greenhouse that morning, there were a number of other vehicles parked on the grass. I parked my car in an empty area and grabbed my gardening gloves off the passenger-side seat.

Half a dozen women, all about my age or older, busied themselves with loading dirt, mulch, and gardening tools into the back of various pickup trucks. I didn’t immediately see Nikole—the only expected familiar face—as I approached the group. I lingered a few yards away from the action. I felt like a latecomer to the party; everyone seemed to know each other and what was expected of them, which only heightened my first-day jitters. 

One of the women paused from her work long enough to greet me.

“Hey,” she called. “New girl?”

I worried my new, stiff gardening gloves in front of me. “Yep.”

She wore her hair in twin braids on either side of her head. Grey strands of hair twisted through the brunette. Her deep tan was unusual for the early summer month. Her tank top had the name of the landscaping company screen-printed across the front.

She thrust an assertive hand in my direction. “I’m Gwen.”

“Hunter.”

Her skin was remarkably smooth.

“Welcome to the crew, Hunter.”

I took in my surroundings, still not seeing the woman who’d hired me. “What do you need me to do?” I was eager for a task to put me more at ease.

She pointed towards the greenhouse. “See that pile of mulch?”

“Uh huh.”

“Grab some bags and toss them into the back of the trucks. Once we’re all packed up, we’ll head out to the first job site. We go out in separate crews every morning,” she explained, “kind of conquer and divide. You’ll be on my crew today. Once you get comfortable with the routine, you’ll get your chance to be forewoman, too. Nikole likes to give everyone a chance at leadership, so we rotate in and out.”

“Cool.”

I went straight to work and began hauling the plastic bags from the greenhouse to the trucks. The mulch wasn’t heavy, just bulky and awkward. Mulch spilled out of the pin-point holes and stained my skin and clothes. But that came with the territory; if I’d been afraid of getting dirty, I would have gotten a different summer job.

I’d just finished dragging a bag of mulch into the back of a truck bed when I heard someone say my name: “Good morning, Hunter.”

I looked up to see Nikole and all of her teeth.

“Hey!” I greeted. I self-consciously smoothed my ponytail in her presence. 

Nikole was beautiful in an effortless way. I was sure she probably rolled out of bed looking naturally gorgeous. She needed no makeup and wore her dark, glossy hair in a ponytail. She’d rolled the sleeves of her t-shirt and showed off lean muscles. Her linen shorts displayed a runner’s legs with solid-looking thigh muscles. 

Nikole leaned against the tailgate of the truck. “I see Gwen’s put you to work already.”

“Yeah, she gave me the rundown right away.”

“She’s good people,” Nikole noted with a nod. “She’s kind of like everyone’s second mom out here.”

“It’s a beautiful day for gardening,” I said, making light small-talk. 

“Mmhm,” Nikole agreed. “Enjoy the cool weather while it lasts.” She held her hand over her eyes like a visor and looked up into the sky. “Pretty soon you’ll be cursing the sun. Make sure you pack lots of water and sunscreen.”

“I thought Gwen was the second mom out here,” I tried to tease. It almost felt like flirting.

“Watch it.” Nikole growled, but her playful grin didn’t falter. “I’m not that old.”

It’s okay—I like older women. I kept those sentiments to myself. I chewed on my lip instead. 

“Did you meet everyone, yet?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Just Gwen.”

“Let’s remedy that right now.” She stuck two fingers into her mouth and whistled sharply. 

All around, the women stopped working and looked in our direction. 

“Everybody, meet Hunter,” Nikole announced.

From my position inside of the truck bed, it felt like I was standing on a stage. I waved meekly at the others, fully aware I was the center of attention.

“Don’t give her a hard time,” Nikole instructed. She flicked her eyes in my direction. “Although I suspect she can probably handle it.”

Everyone resumed working after the brief introduction. Nikole held up her hand to help me climb out of the back of the truck. I found the action very chivalrous, but I kept my observation to myself yet again. 

“Have fun today,” she said when I reached the ground. “And remember to lift with your legs.”

I couldn’t help myself: “Thanks, Mom.”

Nikole stuck out her tongue, and walked off to one of the other trucks.

Gwen strolled up to me, hands in her pockets. “Ready to hit the road?”

“I think so.”

She jerked her thumb toward the truck I’d been loading with mulch. “Hop in.”

The pickup truck was older with no frills. Inside the cab was a single bench seat, separated by the manual transmission shifter in the ground. The radio was a relic with an in-dash slot for cassette tapes.

Gwen hopped behind the wheel, and the truck’s engine rumbled to life. “You know how to drive stick?” she asked, shifting the truck into reverse. 

I buckled myself in. “Uh huh. My dad taught me.”

He’d worried I might get stuck at a party where there was alcohol and people who only drove stick-shift. It turned out to be an unwarranted worry; the only parties I’d ever been to were at the homes of my professors. 

The truck bounced along the unpaved drive. Country music softly played in the background. 

“So, uh, what’s Nikole’s story?”

Gwen arched an eyebrow. “Story?”

“I just mean … she’s so young.” 

“Too young to have her own business?” Gwen guessed.

I nodded.

“I’m really not sure,” she admitted. “I don’t know if she came into money or if she took over the family business or slept with a banker to get a start-up loan. But she’s business savvy, and she’s got a green thumb. That girl could plant a stick in the desert and it would somehow grow. Some people have a talent for this kind of work; some don’t.”

“Does she only hire women?”

I couldn’t help noticing that the crews that day were comprised entirely of the female sex.

“You noticed that, huh?” Gwen chuckled. “I don’t know if that’s entirely conscious on her part or more the result of expected gender roles. Women and flowers and growing food and all that. But we’re all totally capable of using power tools. Think you can handle that?”

I sat up straighter. “I built houses for Habitat for Humanity my sophomore year.”

“Good for you,” Gwen smiled. “Everyone should know how to use a nail gun.”

Gwen and I traveled around the city, hopping from one yard to the next until late in the afternoon. We spent the day spreading out mulch in flowerbeds and constructing above-ground gardens in clients’ yards. I was dirty and exhausted by the end, but it felt good, like after a long run when you know you’ve pushed your body beyond its comfort zone.

I had initially been disappointed to not be working with Nikole—she was a stunning woman, and I wouldn’t have minded looking at her all day—but Gwen was funny and witty, and the workday went by quickly. 

When we’d finished our tasks, we returned to the greenhouse. Not all of the other crews were back yet, Nikole’s included. I was tempted to stick around until she returned, just for another opportunity to joke around with her, but my mom was waiting for her gallon of milk and dinner would be on the table at six.

 

+ + +

 

Colette had sent a message while I’d been offline: How was work?

Even though the message had arrived hours before, I knew she wouldn’t be too far from her computer.

It was great, I enthused. Everyone seems really nice. And you’d be impressed with me; I kind of flirted with my boss today.

Her response was predictably quick: You’re cheating on Elle?

You can’t be unfaithful if you’re not actually in a relationship, I protested.

So fickle you’ve become, she clucked.

I’m working my way through The Bell Jar. I’ll email her once I’m done.

I think you’re stalling, she accused. You’re safe, but in limbo, as long as you haven’t finished the book.

Sometimes I regretted ever telling Colette that Professor Graft had loaned me a book from her personal collection; I regretted telling her a lot of things, but it was also nice to finally have someone I could talk to about these things.

I’m not a fast reader, I defended. And I’ve got a full-time summer job, and I still need to visit Heni.

That’s quite the list of excuses you’ve compiled, she observed.

It’s not an excuse if it’s the truth.

So your new boss is cute. Male or female?

Female.

I guess you really are gay.

I frowned at the flippant response. Stop it. I’m not labeling myself. 

Very progressive, she remarked. It’s like you’re honorary French.

You must be rubbing off on me, I teased.

Now I just need you to procrastinate on something and the transformation will be complete, she replied. Oh wait, I forgot; you’re procrastinating telling Elle you’re in love with her.

I’m not in love!

I typed my reply with extra force—practically punching the keyboard—even though Colette would never know the difference.

I stared at the computer screen, unblinking. I wasn’t in love—was I?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

 

 

I’d bought the white bikini on a whim. I’d seen it on a mannequin at the Mall of America. The bottoms held together with tied knots at the hips and the top was just big enough to contain my breasts. I wasn’t brave enough to wear it beyond the privacy fence in my parents’ backyard, and I’d have to retreat to my room the moment Brian’s friends came over to use the pool. There were few things worse than the obvious stare of teenaged boys. I’d had to deal with enough of that during high school to subject myself to it again. I couldn’t really be upset with them though; a short enough skirt could make my gaze also linger just a moment too long.

Until the backyard was filled with their bellowing, the backyard was all mine. The sky was blue and lazy white clouds slowly floated across the horizon. The wind rustled through the leaves of old maple trees that in fall would create a firework display of oranges, reds, and yellows. For now, however, their deep green leaves littered the yard with little helicopter seed pods that my dad would banish from the yard with the leaf blower over the weekend.

With the day off I had no plans but to fall asleep in the sun and—

if I was being honest with myself—probably re-read the first few chapters of The Bell Jar. It wasn’t that the book was that good, but if I ever did get the opportunity to talk about the novel with Professor Graft, I wanted to be prepared and sound like I knew what I was talking about; Spark Notes wasn’t going to cut it.

