Hunter by Eliza Lentzski (7)

“If you want to keep this a secret, you know you can trust us,” Meghan said.

I felt very small. And very embarrassed. Coming Out to Colette had lifted a great weight off my shoulders, but this was different. I didn’t feel the same relief; if anything, I was more anxious than ever. 

“Why don’t you come out of there?” Meghan coaxed. “I’m sure you didn’t picture your Coming Out story featuring a public bathroom.”

I finally relented and unlocked the stall door. I discovered Meghan perched on top of the long row of sinks. She smiled when I reappeared. 

I jammed my hands into the back pockets of my jeans. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she returned.

I took a deep breath. “So, what now?” 

“Now we go back to the group and keep studying. I really need a good grade in this class.”

“Now you sound like Erica,” I weakly teased.

Meghan waggled her finger at me. “Careful.”

We slowly walked back to the group together. I had expected a bigger reaction from Meghan. I kept waiting for the barrage of questions, but they never came. 

When we returned to the study table, I held my breath waiting for someone to say something or even to make eye contact, but everyone was busy making flashcards. I took their cue and resumed working as well.

“Can you pass me some more note cards?”

I looked up to notice Taylor staring in my direction. It took me a moment to realize the question had been directed to me.

“Oh, uh, sure.”

I plucked a dozen or so blank note cards off the top of the master pile and slid them across the table.

“Thanks,” she said.

We shared a brief smile, mine thankful and hers understanding.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

 

 

“What are the classic signs of hyperglycemia?” Erica asked.

I tapped my fingers to my lips. “Polyuria, polydipsia,” I listed off, “and polyphagia.”

“Correct,” she approved.

“Do you think we could just say hunger and thirst?” Taylor posed.

“I would stick with the fancy words just to be safe,” Meghan advised.

“What is thrombocytopenia?” Erica continued to quiz me.

“Something about a trombone and a penis,” Cheryl guessed with a laugh. “A penis stuck in a trombone.”

Unlike my friends, I remained focused. My junior high cross-country coach had always told us to practice like it was a real meet. I assumed the same could be said for test preparation. “Decreased platelets.”

Erica tapped her pencil’s eraser on the library table. The pink rubber bounced up and down. “Did you know there’s a gay bar in town?”

I was pretty sure that question wouldn’t be on the test.

I didn’t look up from my notebook. “I’m aware of it, yes.”

“Have you ever been?” Cheryl asked.

“Why do you ask?” I deflected.

“We’re just concerned, that’s all,” Meghan said. “You spend all your time with us, or studying, or at the hospital. And as much as we love spending time with you, we also think you should get out there and meet new people. New women.”

“She means lesbians,” Taylor jumped in. 

I set down my notebook. “Why does this feel like an intervention?” I half joked.

All around the study table, my friends were eerily silent.

“You’ve all talked about this.” It was an observation on my part, not a question.

“We weren’t talking about you behind your back,” Erica insisted. “Not in a bad or gossipy way, at least.”

“We want to help!” Taylor insisted.

I arched an eyebrow. “Help me do what exactly?”

“Be more comfortable with who you are,” Meghan said. “Help you find other like-minded women. We want you to know that we’ve got your back.”

“And you think going to a gay bar with you guys is going to accomplish that?” I was unconvinced.

“It couldn’t hurt,” Taylor opined.

I began shredding a piece of notebook paper. “The timing’s all wrong. I’m going to be so busy this year with the hospital internship, I won’t have time for a girlfriend.”

Girlfriend. I didn’t think I’d ever said the word aloud before—not in the same context at least.

“You don’t have to find a girlfriend, Hunter. You don’t have to do anything. We can just dance,” Meghan assured me.

“Just dance,” I echoed.

I didn’t really enjoy dancing, but as I looked around the table at my friends’ eager faces, it was clear they weren’t going to let this go.

“Okay,” I finally conceded.

 

+ + +

 

Colette’s lightly accented voice came through my laptop speakers. “Is that really what you’re wearing?” 

I looked down at my simple outfit. “Why? What’s wrong with this?”

“I’ve been doing some research—” 

I rolled my eyes. “Lord, not this again. Don’t you have homework you should be doing instead?”

“You know I don’t sleep,” she explained with a shrug. “I’ve got a lot of free time on my hands.”

“Fine,” I sighed. “What have you been researching this time?

“I read some very interesting articles on lesbian bar culture,” she said. “Did you know that gay bays used to get raided by the police all the time? But that was like back in the 1960’s, so you should be okay now.”

“What does that have to do with my clothes?”

“The clothes you wear let other women know what kind of gay you are,” she explained. “If you don’t present yourself right, they might not think you’re authentic.”

I thought about my attempt to go to Peggy’s the first time and what a disaster it had been. Maybe Colette was actually right.

“I’m listening,” I humored her.

“You need to know what kind of lesbian you are.”

I shook my head. “But I don’t know if I’m a lesbian. Maybe I’m something in between.”

“Fair enough. But I think for tonight you should keep it simple.”

“I thought that’s what I was doing!” I protested. “It doesn’t get more simple than blue jeans and a tank top.”

I’d taken time to flat-iron my hair and had applied some light makeup, but I’d all but reached blindly into my closet for something to wear. Unlike my previous visit to Peggy’s, I didn’t want to look like I was trying too hard.

“Hmm … maybe you’re granola femme or blue jean femme. You’re definitely on the femme side of the spectrum unless you cut your hair.” Colette didn’t appear to be paying attention to me anymore. “You don’t wear a lot of makeup, so you can’t be lipstick lesbian. So maybe that makes you a chapstick lesbian.”

“I’ve got to get going,” I grabbed my phone and slipped it into the back pocket of my jeans. “I’ve still got to walk to campus to meet up with my friends.”

“Wait! One more thing.”

I sighed and tapped my foot impatiently. I hated being late; I didn’t want the others to think I was chickening out. “What?”

“I want you to kiss a girl tonight. Hear me out!” Colette interjected before I could respond. “It’s going to happen at some point. And let’s say you eventually meet The One—do you want to be inexperienced?”

My eyebrows pinched together. “I’ve done stuff before,” I said sullenly.

“But not with a girl,” she unnecessarily reminded me. “Listen, I’m not saying go all the way. I’m not even saying go half of the way. Just kiss a girl tonight.”

“Get it out of the way,” I mused aloud.

“Kind of. Don’t you think it’ll take the pressure off later when you actually go out with someone you like? You won’t be stressing out the entire date about inadequacy.”

I grabbed my purse and draped the strap over my shoulder. “Your logic almost makes sense,” I admitted.