I opened my eyes when I felt a shadow cross my face. I thought the sun had ducked behind a cloud, but instead I discovered my mom standing over me.

She had her hands on her hips and a frown on her face. “Is that a new suit?”

“Uh huh.”

She pursed her lips. “I hope you’re using sunscreen.”

“I am.”

She sat in an empty lawn chair on the patio. I could tell there was more to the conversation than her concerns about what SPF lotion I was using.

I sat up on the lounger and lifted my sunglasses to my forehead. “What’s up?”

“Are you sure this is the right summer job for you?”

I arched an eyebrow, not sure what she meant. My mom had a habit of dipping her toes into the water before getting to her point.

“I just mean, don’t you think you should be spending the summer before your senior year of college doing something related to your career? Are you really going to put Flower Planter on your résumé?”

There it was.

“I’ve got an internship at the hospital next year.”

“And so does everyone else in your program,” she countered. “What’s going to set you apart?”

“I’ve got time to figure it out.”

“That’s what you think. But I promise you—graduation will be here before you know it—and then what? You don’t even know what kind of nurse you want to be.”

I knew my mom meant well, but I was more than aware of the unpredictability of my future. I didn’t need her piling onto my already monstrous mountain of anxieties.

“Hey, kiddo!” My dad popped his head out of the rear slider door. “You up for a little tennis?”

Thank God.

“Yes.”

I hopped up from the lounge chair, eager to get away from my mom’s interrogation.

I heard her call after me: “This conversation isn’t over, Hunter.”

It wasn’t an empty threat. I knew the questions wouldn’t go away until I had an answer that she deemed acceptable. But, Christ, I was only twenty-years old. Why did I have to have everything figured out?

 

+ +  +

 

I lunged to my right and thrust out my tennis racket just in time to return a particularly challenging ball. The neon green tennis ball lazily looped over the net, forcing my dad to charge from the back line. It barely grazed the white tape before trickling over to his side, bouncing twice before he could reach it.

“Ooh, almost,” I goaded.

“Lucky shot,” he huffed.

I spun the handle of my racket in my hand and grinned. “What’s wrong? Having a hard time keeping up, Old Timer?”

My dad chased after the ball and tossed it over the net for my turn at service. “Watch it,” he cautioned. “The moment you get too cocky is the moment I make my comeback.”

We didn’t belong to any fancy country club or even have a gym membership, but my dad and I had played tennis against each other for as long as I could remember. Even after we moved to the suburbs when my dad got a new job, we still periodically returned to the city to play on the public courts by our old house. 

I bent over and dribbled the ball three times before I arched my back, threw the ball in the air, and swung my racket. The ball whizzed across the net and struck inbounds, but my dad easily returned the volley. 

I hustled to my right and hit a looping shot back over the net.

My dad charged the net and hit my return before it ever had the chance to hit the ground.

“Been on any good dates lately?” His unexpected question came out between puffs of heavy breathing.

I was sure I’d misheard him. “What?”

“Dates. Are you dating?”

In my surprise, I dropped the head of my racket, and the tennis ball sailed past me. 

My dad pumped his fist in the air. “Yes! Score one for me,” he cheered.

“Is this your master plan?” I asked, one hand on my hip. “Distract me by asking about my love life?”

My dad grinned. “It might be the only way I can beat you; I’ll take it.”

“You’re such a cheater,” I grumbled.

I retrieved the ball and tossed it in the air for another serve.

“But really,” my dad began again, “are you dating anyone?”

I swung with too much force and my distracted serve sailed well out of bounds.

“Dad!” I exclaimed.

He held up his hands. “Okay, okay. I’ll stop prying into your life. You probably want to talk to your mom about that kind of stuff anyway, not me.”

“Not either of you,” I corrected.

“Why not?” He looked genuinely perplexed.

“Because!” I shouldn’t have had to explain this to him.

“Alright, I’ll drop it.”

“Thank you.” Thank, God.

I used a small towel to wipe away the sweat on my face. “And, thanks for saving me from mom earlier.”

My dad took his time drinking out of the water bottle he’d brought. “I have no idea to what you’re referring,” he deadpanned. “I only wanted to play tennis today with my favorite daughter.”

“Sure, Dad.”

We played best two-out-of-three, which once my dad stopped asking me relationship questions, I was able to finally concentrate enough to win the first two matches. 

Afterwards, we climbed into my dad’s SUV, sweaty and laughing. Instead of driving back home to the suburbs, however, he slowed and turned into the parking lot of a local coffee shop. 

“I hope you don’t mind the detour,” he said, pulling into a parking spot. 

“I’ve got no place to be,” I shrugged.

The only thing I had to look forward to was reading  another chapter of The Bell Jar and maybe talking to Colette online. 

He grabbed his wallet from the center console and handed me his credit card. “Get me a pound of the breakfast blend, would you?”

I wrinkled my nose. “Me? But I’m all sweaty and gross.”

“So am I.”

I looked toward the coffee shop and the non-stop traffic of people going in and out. “You’re really going to make me go in there, looking like this?”

He smiled serenely. “That’s what we had kids for.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Coffee runs?” My hand curled around the door handle to leave the car, yet I still resisted.

“I’m getting old. Who know how many times you’ll be able to get your Old Man coffee.”

His logic was suspect, but I took off my seatbelt and opened the door anyway. “Fine,” I grumbled.

I didn’t really mind running the errand. And I really didn’t care about being in public after playing two games of tennis. But it annoyed me that even though I’d been away to college for three years that I still got treated like a child when I came home for summer and winter breaks.

I’d grown. I’d matured. But in the eyes of my parents I was still eight-years-old with no free will of my own.

I had little to complain about though. I’d grown up wanting for nothing. My parents were paying for my private college tuition and the rent for my off-campus apartment. The least I could do was buy a bag of coffee for my dad.

I’d only been to Del Sol’s a few times, but I liked the atmosphere. The exposed cream brick of the coffee shop’s interior walls provided a warm, cozy environment. The crowd was eclectic. Men and women in business suits, young moms in athletic wear whose cumbersome baby strollers took up too much space, and students in t-shirts and jeans staring at silver laptops, taking advantage of the complementary WiFi.

Del Sol’s was busy that morning. Baristas rushed around, filling coffee drinks and making breakfast sandwiches for the late morning rush. I waited in a long line, sighing to myself and feeling the sweat dry on my skin as the queue slowly inched forward.

As I continued to observe my surroundings while I waited, the crowds seemed to part. I realized I recognized one of the coffee patrons whom I’d assumed was a student. She sat by herself at one of the small tables.

Professor Graft.

Oh, God. 

There was nothing I could do; I was trapped in line. I couldn’t hurry the indecisive woman in front of me, and I wouldn’t have been able to wiggle out of line and leave without making a scene. I could have told my dad that they’d run out of his favorite kind of coffee, but that would have been an unnecessary lie.

What was she doing there? I wondered. How could she sit there like a regular person?

I’d never seen her in anything but dress clothes—those damn dresses and skirts that tormented my dreams. Now I had a new revelation to add to my daydreams. Elle Graft looked amazing in t-shirts. It was ridiculous really; it was just a standard t-shirt. I probably owned half a dozen myself. But it was so unexpected after always seeing her dressed up, I could hardly keep from staring. Luckily, she was too engrossed in her work to notice.

Despite my anxiety over unexpectedly seeing my crush off-campus, I let myself stare at her from afar, moderately confident that she wouldn’t look in my direction and notice me. She looked deep in thought as she chewed on the end of a pen, staring only at a pad of paper. She was probably the only seated patron without a laptop in front of her.

The olive t-shirt accentuated her early summer tan and left bare her familiar, devastating collarbone. The material was thin enough to show the silhouette of her bra underneath. She was seated, so I couldn’t see her clothes from the waist down. Jeans? Shorts? Running tights? It felt almost too intimate to see her off-campus and in public.

“Are you going to order?”

I blinked at the woman standing behind me. “Sorry?”

“It’s your turn,” she informed me.

I shifted my attention towards the front of the line to discover there was no longer a line in front of me, but the queue behind me was certainly growing longer. I grabbed a bag of whole bean coffee off the counter.

“Just this. Ground, please,” I said to the man at the cash register.

I had to wait another excruciating minute while he ground the beans for a paper filter. The industrial-sized coffee grinder churned loudly. I forced myself to keep my eyes straight ahead and not glance back at Professor Graft.

The barista returned with my dad’s coffee grounds and rang me up at the register. “I know you, right?” 

The man behind the counter was tall and reed thin. His bony shoulders butted through his t-shirt uniform. He could have been about my age, but his facial hair made him look older. I didn’t recognize him from school or elsewhere.

I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

He scratched at a patchy goatee. “You usually order mint mocha, right?”

I tucked the bag of coffee beans under my arm. “Sorry, no.”

“Caramel cappuccino?” 

I shook my head again.

I turned from the cashier and looked toward the exit where my dad waited outside. His detour now seemed fortuitous. Should I go over and say hello? She wasn’t seated on my way out; I would have to make a point to say hi to her in her isolated corner. Yet I’d gone out of my way to crash the English department’s end-of-semester party; why would today be any different?

I made up my mind and smoothed my hands over my ponytail. I didn’t need a mirror to know I’d looked better. As I walked closer to her table, I spied a half-eaten blueberry muffin on a plate and a ceramic coffee cup instead of cardboard, like she intended on staying a while. The rest of the table was empty except her phone, a hardcover book, and a yellow legal pad. She didn’t notice my approach.

When I got close enough, I cleared my throat. “Professor?”

Her eyes bounced from the yellow legal pad up to meet my face.

“Hunter!” She’d been listening to music on her phone and aggressively tugged out the solo ear bud. “How are you?” 

I exhaled. At least she remembered my name. It hadn’t escaped my notice that even though I obsessed about her, I might barely be on her radar—just one of hundreds, probably thousands, of students who had ever taken one of her classes. 

“I’m good, thanks,” I affirmed, bobbing my head. “And you?”

She pushed her long hair out of her face. “Busy. Always busy,” she seemed to sigh. “There’s this myth about teachers getting their summers off.”

I reached for the book on her table, hoping our hands might touch. That’s how intimacy seemed to spark in all of my dreams; what would happen in real life if we happened to touch?

I turned the open book to read its contents. I knew I was being forward by touching her things. “What are you working on?”

Her eyes moved from my hand to my face. “Just a paper for a conference I’m presenting at in the fall.”

I marveled at this woman’s achievements and how much she took it in stride. She taught college, wrote books, and gave conference presentations. Was there anything she couldn’t do?

I softly laughed. “Oh, that’s all.” 

“You play tennis?” 

My eyebrows pinched together. How did she know that? Was she clairvoyant as well? And if so, why didn’t she recognize how much I liked her?

She pointed to my clothes. “Your outfit?” 

I looked down at my ensemble: light blue polo shirt and a short white tennis skirt. Duh. It didn’t take a psychic.

“Right.” 

I wiped at my forehead and re-adjusted the elastic headband that kept my hair out of my eyes. “I just finished playing a few sets with my dad at the courts around the corner,” I explained. “Hence the sweaty mess.”

“Having a good summer so far?” she asked.

The question—while not unusual—took me aback. She didn’t have to talk to me. She didn’t have to fabricate additional conversation when she could have easily sent me on my way. 

“So far,” I nodded, more than happy to keep talking to her. “I’m back home with my parents in the suburbs, so that’s always a challenge.”

She laughed. I loved it when she laughed. “I can only handle my own parents a few days at a time before we’re at each other’s throats.”

I remembered her referencing a strained relationship with her family during one of our paper conferences—how she’d had to go to college in a different state to get away from them. 

“My family is pretty close, I guess, but it takes a while to re-adjust to living under their roof after being on my own all school year.” The longer we talked, the more fidgety I became. I self-consciously toyed with the bottom hem of my tennis skirt. I realized how our roles had reversed; I was the one in a skirt now. I’d been wearing a skirt in one of my more recent dreams as well.

She continued to string out our conversation. “Did you get into all the classes you wanted for next semester?” 

“No,” I sighed. “There’s a waitlist for one of my biology classes.”

Most of my final year would be consumed with a year-long internship at the hospital, but I had a few remaining courses in order to get enough credits to graduate.

“You’re in the nursing program, right?”

My smile couldn’t have gotten bigger. I was amazed she’d remembered a detail like that, considering we’d only spoken about it a few times. “You have a really good memory.”

“It’s what I get paid the big bucks for,” she shrugged.

She’d been doing all the heavy lifting in the conversation up to that point. I did my best to contribute.

“I really like the book, by the way.”

She cocked her head. “Which book?”

My smile faltered. How could she remember my major yet forget that she’d let me borrow one of her books only a few weeks ago? I’d memorized every detail from that night.

“The one you let me borrow.” It felt strange reminding her. “The Bell Jar?”

“Oh, right. I’d nearly forgotten about that.” 

I forced a too-large grin to my face, over-compensating for how much her words disappointed me. “I really like Esther. She’s a little dark, but I think she’s funny.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it so far.”

“When I’m finished, maybe we could meet and talk about it?” I proposed. “If you’re not too busy, I mean.”

I knew I was being desperate. She was being polite—patiently enduring my interruption.

She nodded, but said nothing to commit more than her consent. 

I could feel myself start to fidget again. “I’m sorry to run off, but I have to go; my dad’s waiting out front in the car. I’m just supposed to be grabbing a pound of coffee.” I held up the bag of coffee grounds as if offering evidence that I wasn’t stalking her. “He’s addicted to their breakfast blend.”

She tapped the side of her coffee cup and smiled. “I might have to go to a 12-step program myself.” 

“It was really great running into you, Professor Graft.” 

I began walking backwards in the direction of the exit. I needed to leave before I wore out my welcome. I’d gotten her to non-verbally commit to seeing me again; it was more than I could hope for. 

She smiled pleasantly and brought two fingers to her temple in a mock salute. It was unusual and unexpected and awkward and pretty darn adorable.

“Have a nice summer, Hunter.”

I clutched my dad’s coffee beans to my chest and continued to inch towards the exit. My eyes refused to look in any direction but hers. I didn’t know when next I’d see her, but I hoped it wouldn’t be long.

“You, too,” I returned.

The air rushed out of my lungs, and I made a noise of surprise when I hit something—or someone. My elbow clipped a professionally-dressed man near the coffee shop’s entrance. One minute my eyes were turning into hearts as I admired my professor and the next I was being hit by a linebacker. The force of the blow had me spinning from inertia, and I nearly dropped my dad’s coffee. I secured the coffee grounds first before apologizing to the man.

He looked annoyed at the collision, and I didn’t dare glance in Professor Graft’s direction to see her response. Heat rushed to my cheeks as I pushed out the coffee shop doors. 

God, could I be more awkward?

The barista from before was in the parking lot taking a cigarette break. “Americano?” he tried again.

“No!” I practically yelled.

I tugged open the front passenger side door of my dad’s car. He was listening to the hosts on a sports radio program contemplate the upcoming Vikings season. I dropped the bag of coffee into his lap. 

He started the car once I’d fastened my seatbelt. “Long line?”

I realized he was probably wondering what had taken me so long.

I turned and stared out the window. “Yeah.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER TWELVE

 

 

I knocked on the open door and poked my head inside the room. “Is this a good time?”

“Hah. I knew you’d be back.” She sounded smug, which at her age, she was allowed to be.

I took a step into the room. “Well, you did promise there would be pie.”

Heni beckoned to me with a crooked finger. “Go fetch my walker.”

I had found myself in an empty house on my next day off. My dad was at work, my brother was at a friend’s house, and my mom was off running errands across town. She’d offered to let me tag along, but I’d politely declined. Instead, I drove into the city and steered my car towards Evergreen Landings. I had intended on visiting earlier once the school year had ended, but between my new job and day dreaming about Elle Graft, that hadn’t left time for much of anything.

We meandered down the hallway together. Heni shuffled slowly, hunched over her walker with the tennis balls jammed on its legs. I didn’t mind how long it would take us to travel to the cafeteria, but she looked terribly in pain. I offered to find a wheelchair, but she turned me down.

“If you don’t use it, you lose it,” she’d told me. “You’ll do well to remember that, my dear.”

I hoped we were still talking about legs. 

Heni let herself into the back kitchen even though a sign on the door warned that only staff were allowed beyond that point. The building still smelled like whatever had been on that day’s lunch menu—something that smelled strongly of garlic. The kitchen staff were still cleaning up from lunch service, but the ovens were available until it was time to prepare for dinner.

I expected any of the workers to tell us we weren’t allowed in the kitchen, but Heni seemed to have free reign. No one gave us a second look.

“You’ll find mixing bowls in the lower cabinets, the utensils in the middle drawers, and a pie tin next to the ovens.”

“How do you know where everything is?” I marveled.

“I used to work here until my body wouldn’t let me work anymore.”

“In the kitchen?” I guessed.

She nodded. “It’s ironic, really. I spent most of my adult life cooking for the residents here. And now I’m probably going to die here, too.”

The topic made me uncomfortable, so I brought her attention back to the pie.

“What do I need for ingredients?”

“I made everything from scratch for Frank, but unfortunately, you won’t find any fresh fruit around here. The only fruits and vegetables we get come in a can.” She gestured a frail hand in the direction of a large closet. “The pantry should have something suitable.” 

I opened the pantry door and inspected the impressive stacks and rows of canned food. 

“Kidney beans, chili beans, refried beans, black beans,” I read off the labels. “They feed you a lot of beans, huh?”

“Yes. And bingo night smells terrible because of it,” Heni snarked.

I continued to scan the labels for blueberry pie filling. “I only see cherry pie filling, Heni.”

“Oh, I suppose that will work in a pinch,” she sighed. “But if you really want the boy to come back, make sure it’s blueberry.”

I smiled a private grin. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Despite, or perhaps because of, her age, she’d memorized the recipe. I didn’t possess that kind of skill, so I wrote down all of her directions on a piece of paper while I prepared the pie. Heni had been insistent that she walk to the kitchen, but when it came to making the actual pie, that was my chore. It was the only way I’d learn, she said. 

“The secret’s in the crust. Don’t over mix it, and keep all of your ingredients cold,” she instructed. “The flour, the lard—even the water. Use ice water.”

“Why?”

Her bright blue eyes narrowed. “Because I said so.”

I bit back my grin and wrote it all down. “Yes, Heni.”