Colette let out a cheer. 

“But, I’m not going to force it,” I said sternly. “If I meet someone I think is attractive—maybe. I’m not going to stress out about it,” I said, more for my benefit than Colette’s. I exhaled deeply to still my jumping nerves. “Tonight I’m going dancing with my friends at a place that just happens to be a gay bar.”

“Look at you. Oh, they grow up so fast,” she sighed wistfully.

“Goodnight, Colette.”

“Bon chance!” she exclaimed before I shut my laptop and disconnected the video call.

 

+ + +

 

I checked my makeup in the rearview mirror one more time. I never wore much more than mascara and lip gloss, but I’d added a little eyeliner and blush like a warrior preparing for an important battle.

The five of us had met on campus earlier and had piled into Cheryl’s compact car. The vehicle was filled with excited chatter on the drive over, but as soon as Cheryl parked in the gravel lot adjacent to the bar, my friends suddenly became silent.

In the backseat, Meghan peered out her window. “That’s it?”

“Uh huh,” I confirmed.

It was still early and only a few cars populated the parking lot.

“Huh.”

“What?” 

“Not what I was expecting.”

Her reaction put me on the defense. “What were you expecting?” I posed. “Rainbows and unicorns?”

She looked wistful. “No. Just—I don’t know—more.”

I exhaled sharply. “Are we gonna do this or not?”

I was quickly losing patience and my nerve.

Cheryl was the first to hop out of the car, still excited while everyone else had grown far more subdued. “Let’s go!” she encouraged. “Time to get our drink on!”

I didn’t think any of my friends were twenty-one yet, but maybe some of them had fake IDs.

Flanked by my friends, I felt more confident than the first time I’d gone to Peggy’s, which wasn’t saying much. That visit had lasted only a few minutes before my first pseudo-conversation had me tucking tail and running away.

I followed my friends into the semi-crowded bar, not wanting to appear overly eager, but not wanting to be left to fend for myself. I wasn’t entirely over the trauma from my first visit.

A tall woman in jeans, studded belt, and a white tank was the only bartender standing behind the bar. Her bleached blonde hair was boyishly short and spiked into a faux hawk. Her white tank top offset two impressive tattoo sleeves covering thinly muscled arms. 

“What can I get you, ladies?” Her soft, feminine voice was a surprise in comparison to her more masculine exterior.  

There was a pregnant pause when no one took the lead—a clear indication that we had no business being there.

Meghan latched onto my forearm.  “What do lesbians drink?”

The others similarly looked to me for verification.

I flashed the bartender an apologetic smile. “Can you give us a second?”

Her lips quirked into a smile.  “Sure thing. Take your time.”

The woman walked away to attend to another customer, and I felt that familiar flight instinct return. Meghan continued to hold onto my arm, unknowingly acting like an anchor.

“I’m sorry,” Meghan apologized. “I don’t want to embarrass you.”

“It’s fine,” I reassured her. “You’re actually making me look normal.”

She dropped my arm and curled her lip. “Happy to help.”

Feeling more confident beside my friend’s unease, I raised my hand to indicate we were ready to order.

The bartender returned with a bar towel flung over her shoulder. “Okay. Let’s try this again.” 

Cheryl slapped the top of the bar and left behind a twenty-dollar bill. None of this had seemed to phase her. “I’m buying first round.”

Erica let out a holler. “Now you’re talking.”

My friends blurted out their drink requests. No one had asked to see our IDs yet, which I suspected had fueled their confidence to order alcohol. My nerves had me sticking with a soda.

The bartender left to fill the order, leaving us to entertain ourselves.

Cheryl leaned her back against the bar top. She wasn’t very tall, and the bar hit across her shoulder blades. “So what do you think?”

“About what?” I asked.

“See anyone interesting?”

“In the bar?” Her vague questions left me feeling obtuse.

She nodded unobtrusively across the bar. “How about her?”

I made the mistake of following Cheryl’s gaze. A woman was leaning over a pool table to make a shot. It was only when she straightened to her full height that I noticed the unfortunate mullet.  

“No,” I blurted out. My tone was more emphatic than I intended.

“Okay,” Cheryl conceded, chuckling at my reaction. “What’s your type?”

“Yeah, what do you like in a lady?” Meghan piled on. 

Erica and Taylor stepped closer to join the conversation. 

“I don’t know,” I muttered helplessly.

“Who’s your celebrity crush?” Erica asked.

“Angelina Jolie does it for me,” Taylor interjected.

My friends cooed in approval. 

“Angelina does it for everyone,” Cheryl laughed.

“I don’t know,” I repeated. Their questions had me feeling flustered and overwhelmed. I hated being the center of attention, but I should have expected it; the night was all about me, after all. 

“Are you into femmes or butches?” Meghan asked. The specificity of her question took me aback. It made me wonder if she’d been doing research before our excursion to the other side of the tracks.

“Femme,” I decided.

Cheryl grunted. “Not a lot of that here tonight.”

The bartender thankfully returned with our drinks, saving me from the good intentions of my friends. 

A tumbler of something ominously amber appeared near my hand. When none of my friends reached for it and my soda never came, I realized it was meant for me. 

I waved my hand to attract the bartender’s attention. “I’m sorry; I didn’t order this.”

“Looks like you’ve got an admirer.” She winked, and my early nervousness returned. Butterflies leapt around in my stomach.

I didn’t dare touch the shot for fear of encouraging whomever had sent the drink. I wondered if it had come from the bartender herself. I really wasn’t ready for this.

I grabbed onto Meghan’s elbow. “We came here to dance, right?”

She nodded over the rim of her glass. “Help me with this.”

She thrust the tumbler under my nose.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Jack and diet.”

“I’ll pass,” I resisted. “I don’t want my judgment blurred by booze goggles.”

Meghan shrugged. “It’s your funeral.”

My friends pounded their respective drinks, and we finally made our way to the dance floor.

I wasn’t a dancer. I didn’t even dance in the privacy of my bedroom. My mom had enrolled me in ballet when I was really little, but I’d stopped going the moment I discovered they were going to make us perform in public.

I followed my friends to the platform dance floor. We moved as one like a pack of animals to an empty space in the center of the dance floor. It seemed like a safer space than hanging around the bar. Surrounded by my friends, I had strength in numbers. We naturally formed a tight circle, and it was enough to fend off any trespassers. From my vantage point I could also see the exit and most everything going on in the bar.

I started to feel more at ease, yet not entirely comfortable. I worked hard to try to have fun and enjoy the moment with my friends who had my back and cared enough for me to come to a gay bar with me on a weekend night.