 

+ +  +

 

I loaded one last bag of topsoil into the back of Nikole’s pickup truck. My skin was already sweaty and the work day had hardly begun. Dirt clung to my hands and forearms and probably my face, too.

“Is that the last of it?” Gwen asked.

I scanned the immediate area for any other planting supplies or tools we might need for the day. “Looks like it. We just need Nikole, and we’ll be ready to go.”

“She’s probably in the greenhouse,” Gwen said. “If you go grab her, I’ll look up the directions for the first client’s house.”

“Sure thing,” I agreed.

The greenhouse’s screen door slammed behind me as I entered. I winced at its jarring sound. The captured humidity of the structure hit me nearly as hard as the door had shut.

“Nikole?” I called out when I didn’t immediately see her.

The greenhouse wasn’t very large, but the juvenile perennials were in full bloom. Perched in their planters and situated on top of the work tables, most of the potted flowers were taller than me and obscured my view.

“Back here, Hunter,” I heard Nikole’s voice.

I found her in a back corner, tending to a long row of two dozen or so miniature terra cotta pots. Most of the containers were so small they couldn’t have held more than a tablespoon of dirt. Tiny plants poked out of the equally tiny pots. The shoots were a variety of shapes and colors, most a variant of mint green.

Nikole looked deeply focused; I hovered a few feet away, not wanting to interrupt. “Gwen and I have the truck all packed up,” I announced.

Nikole continued to tend to the mini plants. “Thanks. I just need to finish this up, and then we can go.”

I took a few steps closer and leaned down to get a better look. I squinted at the tiny terra cotta pots. I’d never seen a properly potted plant so small before. 

“Are those baby cacti?” 

“Succulents,” she corrected. “It’s a common misconception. All cacti are succulents, but not all succulents are cacti.”

“They’re adorable,” I decided.

“I know, right? My girlfriend brought them back from California for me.”

My head snapped up. Wait. Was Nikole gay? 

Her mater-of-fact statement hung in the air like the greenhouse’s humidity. Was she testing me? Did she know that maybe I was gay, too? 

Were all lesbians so lovely? Nikole was tall and thinly muscled. Thick dark hair that she always wore in a high ponytail or a braid. Her skin had a natural olive tone that deepened under the summer sun. She had one of the largest, most contagious grins I’d ever encountered. She smiled with her whole face; her dark brown eyes crinkled at the corners while white, even teeth took over the bottom half of her face.

I wanted to ask more questions, but she had mentioned having a girlfriend with such casualness that I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. Maybe it was only a friend who happened to be a girl. I half considered asking if she knew Elle Graft, but I didn’t want to insult her—as if all gay women knew each other.

“Are they full grown?” I asked instead.

“No, these are the babies. But they’ll stay this size if you keep trimming them down. They propagate like crazy,” she noted. “One plant could potentially turn into hundreds of other little plants.”

“Wow. For real?”

She picked up one of the taller succulents. It looked like an aloe plant, only with rounded, bubble-like leaves. “Like this little one. It’s starting to look a little leggy.” She ran her fingertip over the ends of the lower stems. “When it gets a little bigger, I’ll pluck these lower stems off, lay them out to dry, and each little stem will turn into a whole new plant. If you leave the lower stems on, they’ll eventually wither up and die, so you’ve got to stay on top of trimming.”

“That’s amazing.”

She hummed in agreement. “Remind me when we get back today, and I’ll give you one for your dorm room.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” I rejected. 

“Soak the soil about once a week,” she instructed, ignoring my attempt to refuse her generosity. “They can go for long periods without water, but they still need water, sun, and soil just like any other plant. Which one do you like the best?”

I picked up one of the tiny potted plants. It looked like a fully bloomed rose, but it was green all over.

Nikole cocked her head in thought. “They’re actually kind of perfect dorm room plants. Hardy little buggers. I should talk to my college contact and see if she can get me an in.”

“Is this the same person who hung the job posters?”

Nikole nodded. “You might actually know her. She teaches—.”

The greenhouse screen door slammed shut. “You ladies done gossiping in here?” Gwen asked, hands on her hips. “Need I remind you, we get paid by the job, not the hour.”

“Are you the boss, or me?” Nikole challenged with a playful grin. 

“Actually, I’m the forewoman today,” I chimed in. “So I’m kind of the boss.”

Nikole’s dark eyes glittered. “Someone’s getting awfully comfortable around here.”

I cleared my throat. “Gwen’s right though; we’d better do some actual work today.”

I couldn’t afford to get too comfortable around Nikole, especially if she had a girlfriend. It would be just my luck to have a crush on two women who were out of my league.  

 

+ + +

 

The tiny potted succulent that Nikole had gifted me sat on the desk in my bedroom, next to my laptop. Downstairs, my mom was slaving over the stove for another family dinner my dad would show up late to; Brian was playing video games in his bedroom; while I composed the most important e-mail of my life.

Colette’s refusal to be ignored chimed through the speakers of my laptop. I could have signed out of my messenger account, but she would have only nagged me worse when I eventually returned. I should have never told her I was writing Elle an e-mail.

I wasn’t sure when it had happened, but at some point during the summer, Professor Graft had become Elle. She was no longer my instructor, and I’d have no reason to take another of her classes, yet in a similar situation I would have never referred to other instructors by anything but their title. Maybe it had been seeing her off-campus and being in her home or talking to her at Del Sol without her battle armor on that had given my brain permission to think of her as simply Elle.

Professor Graft was kind and serious. It was clear she worked hard to be an effective teacher. She wore pencil skirts and high heels, and her chestnut hair fell is perfect waves around her perfectly lovely face. She wore pearl necklaces and probably ate organic food and went to Pilates.

Elle wore t-shirts and jeans. She didn’t bother with her hair and she liked ponytails and messy buns. She ate peanut butter out of the container with a spoon and preferred flip-flops over high heels. She drank beer on the weekends, and her favorite item of clothing was a tattered sweatshirt she’d had since high school.

I knew none of these things. I’d earned glimpses into her private life and had filled in the blanks with the things I wanted to be true. She was both of those women and neither.

I looked over my rough draft. Each word had to be spelled correctly with no stylistic or grammar mistakes. She was an English professor; she would notice those errors more than anybody else. But even more so than dotting my I’s and crossing my T’s, this was my only opportunity to reconnect and make sure I saw her again. Anything else—dropping by her house or even her campus office—would have felt too forward, too intrusive.

My lips moved as I silently read the e-mail another time:

 

Hi Professor Graft,

 

I just finished your book, and I wanted to know how you wanted me to give it back to you.  I won’t be on campus much this semester because it’s my senior year and I have an internship at the hospital, but I could drop it off at your house or bring it by your campus office. 

I’m sorry it’s taken me so long—I’m really not this slow of a reader.  I’m hoping you’re still interested in talking with me about The Bell Jar when you have some time. I really enjoyed it. Thank you for the recommendation.

I hope your summer went well—even if you had work to do.

- Hunter Dyson

 

The e-mail had gone through several drafts to get to this point. I still wasn’t entirely satisfied with it, but I did like the final line that alluded to our brief conversation at the coffee shop. It was like we had an inside joke or common point of reference.

I stared at the one sentence that was giving me pause: I could drop it off at your house or bring it by your campus office. Was that being too presumptuous? Would she think I was crossing a line by reminding her that I’d been in her house before? 

I took a break from the draft and scanned through Colette’s noisy plea to be allowed to read at least a rough draft of my e-mail. As I’d ignored her, the instant messages had piled up:

I can help. I have very good English.

Why won’t you let me help?

Please.

I did research on this kind of thing. Let me read it, at least. 

s’il tu plait.

The tone of her messages turned from helpful to frustrated.

Come on!

Stop ignoring me.

Where are you? Did you send it yet?

Hunter, damn it.

The final pleas became more apologetic.

I’m sorry. I’m being too pushy. 

This is your life, so you should write it.

But, please?

My response was brief and to the point: No.

 

 

I returned to my rough draft and read over it for the hundredth time. It was ironic that she was the professor who had helped me fine-tune drafts of my college essays, yet this was one piece of writing I couldn’t go to her for feedback.

Should I include my full name in the signature? I second-guessed myself and erased the Dyson. How many other Hunters did she know? But did that sound too informal, even though I wanted to be informal? I triple-guessed myself and typed in my last name again.

It was torture that I continued to think about her. I’d long finished The Bell Jar and had even checked out a few books of Plath’s poetry, but I’d yet to e-mail her back that I’d completed the book. It was partly self-preservation. I knew it was wildly unlikely that she might think of me as anything but a timid, underperforming, former student. 

I might be able to surprise her with my insight if I read all the available Spark Notes on the subject, but would it realistically go any further than that? Maybe the smart thing would be to drop the book off in her faculty mailbox on campus, and I’d never have to think about her or those distracting legs again—the safe thing at least, especially for my heart.

I held my breath while my index finger hovered over my trackpad.

Finally, I hit Send.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

 

 

My mom flopped down on my bed. “Big plans for today?” she asked.

“Not really.”

Outside, the sky was dark and a light rain struck against my bedroom windows. We didn’t garden on the days it rained. 

“You should call up some your friends and do something before the school year starts,” she suggested. “Order some pizzas, watch movies. It could be like a good old-fashioned sleepover.”

“None of my friends are from here, Mom. They’re all back home.”

I’d had this conversation with her several times. I wondered what she would say if she knew my only friend in town was a salty octogenarian named Heni.

“What about Sara? You don’t talk about her much.”

“She’s busy taking summer classes so she can graduate a semester early.”

My mom looked impressed. “That’s awfully ambitious. Probably saved her parents a few thousand dollars.”

I hummed, but I didn’t qualify my mom’s observation. Sara was actually paying her own way through college so her parents had no ammunition to guilt her into coming home over school breaks.

I didn’t really understand her aversion to her parents. They lived on the same street as my parents so I often saw them working in their yard or on their way to and from work. I’d never had a lengthy conversation with either of her parents, but they’d seemed genuine and personable in our brief interactions. But I didn’t pry into Sara’s life, and she didn’t offer up why she was so desperate to get away. It had become even more transparent in recent years that she was counting down the days until graduation so she could get a head-start on the rest of her life, presumably some place far, far away from her parents and this town.

“Do you want to go to the mall?” my mom asked. “We could get you some back-to-school clothes. My treat.”

I wrinkled my nose at the suggestion. Her phrasing sounded like she wanted to buy me a lunchbox to match my backpack. Maybe a pencil box and a Trapper Keeper. I hated shopping in general, but especially with my mom. She would drag me into one store after another to try on outfits that weren’t my style. We most definitely did not share a clothing aesthetic. She wanted me in dresses and skirts when I was far more at ease in t-shirts and jeans.

“No thanks. I don’t really need new clothes. I’ll be living in scrubs next year.” And basically the rest of my working life, I realized.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, but thanks for the offer.”

She hesitated, jangling her car keys in one hand. I should have gone along—I knew she would have appreciated a girls’ day, just the two of us, but I couldn’t muster the fake enthusiasm needed to not start a fight. I knew what would happen; I’d be low energy, and she would complain about why she’d even brought me there in the first place, we’d fight and then not talk for the rest of the day.

“Well, okay. I hate to see you moping around the house. You’re either at work or on your computer in your room. You should go out and have some fun before school starts.”

“I will, Mom. Have fun at the mall.”

The house was silent with her departure. Brian had a summer job at the country club as a golf caddy, and my dad wouldn’t be home from work until he showed up late for dinner.

I made myself a sandwich in the kitchen and took it back upstairs to my room. I sat on my bed and, out of habit, opened my laptop and e-mail program like I’d done so many times, waiting for an e-mail response that still hadn’t come. During the academic year, Elle responded to messages well within twenty-four hours. I couldn’t understand the delay. She might have been out of town—maybe on vacation or visiting family—but did people really ever go off the grid? I might not have been as technology savvy or social media obsessed as other people my age, but I still checked my e-mail at least once a day, even during family vacations.

What could have changed since I’d seen her at Del Sol?

I left my uneaten sandwich on my dresser and grabbed my car keys. I didn’t have a destination in mind, but I couldn’t stick around the empty house and torture myself by waiting for an e-mail that might never come.

 

+ + +

The public library was quiet for a summer afternoon. There were no after-school programs going on and no storybook readings to bring children into the library. Some older individuals worked at computer stations, quietly typing and browsing the internet, competing only with the periodic bluster of the HVAC system.

The librarian behind the circulation desk was a pretty redhead who looked to be only a few years older than me. I thought she might be new, not that I was a regular patron. She wore a cardigan draped over her shoulders and a button-up silk shirt. Her skin was predictably pale with a splash of freckles across her nose that made her appear younger than she probably was. She probably got carded when she tried to buy alcohol.

I set the thin novel on the circulation desk along with my library card. She made no comment about my book selection, but went to the work of recording my name in a computer database.

“Have you read this book?” I asked.

She looked at the cover again. “Second Chances? No. It doesn’t sound familiar.”

“It’s a lesbian novel,” I blurted out.

I’d smuggled the novel back into the library only to properly check it out. It was the closest thing I’d done to Coming Out to someone besides Colette.

I saw the edge of her mouth twitch. She stamped the inside cover. “The book’s due in two weeks.”

I grabbed the book off of the front desk and shoved it into my open backpack—the same backpack I’d used to steal the book in the first place.

After my awkward declaration, I couldn’t bring myself to look her in the eye.

“Thanks,” I mumbled.

+ + +

“I had lunch with Beth today. I told her about you. About us.”

Reagan looked surprised. “You did? What did you tell her?”

“I admit I met up with her at first to make sure she knew how important discretion is. If my parents found out…”

“I know,” Reagan sighed, cutting her off. “You don’t have to explain it to me again. I get it.”

Allison examined the other girl’s face. “But I realized something,” she said softly. “After talking to Beth I realized how relieved I was that somebody knew; that I didn’t have to keep this a secret anymore.” She grabbed Reagan’s hands and brought her knuckles to her lips. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a very long time. And I’m so sorry I’m not brave enough to shout it from the mountaintops. You deserve so much better than me.”

I closed the pages of my no-longer-contraband book and set it on my lap.

After my trip to the local library, I hadn’t wanted to go home yet. The day was still grey and rainy, so I drove into the city to the one place that never failed to put me in a good mood.

I had grown up in the city, and trips to the local aquarium had been habitual, especially during school breaks when my parents hadn’t known what to do with my brother and me when there wasn’t homework to fill our spare time.

It was a modest-sized aquarium, appropriately sized for our modest city. We couldn’t boast of any whales or dolphins or belugas, but we had an octopus, an old sea turtle, and plenty of fish. The most popular area was the touch pool where kids could poke and prod terrified stingrays, sea cucumber, and starfish.

My favorite section of the building was a small display that featured sea creatures indigenous to Australia. I had never really traveled anywhere in my life, and the island continent was just about as far away as I could image a person being from the northern Midwest. 

I smiled at the mothers who walked with their small children in tow, but I knew the smile wouldn’t really reach my eyes. It was an instinctual, forced behavior rather than genuine. Make eye contact. Smile at people, even strangers. Don’t take up too much space. Part of it was the Golden Rule, but a larger part was probably the result of my parents’ influence. 

I sighed loudly, knowing that I was the only patron in earshot. Another of my parents’ instructions—don’t show emotion in public. Save those feelings for behind private doors.

I stood from the bench to stand before the smallish tank that contained my favorite aquarium resident, Sam the cuttlefish. He hovered gracefully in his underwater prison. His strange W-shaped eyes stared straight ahead, not registering my presence, yet I knew their unique shape allowed them to see in front of them and behind them at the same time.

I wondered what he thought about his life. Had he been born in captivity? Did he know the difference between the pull of the ocean current and the filter on his tank? Did he know there were others like him—hundreds or thousands, probably—or did he think he was the only one of his kind?

Was he lonely?

A defiant stray tear escaped a tear duct. I quickly brushed it away before anyone could walk by and notice. I slipped my sunglasses off my forehead to settle on the bridge of my nose. 

It was time I stopped obsessing. It was time I forgot about Elle Graft. It was time I moved on.

 

+ + +

 

I stared at the green painted door. There were no windows and no signage on the building. The parking lot was practically empty and the sidewalk in front of the building was barren—no patio furniture, no patrons. A rusted coffee can served as both a cigarette butt trashcan and a doorstop to prop open the front entrance. Only the black-and-white sticker decals on the door, listing the street address—501—told me I was in the right place.

I smoothed my hands down the front of my battle armor—a button-up buffalo check flannel shirt, paired with knee-high leather boots and skinny jeans.

“Here goes nothing,” I muttered to no one.

The door pushed silently open. I made a face when the stale odor of old cigarette smoke hit my nostrils. Bars in Minnesota had gone smoke free long ago, so the stench of cigarettes was either trapped in the paint and the carpet or no one cared about breaking the law. 

I was surprised to have made it that far. There’d been no one to check my ID when I first entered the bar. I had been expecting at least a record scratch when I walked in, but none of the bar’s sparsely populated patrons paid me notice.

The next obstacle was the lone bartender—a pale woman with jet black hair. Tattoos peppered her bare arms, visible beneath her black tank top. She stood behind the long, central bar laughing with some of the bar’s other patrons. 

I leaned against the bar top and shifted my weight from one foot to the next. The bartender hadn’t noticed my presence, and I wasn’t quite sure how to catch her attention. Should I wave money in the air? Clear my throat loudly? I didn’t want to stick out more than I already did, and I didn’t want to be rude, but I didn’t know what to do. I’d only ever been to one bar before, but I doubted the bar at the supper club my family frequented actually counted.

I stood patiently, wide-eyed and taking everything in. Unoccupied pool tables crowded the front of the bar. A vacant dance floor, another empty space with dart boards on the wall, and the bar itself took up the remainder of the space. Table tents describing upcoming events and drink specials reassured lingering doubts that I was in the right place—Peggy’s—which, according to the internet, was the only gay bar in the area.

“Who you trying to kid?”

A woman sat a few barstools away from me. She cradled a nearly empty pint glass.

I turned my head to the right and to my left; I wasn’t sure she was talking to me.

“Sorry?”

Her voice was a low, gravelly rasp. “Who you trying to kid?” she repeated.

I wasn’t sure what she was asking, but she stared at me as if expecting an answer.  

I didn’t have one, so I left.