I continued to scan the bar while we danced, keeping aware of my surroundings, but not staying on any one part of the bar for too long. I was nervous about making too much eye contact with anyone there.

Groups surrounded the pool tables and gathered by the dart boards. The emptiest part of the bar was surprisingly the bar area itself. Only a few women occupied the stools. Most had their backs turned to the dance floor with the exception of a brunette with long, wavy hair. My gaze traveled back to the dart boards, but then returned to the brunette at the bar. She wore jeans and a tank top. And I realized I knew who she was.

Professor Graft.

What was she doing here?

The lights in the bar were dimmed, and on the dance floor, the flashing reds and blues of the DJ’s set-up made the visuals all the more disorienting, but there was no denying that my English professor was sitting at the bar by herself.

And she was most definitely looking back at me. She’d seen me. This had to be a sign. Someone—or some force—didn’t want me forgetting about Elle Graft.

I grabbed onto Meghan’s elbow. “I need some air,” I spoke in her ear, trying to be heard over the dance music.

“I’ll come with,” she offered.

“No!”

I hoped I didn’t sound too alarmed, but the music was so loud she probably hadn’t heard the desperate inflection in my voice. 

“People might think we’re together,” I quickly covered.

Her mouth split into a knowing grin. “Oh, I get it! Good thinking.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

 

 

It hadn’t escaped my notice that Professor Graft’s gaze was locked in our direction. She may have been innocently observing the activities on the dance floor, but it felt like she was staring directly at me. As I walked towards the bar, her stare never faltered, but her features were unreadable.

I couldn’t decipher her reaction. Was she surprised? Happy? Horrified? What was going on inside her head?

I concentrated on my steps as I maneuvered past other dancing clusters. I’d nearly fallen on my face at the coffee shop. I didn’t need to embarrass myself like that again. I tucked my hair behind my ears, mindful that it might have gotten frizzy in the humidity of the crowded bar. 

Her hair was down, looking less perfect than it might have been at the start of the day, but still windblown and wavy like she’d stepped off of a California beach. Her jeans were dark and her calves obscured by leather boots that reached below her knees. She sat on a dark purple cardigan, leaving her in a sleeveless silk shell that buttoned up the center. The pearl necklace was missing, but I caught a glimpse of her collarbone just beyond the slight parting of her buttoned up shirt.

“Professor Graft?” 

My voice audibly wavered on the syllables. I’d become so accustomed to referring to her as “Elle” that it almost felt unnatural to be using her last name and title.  

She looked a little flustered as she set her pint glass on the bar behind her. We’d seen each off-campus before, but I’m sure it was unnerving to see a former student at a bar, gay or not. “How are you, Hunter?” 

“I’m good,” I confirmed, falling into the small-talk routine. “And you?”

“Good, good,” she replied.

With pleasantries exchanged, I verbally stumbled. I hadn’t rehearsed anything beyond making sure I didn’t trip on the way to the bar. 

Terrible pickup lines shot to the front of my brain:

What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?

Are your legs tired from running through my dreams?

“Do you dance?” 

It wasn’t a pick-up line, but the moment the words tumbled out I realized she might think I was asking her to dance. I hadn’t intended that, and the protective flight reflex that had caused me to run from Peggy’s weeks earlier kicked in. I should have turned on my heels and directly marched out of the bar, never to return. 

Before I could awkwardly flee, her response set me more at ease: “Not when anyone’s looking.” 

“Me either,” I admitted. “But I’m here with some friends, and they dragged me out there.”

I glanced toward the dance floor where Meghan and the others remained. No one was looking in our direction; Cheryl had commandeered everyone’s attention by dancing wildly in the center of my friends’ dance circle. Women I didn’t know had gathered around to clap and cheer her on. 

“Well, don’t let me keep you from them,” I heard Elle say.

As my gaze remained on the dance floor, a wave of melancholy washed over me. My friends looked like they were having so much fun. They periodically threw back their heads with laughter, clapped their hands in the air, each taking turns in the center of the dance circle.

I was happy that they seemed to be enjoying themselves, but I was envious of their ease. I’d never felt that comfortable, especially when I found myself in a new environment. There were very few instances where I could just let go and enjoy myself. I was always too preoccupied with what others might think, or if I was being too loud, or taking up too much space. My heightened awareness made it hard to just be. 

“I’m not really in the dancing kind of mood anymore,” I thought aloud. “It’s so hard to just be ‘on’ all the time, you know?”

Elle nodded her understanding, but I couldn’t imagine her ever feeling the same way. She always looked so put-together and comfortable in her skin. 

“How about you?” I asked, pulling my attention away from the dance floor. “What brings you here tonight?”

My innocuous question made me realize that she was probably meeting up with someone—her friends, or maybe even a date. The thought of her on a date sunk me even deeper into disappointment.

She cradled her pint of beer and stared into the bottom of the glass. When she finally spoke, the glass made her voice sound hollow and echoed. “I was trying to drown my sorrows, but my sorrows learned to swim.” 

She didn’t take a drink, however, and set the beer glass back down. 

I leaned against the bar. I moved closer if only to not have to shout to be heard. “So not only do you teach English, but you’re also a poet?”

She shook her head. “I’m a writer.” 

I wasn’t sure of the difference until something Nikole had once said unexpectedly popped into my head—all cacti are succulents, but not all succulents are cacti. All poets are writers, but not all writers are poets.

She grabbed her drink from the bar again. She seemed to be setting it down and picking it up more than what seemed natural, like she didn’t quite know what to do with her hands. When she lifted the glass, the cocktail napkin stuck to its bottom. The wasted napkin was soggy and sticky, and she made a disgusted face as she tried to separate it from her drink. She only succeeded in shredding the rapidly melting paper and threw the soggy remnants onto the bar top.

“What’s the point,” she mumbled, more to herself than me. 

She looked about as comfortable as I felt in these surroundings. Her physical awkwardness was refreshing. Maybe she wasn’t always so perfect. 

A slow grin reached my mouth as I watched her antics. “I think it’s for bar preservation.”

Her stormy blue eyes lifted from her beer to regard me. “I don’t mean to pry,” she started, “and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but are you gay?”

My smile and confidence weakened. What was it about this bar? Was she going to call my bluff, too? I looked away to avoid her inquisitive stare.  

“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “That’s kind of why I’m here tonight.”

I felt myself deflate.

“My friends mean well, but I’m just not a club kind of girl. I don’t know what they thought I’d find here tonight.” I released a heavy sigh. “They’re just excited for me, I guess. Like me exploring my sexuality is a shiny new car they want to take for a ride. But when do I get the keys to the car, you know?”