 

 

Hot tears of embarrassment stung my eyes as I blindly drove back to my parents’ home in the suburbs. I was never going to figure this out. I was never going to meet a nice girl. I was going to die a virgin. Maybe I’d become a nun. I wasn’t even Catholic, but I’d probably get more action at a convent than how I was faring in the real world.

Who are you trying to kid?

The confrontation had rattled me. Maybe she’d been calling me out for being under-aged and trying to get served at the bar. But more than questioning my age, it had felt like she had been questioning my sexuality.

You’re not really gay, she seemed to be saying. You don’t belong here. 

Everyone was already asleep by the time I got home, so thankfully I didn’t have to explain where I’d been or why my eyes looked like I’d been crying. My clothes and my hair smelled like cigarette smoke even though I’d been in the bar for all of five minutes. I washed my face, changed into pajamas, and locked myself in my bedroom.

Elle’s copy of The Bell Jar was on my desk. I thought about burning it in the bonfire in the backyard. I thought about tearing out each page, one by one, to purge myself of her. But as I held the well-loved book in my frustrated hands, I couldn’t bring myself to damage something she so obviously esteemed. I threw the book into the top drawer of my desk so I wouldn’t have to look at it—out of sight, but not out of mind.

Why hadn’t she e-mailed me back? Why didn’t she want her book back? Why didn’t she want me?

I fell onto my bed and opened my laptop. I was too emotional to be tired, but I needed a distraction. Colette was reliably online. I could always count on Colette.

Hey, I messaged her. 

You’re back early, she observed. 

It didn’t go as planned. Understatement of the year.

Do you want to video chat? she asked.

I put on a brave front. No. Everyone’s asleep, and I don’t want to wake them up. I’ll be okay.

Offer’s always out there.

I know. And thank you.

I waited for Colette to carry the conversation like she normally did, but my instant messenger window remained unchanged. 

Just ask, I told her. I know it’s killing you.

THANK GOD. WHAT HAPPENED AT THE LESBIAN BAR??

In another situation, her all-caps response would have had me laughing. 

There was no point in lying. I chickened out. I saw a lesbian and ran the other way.

That’s not how you’re supposed to do this, she observed.

This idea was doomed before I even got there, I complained. The bar scene isn’t for me, Colette. I’m not even 21.

Why don’t you go online? she suggested. That’s how everyone finds a date these days.

I wrinkled my nose at the proposal. Go trolling in a chatroom? No thanks.

Are you from this century? Just make a dating profile.

I immediately rejected her idea. No way.

Do you want a girlfriend?

I exhaled noisily. I don’t know what I want.

Elle Graft, but that wasn’t happening.

You still like girls, right? she posed.

Yeah. I guess.

It was more like girl in the singular.

Make a dating profile and see what happens, she insisted. You don’t even have to meet them IRL. Just flirt a little online. It might be good practice. 

IRL?

In Real Life. Damn, you really are a grandma.

I’m new to this! I defended myself.

Which is exactly why you need a profile, she prodded. You don’t want to go on a date and have no idea how any of this works, do you?

Colette was making too much sense, which meant I definitely needed to go to bed. Nothing good could happen at that late hour. 

I’m going to bed, I announced.

That’s a good plan. Sleep on it. Things will look clearer in the morning.

Good night, Colette, I signed off. 

Fais de beaux rêves.

 

+ + +

 

My morning routine was the same regardless if school was in-session or if I was at home on break. I dragged myself to my desk to check my e-mail first thing, even before I’d had coffee or had brushed my teeth. That morning I woke up to one new message in my inbox, but it wasn’t from the woman I wanted to hear from. The e-mail was from Colette, which I thought unusual. We hardly e-mailed anymore; the bulk of our written communication came through instant messenger.

The subject line read: I made you a profile.

I clicked through to the e-mail to discover a hyperlink and password. My heart lodged in my throat as I clicked on the link. My inbox minimized in favor of the landing page of a GLBTQ dating site. 

No. She wouldn’t have done that. Would she? 

With growing trepidation, I entered the log-in information she’d provided.

The next page loaded more slowly than the first. A thumbnail picture of my smiling face appeared next to a brief paragraph of text:

Hi! My name is Hunter, and I’m a 20 y/o nursing student. I’m new to this whole thing (being gay and online dating)!

Likes: cats, running, breakfast food, and Sylvia Plath.

Let’s meet up for coffee and talk about books.

Fuck!

I opened my messaging program and slammed the keys on my laptop: I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU.

Good morning, Colette replied. I see you got my e-mail.

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE.

It’s a placeholder. You can change whatever you don’t like. But you have messages already; turns out I’m pretty good at this.

I started my frantic reply, but my video chat program jingled with an incoming call from Colette. 

“Cats, Sylvia Plath, and breakfast food?” I hissed, well aware that the rest of the house was probably awake.

“Lesbians like cats and books. And if you talk about breakfast food, it’ll make them think about spending the night and making you breakfast the next morning.” She wiggled her dark eyebrows for effect.

“How are you suddenly the expert on all things gay?”

“I googled it.”

“Colette, you have to take that thing down.”

“Why?” she whined. “I worked so hard on it!”

“Because I don’t want a bunch of strangers looking at my picture!”

“Pictures get you more interest,” she stated matter-of-factly. “If you don’t have a picture, they’ll think you’re cat-fishing them.”

“I can’t have a profile, period. What if my parents found out?”

“I didn’t realize your family was into online lesbian dating.”

“You know what I mean,” I said heatedly. “This will get back to them somehow.”

“You have to tell them at some point,.”

“I know. But I’m only just figuring this out for myself. You have to give me more time,” I implored.

Even through the pixelated image, I could tell Colette was disappointed. “I was just trying to help.”

“I know you are,” I tried gently. “But this is something I’ve got to do for myself.”

“I won’t delete it, but I’ll take it offline,” she compromised. “And then when you’re ready, you’ll have a profile all ready to go.”

The weight on my chest lightened. “Okay. I can agree to that.”

A sharp knock on my bedroom door had me jerking alert. “Hunter, get a move on if you want waffles before work.”

“Okay, Mom!” I yelled back. 

I returned my attention to my laptop and Colette. “You promise you’ll deactivate it?”

“I promise,” she grumbled.

“And you won’t start messaging people on my behalf?” I warned.

Colette’s features split into a playful grin. “Well, now you’re just giving me ideas.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

 

 

“I’ve never …”

“No?”

The blonde woman shook her head. “Not with a girl.”

Her brunette counterpart smiled. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

“I’m not.” The blonde sat up straighter, back erect.

The brunette’s mouth twisted into a knowing smile. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“You didn’t,” the blonde insisted in that same stubborn tone. “I just wanted you to know. In case you had … expectations.”

“I’m not expecting anything,” the brunette tried to assure.

The blonde looked away, but only briefly. She seemed to be summoning her courage before doing the thing she’d been dreaming about for uncountable nights. She set her palms flat on the twin mattress and leaned closer to the other woman.

The brunette wet her lips when she noticed the tilt of the blonde’s body. She shifted on the mattress, resulting in a noticeable creak.

The blonde ducked her head, as if having second-thoughts or at least showing her anxiety about what they were about to do.

The brunette reached for the woman with her nearest hand. The other remained firmly clutching the top of the white comforter. Her fingertips brushed through cornsilk-soft hair. She fiddled with a thick lock between her thumb and forefinger.

The blonde surged forward, and their mouths—finally—connected. Quiet, wet noises filled my ears. The kisses were soft; only their mouths touched. Neither woman appeared brave enough to heighten the intimacy of the exchange.

My chest tightened when the blonde slowly reached for the attractive brunette. Her hand hung in the air and slowly narrowed the distance between their bodies before falling onto a covered breast. The brunette’s throaty approval rattled in my ears.

My eyes skipped from the screen of my laptop to my closed bedroom door. Had that been a knock?

“Hunter?”

I tugged the earbuds from my ears. “Yeah?”

The doorknob rattled. My mom’s voice carried through the closed door. “Why is this door locked?” 

I quickly closed the browser window and shut my laptop even though she couldn’t get into my room. “Brian was annoying me, so I locked him out.”

I hated all of the lies, but what was I supposed to tell her—the truth? Sorry mom, I was just checking out some lesbian porn, and it was getting pretty heated, so I didn’t want you to walk in on me.

Nope.

“Do you want to go for a walk before dinner?” she asked.

I glanced at my laptop. “I’m pretty tired,” I excused.

“Just around the block,” my mom quantified. “I’ve been cooped up all day.”

“Fine,” I sighed. “Give me a second to change, and I’ll be right down.”

I listened for the footsteps on the staircase before returning to my laptop. As much as I wanted to bookmark the video to check it out later when all the house had gone to sleep, self-preservation kicked in. I took an extra moment to clear my browser history, cookies, and cache. I didn’t want anyone in my family to accidentally discover the truth on my laptop. I would tell them when I was ready.

 

 

My mom walked at a brisk pace. The sun was high in the afternoon sky, and with minimal trees to shade the street, I began to work up a sweat after only a few minutes of walking. My parents’ neighborhood had been zoned specifically as a subdivision where houses of equitable value would be built. Everyone had the same size lot with an attached garage that added to the hegemony of the neighborhood. There was little architectural diversity with the exception of what color door each house had. 