I chanced a look in her direction. Her deep blue eyes continued to focus on only me, but her mouth now curved up into a charming smile. 

“I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard you speak in one sitting,” she remarked.

My cheeks inflamed, and I broke eye contact again. I ran my thumbnail along a groove in the bar top. Someone had their carved initials into the bar: T loves N.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t a better student,” I murmured.

“You were fine,” she assured.

I’d never felt compelled to stand out among my peers. I worked hard in my major field, but if it wasn’t directly connected to my future profession, there’d been no reason for me to go above and beyond. But then Elle had happened, and it had become a balancing act. I wanted her to know that I was trying, but I hadn’t wanted to go overboard and look like I was trying too hard to get noticed.

“I always had more to say,” I told her. “I was just never brave enough to say it. I’d replay what I wanted to say over and over in my mind, but when I’d finally built up the courage to speak, we’d moved on to another question or another topic.”

She nodded her head in a slow, confirming bob. “I was like that in college too at first. You get over the fear with time though. You care less about making mistakes or looking bad in front of your peers.”

I realized we’d started to talk shop. It wasn’t how I’d wanted to steer the conversation. If I wanted to change our dynamic, I couldn’t continually remind her that I’d been a student.

I shook my head. “I’m sorry. This probably isn’t how you imagined spending your night.”

Her shoulders rose and fell. “How about you?  How did you imagine the night turning out?”

“I don’t know.” With nothing to do with my hands,  I toyed with a cardboard drink coaster. “I’d meet some tall, dark stranger.  She’d sweep me off my feet with her swagger, confidence, and whiskey mouth.” Dang it.  “I think I’ve been reading too many romance novels.” 

“Hunter.” 

I looked back up. I loved it when she said my name. Why hadn’t I raised my hand more in class to hear it again and again?

“I don’t hide my sexuality at school,” she said. “The other professors in my Department know—but I don’t openly broadcast it. So I’d appreciate if you didn’t run home and post on Facebook about seeing me here.”

My eyes widened at the suggestion. “Oh! I wouldn’t!” I promised. “I mean, I don’t even have a Facebook page, but even if I did I’d respect your privacy.”

She tilted her head. “You really don’t have Facebook? I thought students these days weren’t allowed to be in college without one.” 

“I never really got into social networking,” I said in earnest. “I guess I don’t see the point. I don’t have a smart phone or an iPod either.”

She shifted on her stool, sitting up straighter. “Wow. It’s like you’re an alien.”

A half smile curled on my lips. She sounded like Colette. “I guess I’m a little old-fashioned.”

She continued to split her attention between me and her pint glass. “Tell me about love on your planet.”

Her words had been mumbled, spoken into her beer, and I didn’t quite trust my ears. “Sorry?”

She looked back up, blue eyes sharply focused. “It’s from a movie. Barbarella?”

I still had no idea what she was talking about.

“Jane Fonda in a fur bikini?” she tried again.

My eyebrows rose. It was like she was speaking a foreign language.

Elle closed her eyes and shook her head. “I’m really dating myself with these references, huh?”

I didn’t know her specific age, but the fact that she had a doctorate while I didn’t even have an undergraduate degree, and that she had been teaching college for several years while I had no profession at all, made the gulf between us even larger. It was more than age and labels—it was simply a difference in life experience. I couldn’t even identify my sexuality. I’d told Colette these same things, but she’d dismissed every reason why Elle and I would never work out.  

“You’re barely older than me,” I said weakly.

She brought her pint glass to her lips. “If barely means a decade, then sure,” she winked.  

Each time she brought the pint glass to her lips, I lost my train of thought. My attention became captive to the pursing of her mouth and the line of straight teeth just behind. When she quickly licked the rim of her glass to capture a rogue stream of beer, my brain took a vacation to dangerous mental imagery.

Her mouth on other things—like me.

Her glass was almost empty. 

“Do you, um, want another beer?” I stuttered out. “I could buy you one.” I reached for my wallet and fumbled with the top clasp.

Elle put her hand over the top of her glass. “Thank you for the offer, but I should stop after this one,” she declined. “I’ve got papers to mark up tomorrow, and I can’t be productive if I’ve got a hangover.”

I didn’t want her to leave. I wanted to see her more often, not rely on random encounters around town.

“Speaking of age, are you even old enough to be here?” she asked. Her tone was teasing, like she was giving me a hard time, not being my mom.

“Close enough,” I frowned. “I’ll be twenty-one in a few months.”

I tried to imagine Elle at twenty-one. Had she ever gone to gay bars to meet women? Had she ever crushed on an unattainable woman? Was there a woman who’d helped her realize the truth about herself?

“How did you know?” I asked.

“Know what?” 

I took a breath. “That you were gay.”

“Oh, uh,” she seemed to stumble over her response. “Honestly, I was a late bloomer. I didn’t know what gay was until college. And then I made up for lost time.”

It wasn’t exactly the answer I’d been looking for. I’d wondered about her root, but instead, she’d given me mental images to haunt my daydreams. I didn’t want to think of her being intimate with other women, but at the same time, I did.

“It was actually movies that made me realize I was gay,” she continued, more innocently. “I would find myself still thinking about the lead actress and not the male protagonist long after the movie had ended.” She licked her lips. “What about you?”

I should have expected her turning the question back on me, but somehow it still surprised me. I had never had this conversation with anyone before—not with my friends at school, not even Colette. They’d just taken me at my word that I was attracted to women without digging beneath the surface.

“I, uh, I guess I’m still just trying to figure it all out still,” I fumbled in response. “Maybe I’m bisexual, maybe I’m lesbian.”

“Are you attracted to men?” she probed.

Now she sounded like an online quiz. 

“Objectively I can appreciate when men are attractive,” I noted. “But I can’t really see myself ever having sex with one.”

“So no boyfriends?”

Her questioning could have been interpreted as innocent curiosity, but I couldn’t help but hope that she was actually interested in my past, and maybe even a little bit jealous. 

“Not really,” I said in truth. “A few short-lived relationships, but nothing ever serious. Most guys I knew in high school were jerks. I endured one too many sucking jokes.”

“Sucking jokes?” she echoed.

“My last name’s Dyson.”

She easily made the connection. “O-oh.”

I had been in seven or eighth grade when the boys in my class started to snicker about my last name. I wasn’t popular, but not exactly a social pariah, either—just enough on my classmates’ radar that I was fair game to make fun of. I’d come home crying to my mom, not fully understanding the cruel joke, but knowing that I had been the focus of my classmates’ unkind laughter.  

“So now you’ve got to tell me a story about yourself so I don’t feel like I’ve been over-sharing.” I laughed self-consciously and tucked a lock of hair behind my ear.

My transparency left me feeling vulnerable. I was laying out my secrets to her, yet all she’d given me in return was a detail about an over-active college libido.

“Well …” She didn’t immediately contribute, maybe weighing the pros and cons of letting those walls continue to crumble. But instead of letting me in, she changed the subject: “So you liked The Bell Jar?” 

I had prepared all summer for this conversation, but when I’d stored her book in the top drawer of my desk, I’d packed away my thoughts as well. But one curiosity had lingered in my mind: “Is Esther gay for Doreen?”

Elle’s body visibly jerked to attention. “She, um, what do you think?”          

I weighed my response carefully. “I think she’s following what’s comfortable and familiar with Buddy, but she doesn’t love him. She sees something unconventional and wild about Doreen. It’s that lifestyle that she falls in love with.”

She smiled like when someone got an answer right in the writing seminar. “Tell me again why you didn’t talk more in class?”

I turned my face and laughed.

Oh, if only she knew. If only she knew how desperate I’d been for her to notice me, but how I’d wrestled to find balance with blending in and standing out.

“I had my reasons.”

“I’d love to pick your brain more about Plath.” She chewed on her lower lip. “But you should go back to your friends; I feel like I’m holding you back.”

I wasn’t going to let her dismiss me so easily, not now that our conversation had started to pick up momentum. “I make it a rule never to be where I don’t want to be.” 

Once the words were out, I regretted my assertiveness. I shook my head, effectively extinguishing the ferocity of my tone. 

“Unless I’m sitting through one of Professor Witlan’s lectures,” I qualified.

Professor Witlan had taught my Biology 101 class. It was one of the largest classes on campus, intended to weed out the students who had visions of grandeur about being a doctor but weren’t serious about putting the work in. He was also about as interesting as watching paint dry. 

Elle laughed, low and warm. “You have my sympathies.  I haven’t had to deal with him, but I’ve heard he’s pretty monotone.”

“Just imagine sitting through an 8:00 a.m. lecture with the man,” I said, hoping to coax another laugh from her, “and everyone around you is either sleeping or texting.”

Her upper lip curled. “You know, when I was a student, we didn’t have all that technology. We took notes on paper. And when professors lectured, they talked the entire time without visuals or PowerPoint or interactive classrooms.”

“Do you have a hang-up about your age?” My voice was unexpectedly sharp.

Her eyebrows knit together. “No. Why?”

I shrugged, trying to not make a big deal out of it, even though it was to me. I’d reached my limit of being continually reminded of how out of reach she was.

“It just seems like your mission tonight is to point out how much older you are than me.”

“Oh?” Her voice lilted up. “I hadn’t noticed I was doing that.”

“Is this making you uncomfortable?” I questioned.

“No. Why would it?” Her face remained impassive, but her tone raised several octaves in an obvious lie.

“I’m sure you weren’t expecting spending the evening with an ex-student,” I said pointedly.

Even under the dim lighting of the bar, I could see her skin flush red. I hadn’t intended my words to be suggestive, but I was privately pleased that she seemed to have taken them that way. 

“I didn’t expect it,” she admitted. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not having fun.”

I leaned closer, but pulled back when a third voice interrupted our conversation.

“Another beer, Elle?”

The blonde bartender from before stood behind the bar, waiting for a response. I didn’t like that she’d interrupted the moment, and I hated even more that she knew Elle’s name.

How often did a person have to come to a place to be a known commodity? Were they friends outside of the bar? Had they ever dated?

Elle’s gaze went briefly to the bartender and then back to me. I’d only recently offered to buy her a beer, but she’d turned me down with the excuse that she wasn’t planning on staying long. I silently stared her down, challenging her to stay and continue what we’d started. 

Her eye contact never wavered. “I suppose those papers can wait another day.”

I heard the bartender chuckle before leaving to get Elle another beer. Her reaction prompted more questions: How much of our conversation had she overheard? Did she remember my friends and me from before? Did she know I was a student and Elle was a professor?

Elle was the first one to break eye contact. She cleared her throat and looked away; the intensity of the moment passed as the bartender filled her drink order.

“Can I get you anything?” Elle offered. 

“No, no. I can handle getting a soda on my own,” I insisted. “But thank you for the offer.” 

I appreciated her generosity, but if she wouldn’t accept a drink from me, it didn’t feel right to take her up on her offer.

Her eyes squinted in consideration. “Are you always so polite?” 

“Would you rather I be rude?” I countered.

I couldn’t explain from where this brassiness had come, but I felt like I was on a roll. I always rehearsed, always practiced conversations in my head, but something about Elle and this night had me saying exactly what I wanted to say, when I wanted to say it. 

The bartender returned with Elle’s drink and slid the beer across the bar. She wiped her damp hands on a white towel before turning her attention to me. “Something for you, sweetie?” 

“Can I get a diet cola?” I asked. “Whatever you’ve got is fine.”

The bartender pulled out the gun and filled a pint glass.

“How much?” 

She pushed the glass across the bar and winked. “It’s on the house, hun.”

It was the second time that night that I’d been offered a free drink, and both might have come from the same bartender. I had no experience with this kind of thing—male or female—but I remembered my manners enough to mumble a word of thanks. 

“Wow. It’s getting late,” Elle suddenly announced. 

She moved on her stool as if to stand, and my I instincts took over. I clamped my hand on top of hers—the first time we’d touched outside of my vivid dreams. 

“You’re leaving? You’ve got a full beer,” I observed. “Isn’t that breaking some kind of code?” 

I didn’t want to beg, but I didn’t want our night to end so soon and so abruptly. I couldn’t imagine what had happened in such a short time span that had changed her mind about staying for another beer.

“I know, but I probably should get going.” 

Her words said she had to go, but I couldn’t help notice that she didn’t move her hand out from under mine.

I popped out my lower lip in an uncharacteristic pout. “If you leave, I’ll have to go back to pretending to have fun with my friends.”

To be honest, the past few minutes had made me forget I’d come with anyone that night. I’d completely lost track of my friends.

Elle leaned perceptively closer. Her dark blue eyes seemed to sparkle even under the dim bar lights. “And you’d rather pretend to have fun with me?”

I swallowed hard. Was Elle Graft flirting with me?

I took a chance. “Do you want to move this to one of the tables?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

 

 

I wasn’t sure what this was, but I also wanted to move out of the direct sightline of the dance floor. Any of my well-intentioned friends could stop by the bar for a refill at any moment. I didn’t trust them not to embarrass me or to spook Professor Graft away. I’d only just convinced her to stay for another drink—I imagined it wouldn’t take much for her to want to escape again.