Kids played basketball on an above-ground hoop or rode around in small packs on their bikes and razor scooters. Young children played in their front yards, running and squealing through sprinklers while dads in long shorts mowed lawns and moms in yoga pants weeded flower gardens. The neighborhood was solidly upper-middle class, but not so affluent that people didn’t do their own yard work. Nikole’s landscaping company wouldn’t have found business in my parents’ subdivision. 

“Senior year,” my mom said in lieu of a conversation starter.

“Yup.”

“You must be excited.”

“Not particularly,” I said in truth. 

I was eager to get back to school so I would no longer be under the watchful eyes of my parents, but I wasn’t in any hurry to graduate. There was too much I didn’t have figured out yet.

“Is this a delayed reaction from high school?”

I turned my head. “What?”

“You never rebelled in high school,” she explained. “Everyone says that high schoolers are like toddlers all over again. I kept waiting for it to happen, but it never did. Not even when we made you go to a different school when your dad got his new job.”

“And you think I’m rebelling now?” I questioned, arching an eyebrow.

“I can’t pretend that I haven’t noticed you’ve been moodier than usual.”

She let the observation hang in the air.

“I was your age once, you know. I was married with kids,” she qualified, “but I was twenty once, too. You know you can talk to me, right?”

My mom and I were similarly built—taller than average with long limbs and lean lines. We had the same shade of blonde hair and the same grey-blue eyes. But beyond our appearances, we had little in common. She’d married my dad while still in college and had never really had a career beyond being a stay-at-home mom. I knew she supported my desire to have more than that, but like most moms of a certain age, she was also concerned about me one day giving her grandbabies.

“I’m okay, Mom.”

“You haven’t been yourself,” she reiterated.

“Everything is fine,” I insisted.

“Do you want to talk to someone? Like a professional?”

I nearly stopped walking. “You mean a shrink?” 

“It’s not a big deal,” she readily dismissed. “Lots of people go to therapy when they’re going through something.”

“Have you ever?” I questioned. 

Her features pinched beneath her oversized sunglasses. “Well, no. But I’m sure people do it all the time.”

“I’m really okay, Mom,” I resisted. “I guess I’m at a crossroad in my life—lots of things to think about going into my last year of college.”

I’d been so consumed by deciphering my sexuality that details like what kind of nurse I wanted to be had slipped to the backburner. It was unlike me to keep putting off such an important life-decision.

“You don’t talk about your friends. Or boys. Do you date?” she continued to press. “I don’t even know if it’s appropriate of me to be asking. I just want to know what’s going on in your life. I want you to let me in.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” I insisted. “I’m not dating anyone.”

“But you want to, right?” 

“I guess,” I said, noncommittally.

We walked for a while without speaking. Our tennis shoes crunched on loose rocks on the paved road.

“You’ve always had it together,” my mom said. “Even when you were little, I never had to worry about you. You made parenting easy. Slept through the night right away, ate everything on your plate. You weren’t fussy. Your brother on the other hand …” she chuckled. “It’s a good thing we had you first and not him, otherwise he’d be an only child.”

I knew all she wanted was to be included in the conversation. But I couldn’t tell her what was going on in my life because not even I knew what was happening. I was thankful for the reflective sunglasses that covered my eyes. It was far easier to school my features than to hide the tears forming in the corners of my eyes.

I’d had a crush on a girl, but what did that mean? Was I officially gay now? Did I have to put a rainbow sticker on my car? Or did I have to go on an actual date first or maybe even kiss a girl to determine something like that? Plenty of people knew they were straight without having ever been intimate with someone of the opposite sex.

I cleared my throat. “As soon as I’m dating someone special, Mom, you’ll be the first person I tell,” I vowed.

My mom rewarded the little allowance with a brilliant smile. “I know I pry into your life. I know I get on you. But I worry. Just because you’re out of the house doesn’t mean I stop being your mom. I still worry about you, just as if you were still in first grade. Is she making friends? Are the other kids being nice? Did she do well on the spelling test?” She sighed loudly. “You’ll have kids someday, and then you’ll know—then you’ll understand what it’s like to be me.”

“God help me if that day ever comes,” I chuckled.

 

+ + +

 

We ate a lot of salads in the summer. The local farmer’s market was abundant, and my mom didn’t like to use the oven. It heated up the whole house and triggered the air conditioner, which my parents normally reserved for the lone summer week it actually got above 80 degrees.

I was nearly finished with my dinner by the time my dad made it home. He said his hellos and made a typical apology for why he was yet again late.

“Are we all on a diet?” he asked, surveying the dining room and loosening his tie.

“I’ve got beef patties in the refrigerator if you want to grill something,” my mom said. “I was saving them for tomorrow though.”

“I’m just kidding. I could probably stand to lose some L-Bs.” My dad slapped at his stomach which had begun to droop over the waistband of his pants in recent years.

The legs of his chair screeched as he sat down at the head of the table. “Brian, could you pass me some of that rabbit food?”

“If you don’t want salad, there’s an entire kitchen full of food.” My mom’s tone had been accommodating before, but now she sounded annoyed.

“I’m only kidding, Ellen.” My dad lifted his voice with a cheerful lilt. “How was everybody’s day?” 

His question was met with a collective murmur of fines and okays.

“Brian, I ran into Coach Stevens on my lunch break. He says the football team is in dire need of a running back this season.”

Brian pushed around the few remaining spring greens on his plate with his fork. “I’m running cross-country, Dad.”

“I know, I know. But wouldn’t you rather run through someone than run through a cross-country course?”

“Not really,” my brother mumbled.

“You know I’m not comfortable with Brian playing football,” my mom chastised. “You hear all those stories these days about concussions leading to brain damage later in life.”

“CTE,” I chimed in like an automated robot. “Leads to memory loss, aggression, depression, impulse control issues and sometimes suicidal behavior.”

“See? Listen to your daughter,” my mom said. “She’s a nurse; she knows about these things.”

My dad laughed pleasantly. “Looks like I’m outnumbered again.” 

“I need you to reseed the lawn over the weekend,” my mom announced, changing the subject. Our conversation had probably become too confrontational for her. “I’ve told Doug Johnson he needs to keep his dog on a leash, but there’s yellow spots all over the yard.”

“Can I be excused?” I blurted out.

I could feel three pairs of eyes on me, but I didn’t care.

I wanted to scream. Was this what marriage was like? Was this what happened when two people had been together for so long that they no longer had anything to talk about than grass seed and yardwork?

I might not have had everything figured out, but I knew I didn’t want this.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

 

“You’re so tan!” Meghan squealed. She threw her arms around me and pulled me in for a crushing hug.

“Hi,” I laughed, accepting the aggressive embrace. “I missed you, too.”

Meghan held me at arm’s length. “Damn, girl; I should have gotten a gardening job, too.” She stuck out her lower lip. “I didn’t see the sun all summer.”

“Yeah, but your bank account must be pretty happy from all those tips you made,” I countered.

“God, I can’t wait to graduate,” Meghan sighed. “I’ll never have to waitress again.” She draped her arm around my shoulders as we walked towards our pick-up spot. “The food-service industry isn’t so bad, but my parents are slave drivers. I’m glad I went to college for the simple fact of never having to work at my family’s restaurant again.”

At a distance, I waved at Taylor, Erica, and Cheryl, who, like a handful of my classmates, were waiting in the main campus parking lot. The college provided transportation to the hospital for our nursing internship. For a full semester, we would be spending the first half of our day at the hospital and then return for afternoon classes.

My friends and I exchanged hugs and pleasantries, and I realized how much I’d missed my cohort and how excited I was to be back. Senior year of college came with a lot of emotional baggage. As much as I hated to admit it, my mom was probably right—the year would be over before I knew it and then I’d have to actually live in the real world, not my academic bubble. I mentally vowed in that moment that I wouldn’t waste this opportunity. We still had coursework and the NCLEX exam to prepare for, but I wanted to enjoy my friends and my final year of college.

My friends and I climbed into one of the eleven-passenger vans. Two vans would be traveling to the local hospital—one filled with nursing students and the other with pre-med students. 

Meghan and I scrambled to the very back bench like kids on a school bus. She held my hand in an innocent, but overly familiar gesture.

Taylor, sitting in the bench in front of us, turned around in her seat. “How was your summer, Hunter? Did you do anything fun?”

I thought about the emotional rollercoaster of the past few months. I was starting the new academic year with confidence that I’d be too busy with my hospital internship to think about girls—one in particular. I still had the dating profile Colette had made for me, but something had me holding back from activating it. It could have been from fear that my parents or someone they knew would see it. But if I started actively seeking out other women, did that mean I had totally given up on Elle?

“It was fine,” I shrugged. “Just worked a lot. Nothing too exciting.”

Professor Donnally—head of the pre-med program—stuck his head into our van. “Do you have room for one more? The other van is full.”

“There’s room back here!” Meghan hollered near my ear.

A boy whom I didn’t recognize climbed through the open sliding door and climbed to the back of the van. He scaled unsteadily over stretched-out legs and backpacks that had been tossed into the aisle.

“Sorry,” he mumbled an apology when he nearly sat on my lap.

“It’s okay,” I said.

He crossed his arms across his chest and held his legs close together. It was a tight fit on the back bench, and it was clear he was trying to take up as little space as possible. 