We left the bar for a cluster of unoccupied tables. As we walked, drinks in hand, I felt the ghost of a hand—Elle’s hand—in the small of my back, guiding me towards an empty table for two. But as quickly as I’d felt the slight pressure there, it disappeared.

I’d convince her to stay, but I didn’t have any prepared conversation topics. This wasn’t like one of our one-on-one meetings in her campus office. I didn’t want to resort to polite small-talk. I wanted to impress her—to be seen as an equal despite our age and education difference.

“Did you ever get my e-mail?” I asked.

“You e-mailed me?”

“This summer—after I finished your book. I wanted to give it back to you, and maybe … maybe talk about it.”

“Oh, I, uh, I must have accidentally deleted it.” She seemed to stumble on her excuse. “Or maybe it went to my SPAM folder by mistake. Those campus filters are always messing up.”

I hummed when words failed me. I’d tormented myself for months after not hearing back from her. Had it really just been a technology glitch?

“Did you finish your conference paper?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Good memory,” she approved. “I did. Conferences are a chore, but they’re kind of part of the job description.”

“What is it on?”

“You don’t want to talk about that,” she dismissed.

Now it was my turn to raise my eyebrows. “I don’t?”

“I don’t even like talking about academia,” she mused. “How’s your internship going? Nursing students spend most of their senior year at the hospital, right?”

I nodded. “Fall semester is general practice and then spring we choose our nursing specialty.”

“What are you going to specialize in?” she asked.

My sigh was louder than intended. “I have no idea.”

“It sounds like I struck a nerve,” she observed.

“No. It’s fine. It’s only the thing that keeps me up at night.”

“Oh, that’s all,” she laughed good-humoredly.

Her laugh triggered in me an involuntary response. I wanted to hear more of it. I wanted to be the reason for her laugh. I’d take up stand-up comedy classes to make that happen.

“I can relate,” she noted wistfully. “I’ve got my tenure review coming up at the end of the semester.”

“What’s that?”

“Basically a decision if the college wants me to still work there.”

“Wow. They do that?”

She nodded soberly as she continued to fiddle with her pint glass. “If they like me I keep my job and get a promotion from Assistant to Associate Professor.”

“And you’re worried they might not like you?”

Her mouth quirked. “I have no idea what to think. My student reviews are generally positive, I’m being productive in my scholarship, and I’ve been active in service to the university. But until I get that letter from the Dean that says Congratulations, I just don’t know.”

“The student body likes you.”

I honestly didn’t know if that was true, but I knew my body certainly liked her.

“Do they?” she asked in earnest. “It’s so hard to tell these days. My classrooms are becoming a sea of laptops and blank, empty stares. If I evoke any emotions at all, I can’t even be sure it’s from something I’ve said or something funny a friend texted them.”

There was a vulnerability in her honesty and transparency that I found endearing. It made her more human than seeing her in a t-shirt at a coffee shop or small-talk in her campus office—like she was allowing me to see the real Elle, not simply the woman she projected herself to be at the front of the classroom.

This Elle had real doubts and anxieties. I wished I had the right words to calm those anxieties, but I had no idea how her academic world worked.

“We’re both getting too serious. We should talk about something less heavy,” I implored.

Her mouth curled into a half smile. “What would you like to talk about?”

“How about The Bell Jar?” I proposed.

“You didn’t think it was a depressing read?”

“No!” I exclaimed. “Just the opposite. Obviously there’s a lot of elements that are old-fashioned, but it’s kind of timeless—trying to figure out your life. You reach a certain age, and you’re magically supposed to know how the world works. Relationships.” I swallowed. “Sex.”

Her eyelashes flickered. “What makes you think Esther is attracted to Doreen?”

“I sensed it right away—the thick description about her fingernails, and the way she smelled, and the observation that Doreen always wore sheer nightgowns. Those are the kinds of things you notice when you’ve got a crush.”

Like how I know that you cut your fingernails on Tuesdays, and your eyes are the same color as Lake Superior, I added to myself.

“But what about Buddy?” she pressed. “He’s present from the very first page.”

“Buddy’s a convenience,” I readily dismissed. “He’s the kind of dull boy she’s expected to be with. Get married. Have kids,” I ticked off. “Live in a ticky-tacky house in the suburbs.”

I thought about my parents and their dinner conversations: Mulch. Grass seed. Fertilizer. Winterizing the lawnmower.

“And Doreen is different,” she anticipated.

I hummed in agreement. “She’s exciting. She’s a window to a world that Esther has probably only dreamed about.”

“So maybe she admires Doreen,” Elle proposed. “Maybe she wants to be like her, and that’s why she notices so many little details about her.”

“No,” I refused. “She doesn’t want to be anything like Doreen. She’s too reasonable for that.”

Elle ran her index finger around the rim of her glass. “You seem awfully sure of yourself.”

My conviction on the topic shifted to self-doubt. “I’m just talking. What do I know about these things? I’m not an English major.”

“You’ve got good instincts. Don’t second-guess yourself,” she told me. “Go with your gut.”

Were we still talking about the book? I wondered. Or had we ventured dangerously into the realm of coded language and implied desire?

“I think … I think there’s something there,” I stated with caution. “And if not for the circumstances—if Esther had been a little more experienced, or maybe if the book had been written now and not the 1960’s—maybe she would have done something about it.”

Elle made a soft sound in reply—like a sad, wistful laugh. She continued to stare at her nearly-empty pint glass.

I thought about offering to buy her another drink, but she’d already rejected my offer once, and I was pretty sure the bartender wouldn’t serve me, even if I promised her the drink wasn’t for me. Plus, I didn’t know anything about beer. My inexperience showed on multiple levels. 

“Last call!” the blonde behind the bar yelled out. “You don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here.”

The overhead lights flooded the bar.

Elle slowly came to her feet and stretched her arms above her head. With the movement, the bottom hem of her shirt lifted, but not high enough to award me with a glimpse of her midsection.

I followed her cue and stood as well. “I can’t believe I’m still awake,” I observed with a laugh and shake of my head. “Normally I’d be in bed before 10:00 p.m. on a Saturday.”

“Now who’s the grandma?” she teased me.

I shook my finger. “No talking about age, remember?”

She smiled at my scolding. “Do you have a ride home?”

Her question gave me pause. She’d once given me a ride home, so the inquiry was entirely innocent, despite how much I wanted it to be otherwise. Yet even in my delirious state I couldn’t imagine a scenario where I’d be invited to her home instead of her driving me back to my apartment. And even if I didn’t have a roommate, I certainly didn’t harbor the courage to suggest we could continue our conversation in my apartment.

Instead, I scanned the bar. I’d lost track of my friends early into my conversation with Elle. I spied them on the other side of the bar and gave them a brave wave. If they had left me behind, I would have readily forgiven them.

I mustered a smile despite my disappointment that the evening was truly over. “Thanks for saving me tonight.”

“Any time, Hunter.” 

She took a noticeable step toward me, and her arms opened at her sides. My feet were having an easier time keeping up than the rest of my body, as I somehow managed to take a step closer as well. 

Don’t second-guess yourself, she’d told me. Go with your gut.

I wasn’t sure what my gut was suggesting. My brain was saying Don’t! but nearly all of my other body parts were in agreement about what they wanted to do. 

I wet my lips.

Colette’s words bounced around in my brain: kiss a girl tonight.

My heart hammered in my chest. I wasn’t going to kiss a girl. I was going to kiss Elle Graft.

I leaned forward and pressed my lips firmly against hers. The kiss was nearly chaste, but oh-so-soft. I could taste the beer she’d been drinking, but there was something beyond the barley and hops that was all her. She made a noise, which I miraculously registered as a sound of surprise, not of pleasure. I jerked backwards and my hand flew to my mouth, which had so recently invaded hers.

“Oh my God,” I rushed out. “I’m so sorry.”

She looked rattled, more flustered than I’d ever seen her.  “No. It’s. No, don’t worry about it.”

I hastily grabbed my purse from the table, eager for a rapid escape. I couldn’t believe my gaffe. I hadn’t simply stepped over a boundary; I’d pole-jumped over it. Even though I’d gotten lost in her big blue orbs all night, I couldn’t bring myself to look in her direction anymore. I kept my gaze focused on the floor.

“Thank you for being so kind tonight.”

I heard her clear her throat.  “No problem at all.”

 

 

“Hunter! Yoohoo!” Taylor waved her arms over her head.

I found my friends in the parking lot standing outside of Cheryl’s car.

“There she is!” Cheryl slurred. She catapulted herself toward me and wrapped her arms tight around my middle. “Where did you go? I couldn’t find you.”

Her breath smelled strongly of alcohol.

I looked to Meghan for explanation. “How many drinks did she have?”

“I’m not a babysitter,” Meghan shrugged. 

“Give me your keys,” I instructed.

Cheryl shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans and rummaged for the elusive car keys. She yanked the keys free from her pocket, but promptly dropped them on the ground.

“Whoopsie,” she giggled.

I sighed and bent over to retrieve the keys from the pavement. “Everybody get in,” I said. I suddenly felt very tired.

Erica, Cheryl, and Taylor piled into the backseat. Apparently no one had bothered to check their IDs all night; I was the only one who’d stuck to soda. They giggled and reminisced about the evening on the drive back to campus.

Meghan sat in the front with me, far more subdued than the three women in the backseat.

“Did you have fun tonight?” she asked.

“Mmhm.”

“It looked like it.”

We came to a four-way stop. I pressed too hard on the break pedal, and everyone’s heads snapped forward. Cheryl’s breaks were touchier than mine. 

“Sorry, guys,” I apologized to the car.

Unaffected, they resumed their conversations.

“Professor Graft looked like she was having fun, too,” Meghan casually observed.

I was grateful for the late hour and that the car was cast in darkness. The heat on my cheeks would have been far too obvious. I immediately wondered what and how much Meghan had been witness to.

Had she seen us talking at the bar? At the table? Had she seen me make a fool of myself when I’d tried to kiss her?

Meghan didn’t offer up details, and I wasn’t about to ask.

“No comment, eh?” she prodded.

I kept my eyes on the road. “Nope.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER NINETEEN

 

 

I didn’t have the number memorized or programmed into my phone, but a quick internet search found the information.

“Good afternoon, Evergreen Landings.” A woman with a soft voice answered the phone. “This is Diana.”

“Hi, Diana. Could you transfer me to Henrietta Grange’s room, please?”

“I’m sorry. Mrs. Grange is no longer with us.”

“Oh, God,” I gasped. A pit formed in my stomach, and I tightened my grip on the phone. “When? How?”

“Oh, gosh. I’m so sorry! I really need to work on my word choice!” the receptionist quickly corrected. “I only meant she’s no longer a resident at Evergreen Landings. She was moved to hospice care a few days ago.”

The information lightened my heart, but only barely. Heni was alive, but if she was in hospice care that meant she wasn’t expected to live for much longer. 

“Could you tell me which one?”

“Of course. One moment, please.”

While I waited for the woman to find the information, I began opening the kitchen cabinets. 

I’d only been to a hospice care facility one other time. I’d been young, but old enough to understand what was happening. My dad’s eldest brother was dying from cancer. He hadn’t been around much during my childhood, so I didn’t have different memories of him—happy memories—to take the place of the sights and smells of death I’d experienced that day.

Heni was being cared for at a private hospice facility with only about twenty beds. I checked in with the nurses at the reception desk before being guided down a short hallway to Heni’s room. I could almost pretend it was like the first time I’d met her for my bedside manner practicum, except the hospice center was oppressively quiet and there were no programming bulletin boards or cafeteria options listed on the walls.

Heni’s door was closed. I knocked softly before entering. The room was light and bright, but just as bare as her room in the nursing home. A chair by the window. A side table where her framed picture of Frank sat. There were flowers, though—so many bouquets covered every available flat surface. I hoped her children had brought them.

Heni lay in bed. Only her head was visible above the blankets. I had expected to see a variety of medical devices surrounding her bed—a heart monitor, an IV with a morphine drip, at least—but there were none.

My feet were silent as I entered the room. “Hi, Heni.”

She turned her eyes toward the sound of my voice. A soft smile graced her tired features. “Hunter.” 

I held up the glass baking dish. “I made blueberry pie.”

With a grunt of exertion, she sat up in bed. “Let’s have some of it.”

“Is that allowed?” I worried.

“When you’ve only got a few days to live, dear, they let you do whatever you want.”

My limbs felt weak. “You really only have a few days?”

“Yes,” she said sternly, “so let’s break into that pie before I’m gone.”

I’d had the foresight to bring along two plates and two forks, but not a knife to cut the pie. I did the best I could with one of the forks.

“You got tan,” she observed.

I clumsily dished chunks of blueberry pie onto a plate. 
“I was outside a lot this summer; I got a job planting flowers.”