Meghan leaned across me to address the new passenger. “Benjamin, right?” 

He nodded. “Uh huh.”

“I’m Meghan,” she introduced. She jerked her thumb in my direction, nearly hitting my face: “And this is Hunter.” 

He smiled tightly and gave us a quick wave.

The drive to the hospital took no time at all. I didn’t even have enough time to get nervous before we were climbing out of the van and walking through the front entrance of the hospital.

I took in everything as the automatic doors closed behind me. The vastness of the lobby. The height of the ceiling. The sunlight spilling through giant windows. The faces of the staff as they rushed around. I’d obviously been in hospitals before—I’d broken my arm when I was much younger, and I could remember visiting my grandma when she’d gotten sick—but there something decidedly different about walking in and knowing that I’d be working there for at least the next year.

My gaze lifted to the ceiling when a voice boomed over the hospital intercom: “Paging Doctor Elliott. Doctor Elliott to the nurse’s station.”

My friends and I stood clustered together in the hospital lobby, while we waited for instructions. I tugged on the bottom hem of my new scrub top. Now in our senior year, we’d finally gotten to ditch the white sailor outfits for the more traditional blue. The anxiety around me was palpable, which put me moderately at ease; at least I wasn’t the only one nervous about our first day on the job. 

A dark-haired man with a five o’clock shadow pushed through a set of doors, followed by a small, round black woman. They both wore blue scrubs and identification badges. 

They stopped in front of our tittering, nervous group. The man clapped his hands together. “Ahhh, fresh meat.”

“Don’t scare the children on the first day of school, Dr. Elliott,” the woman censured.

“Damn,” I heard Meghan hiss under her breath. “I’d let Dr. Elliott check my vitals any day.”

I elbowed her to be quiet. I never wanted to be singled out for speaking out of turn, but especially not on the first day. 

“I apologize. Let me start over.” The man—Dr. Elliott—raised his voice to be heard over the activity of the hospital. “Welcome, seniors, to the rest of your life. I’m Dr. Thomas Elliott and this fine young thing is Nurse Geri Shorts. We will be your guides, your mentors, your confidants, and your worst nightmare for the next few months.”

The shorter woman rolled her eyes. “Last time I let you make the introductions. Nursing candidates, follow me,” she crisply instructed. “Pre-med, you’ll be shadowing Dr. Elliott. And may God have mercy on your souls.”

I watched Meghan give a kind of hungry look toward the pre-med students before Dr. Elliott led them away. We nursing students remained with Nurse Shorts.

“This way,” she instructed. “And step lively; we don’t have all day.”

We walked through the doors from which Dr. Elliott and Nurse Shorts had recently appeared, into the epicenter of the hospital. I could tell what my friends were thinking because I was thinking it, too: Things were getting real. We’d made it. 

Nurse Shorts led us down a corridor and into a conference room with a large table at its center and padded office chairs positioned around the room.

“Grab a seat,” Nurse Shorts instructed in that same dry, no-nonsense tone. “Hurry up. Also—full disclosure—I probably won’t remember your names after today, but for the sake of due diligence, let’s go around the room for introductions. Tell me your name, where you’re originally from, and what kind of nursing you’re planning on going into.”

My stomach dropped with a feeling of dread. Over the summer I should have been researching or at least thinking about what kind of medicine I wanted to work in, but I was no closer to making that decision than when my junior year of college had ended.

The introductions went around the room, and, far too quickly, they stopped atme. 

I clasped my hands together. I cleared my throat to remove the lump. “I’m Hunter Dyson. I’m originally from here. And I’m undecided.”

“Undecided?” Nurse Shorts echoed.

I was fully aware that I was the only nurse-in-training in our cohort who didn’t know what they wanted to do with the rest of their life.

My new mentor frowned. “Three years into the program and you still don’t know?” 

“No ma’am. But I’m hopeful that this internship will help me narrow it down.”

“Don’t wait too long,” she warned. “You should have it figured out before you get placed next semester. The whole point of the internship program is to give you firsthand experience in the kind of nursing you want to do after college.”

“Yes, ma’am. I know.”

She gave me a long, hard look before addressing the room: “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, today we’re going to take it easy on you and ease you into life at the hospital. We’ll take a tour of the facilities and get you set up with your own lockers in case you need to change into a clean set of scrubs during one of your shifts. We expect you to take this internship seriously and to conduct yourself like professionals at all times.”

True to her word, our morning was cut short. We had a brief tour of the various hospital wings and wrapped up the morning getting lockers and changing out of our scrubs and into street clothes. The day was far from over, however, as our afternoons would be filled with the courses needed to complete the nursing degree. Senior year would be a balancing act between being a college student and applying what we’d learned during coursework at the hospital. 

At the end of our hospital introduction, we climbed back into the vans to return to campus. I sat in the far back again, closest to the window with Meghan in the middle; Benjamin sat on the aisle seat like before. 

Taylor turned around in her seat. “What did you guys think?”

I chewed on my lower lip. “I don’t think Nurse Shorts likes me.”

Meghan inspected her nails. “You worry too much, Hunt.”

“You barely said two words,” Taylor noted. “How could she not like you?”

“I’m, like, the only one without a specialty,” I pointed out.

“You’ll figure it out,” Meghan encouraged me. “What kind of doctor do you want to be, Benjamin?”

“Oh, uh, family medicine.” He looked surprised to have been included in our conversation. “My dad has his own practice, so I’m planning on taking over his patient roster when he retires.”

“Nice. Very nice,” Meghan practically purred. I almost felt sorry for Benjamin. “Isn’t that nice, Hunter?”

“Sure.”

 

+ + +

 

“Anatomy and Physiology II,” Cheryl grumbled. “I thought we’d already learned all the body parts.”

Erica huddled over a stack of note cards. “It’s better than having to memorize the names of drugs.”

My cohort was gathered in the library at our usual table. It was too early in the semester to have an exam to study for, but not too early to make flashcards. If I had known how many note cards I’d be going through in college, I would have bought stock in the 3M company.

“I don’t know why you put off Intro to Pharmacology until now,” Taylor said. “It’s probably a bunch of freshman in that class.”

“Yeah, and they’re are super annoying,” Erica grumbled. “Bright eyed and naive about what awaits them in a few years.”

“Anatomy and Physiology II,” Cheryl continued to complain.

“What do you guys think about Benjamin?” Meghan posed.

“That kid from the van today?” Taylor asked. 

“Yeah. I’m trying to decide if he’s cute or not.”

Erica wrinkled her nose. “No, thanks.”

“But he’s pre-med. Don’t you ever think about marrying a handsome, rich doctor?” she asked.

“They’re always on call,” I excused. I witnessed through my parents’ relationship how annoying it was to be with a partner who worked all the time.

“There’s always anesthesiologists,” Cheryl noted. “They make their own hours.”

“I wouldn’t want to be with someone in the same field as me,” Erica decided. “All we’d talk about would be medicine.”

“Who said anything about talking?” Meghan laughed. 
“God, when Dr. Elliott showed up today, I thought I was going to need a new pair of scrub pants.”

“That’s gross,” Erica muttered.

“It’s harmless fun,” Taylor defended our friend. “There’s no harm in daydreams.”

I felt myself becoming annoyed with my friends and the conversation—annoyed because the object of my daydreams had seemingly dropped off the continent. I hadn’t heard back from her all summer or even now that the new academic year had started. 

As much as I wanted to move beyond my attraction to Elle Graft, small things continually reminded me of her. Fresh-baked cookies at the cafeteria. Thesis statements. Women in skirts. The scent of the books in the library.

“Hunter, back me up,” Meghan prodded. “You wouldn’t mind being locked in a supply closet with Dr. Elliott.”

He was objectively handsome, but I didn’t see what the big deal was. I guess I really was gay.

“Sorry. He’s not my type.” 

“Bullshit,” she challenged. “He’s everyone’s type.”

I shook my head. “Not mine.”

“What’s not to like?” she challenged.

The words flew out before I could stop them: “I like girls.”  

I leapt out of my chair when I realized what I’d done. The confusion and shock on my friends’ faces was palpable. I hurried out of the study room, leaving my things behind, but also not giving my friends the opportunity to respond to my slip.

I hadn’t gone very far before I heard someone calling after me: “Hunter, wait up!”

There was no way I was waiting. I ducked into the nearest women’s bathroom, hoping to avoid my friend, and I locked myself in one of the stalls.

I heard the main door swing open and then squeak closed. 

“Hunter? Are you in here?” I recognized Meghan’s voice. “You can’t hide from me,” she warned.

Still, I said nothing. 

“Hunter, I can see your shoes.”

“Lots of people have these shoes,” I stubbornly protested. 

“Are you going to hide in here forever?”

“Probably.”

Meghan was quiet for a moment. The bathroom was silent, but somehow still echoed. 

“Nobody cares if you’re gay.”

“I’m not—I’m not—.” I couldn’t bring myself to say the words out loud.

Why couldn’t I say it?

“You like girls,” she said. “Big deal. I like guys with man-buns. That’s way more embarrassing.”

“This is really new. I haven’t told anyone,” I cautioned. “Especially not my parents.”

It was easier talking about this with a closed door between us. It was safe because I didn’t have to see her face, see her reaction to my admission. It was almost like baring my soul to Colette on the other side of the globe.