“That must have been nice,” Heni said with a wistful sigh. “Being outdoors.”

I handed her a mangled slice of pie and pulled up a chair near her bed. “You’ve got quite the garden in here,” I noted, gesturing to the flower arrangements.

Heni grunted—her go-to reaction for most things. “Yes. My ungrateful children finally visited me. It only took the threat of me actually dying. Probably worried I’d write them out of my will if they didn’t show up—not that I’ve got much to pass on.”

All of this talk about death and inheritances put me on edge. I felt nearly as uncomfortable as the first time we’d met. Despite my numerous questions, I didn’t know what to say. I ate more blueberry pie instead.

Heni made a humming sound and set down her fork. “This is lovely, dear. Your crust is flakey and the filling isn’t too sweet.”

“Thank you. I followed your recipe.”

Heni took another bite. “You’re well on your way to catching a man. I only wish I knew one for you.”

I slowly chewed on a piece of piecrust. Could I confide in a dying woman? Could I tell her I’d rather catch a woman?

Selfishly, I wanted to tell someone besides my French pen pal what had happened the previous night at Peggy’s. But I couldn’t burden Heni with my baggage; she had enough going on without me piling on.

I regarded my friend with a careful eye, trying to detect any changes since I’d last seen her. She was thinner, perhaps, but it was hard to tell with the blanket covering her body. Her hand shook as she brought the fork to her mouth, but maybe that was normal; I’d never seen her eat before. I always visited after lunch and left before dinner. She didn’t look like she was dying, I decided. She seemed too clear-eyed and focused to be in hospice care.

“Heni, why are you here?”

“Gastric adenocarcinoma.” 

A flashcard entered my mind. “Stomach cancer.”

She nodded. “Hunter, dear, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but don’t come back.”

Her words jolted me. “What? Why not?”

“I’m going to die.”

“You shouldn’t think that way,” I protested. “Studies say that the survival rate is highest for patients with positive attitudes.”

“I have Stage Four cancer. There is no Stage Five.”

“Are you refusing treatment?” I asked in a quiet voice.

“I’m an old woman,” she said in lieu of an answer.

“But—.”

“We all have to go sometime,” she cut me off. “For me that could be tomorrow, or maybe my heart will be stubborn and will hold on for another week, but that’s really the best I can hope for.”

“Don’t you like our visits?” I lamented. I had thought myself helpful, but maybe she’d seen me as a burden.

“Of course, I do. They were some of my fondest days at Evergreen Landings. But we’re not there anymore. We’re here.”

“Don’t you want to …” I couldn’t say the D-word aloud. “Don’t you want to do this at home?”

“Home?” she echoed, blinking rapidly. “And where would that be, dear? The place I grew up with my parents? The apartment complex where I raised my children? Evergreen Landings?”

I hung my head when no response came.

“Thank you for the pie and the visit, my dear. But if you don’t mind, I think I’ll take a nap now.”

Heni handed me her empty plate, rearranged herself on the bed, and shut her eyes.

I didn’t know how to say goodbye, knowing this would be the last time I’d see Henrietta Grange. So, I didn’t. I packed up our dirty plates and what was left of the pie and exited the private room.

 

A group of nurses were clustered in the hallway outside of Heni’s room when I left.

“Would anyone like some pie?” I offered. “If I take this home, I’ll eat the whole thing myself.”

One of the nurse’s eyes lit up. “Is that blueberry?”

“Uh huh,” I confirmed. “Homemade.”

“Ooh! We’ll take that off your hands.”

I waited while one of the hospice workers transferred the remaining pie from my baking dish to another plate. 

The questions I hadn’t been able to ask Heni herself bubbled to the surface. “Mrs. Grange in room four,” I started. “Is there any way she … I mean …” I stifled a sob. “Can you do anything?”

The woman who’d been so excited about pie now regarded me with a serious look. “Mrs. Grange has declined treatment. Our job is to make her comfortable; she’s started the dying process.”

“Process?” The word came out in a sharp tone nearly foreign to my ears.

“Are you family?” the nurse asked.

“I—no. I’m a friend.”

“I’m sure Mrs. Grange has told you she has stomach cancer. The survival rate is about three or four percent—not very good odds, even if Mrs. Grange were in the prime of her life. We’re going to keep her comfortable and help her manage the pain until the end.” She spoke in a neutral tone, using straightforward language that I was sure grieving family members appreciated.

I thanked the nurses and left the hospice center. I would respect Heni’s request. I wouldn’t be back.

I realized, as I unlocked my car and prepared to go home, that I didn’t want to become a hospice caregiver who saw death as another life stage. I had great respect for the work those individuals did, but I could never deal with death in such a casual, disconnected way. I decided then and there that I wanted to fight for life, not watch it gradually fade away.

 

+ + +

 

Sara was watching TV in the living room. She looked away from the television screen at the sound of my tennis shoes squeaking on the hardwood floor. 

“Where were you all day?” she asked.

“Visiting a friend at the hospital.”

“Co-worker or patient?”

“Patient,” I frowned.

Her mouth ticked up sympathetically. “Are they going to be okay?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

“I’m sorry.”

I crouched down and tightened the laces on my running shoes.

“I didn’t hear you come home last night,” she noted.

“It was late,” I explained. “I was quiet.”

“What did you do?”

“Went to a bar with some nursing friends.”

“A bar?” she echoed. I could hear the disapproval in her tone.

I felt the need to defend myself. Sara had a tendency to be judgmental. “I didn’t drink.”

“Where are you off to now?” she asked.

I adjusted my ponytail. “A run.”

Her eyes left me for the nearest window. “It looks like it might rain,” she cautioned.

“I’ll be fine.”

She made an unconvinced sound before returning her attention to the TV.

 

 

The hallway beyond my apartment smelled like food. It always smelled like food. The walls were thin and porous, which left little in the way of privacy. I often heard my neighbors’ conversations or the sounds of their TVs, and the scent of whatever they had had for dinner collected in the hallways. 

I sucked in a breath of fresh, clean air when I reached the front stoop outside. Sara was probably right; rain was certainly in the forecast. The sky had darkened, not from the late hour, but from a storm starting to roll in. I wasn’t planning on running very far or for very long, however, and I actually liked running in a light rain; it kept the temperature manageable and cooled off my skin as I heated up.

I took off in the direction of my usual run. The area around my apartment was largely residential, and when I’d first moved into my apartment, I’d mapped out a course that had me zig-zagging through the tree-lined streets. If I stayed on course, I was able to get in a relatively flat 10K. 

My body had the course memorized, but mentally I felt adrift. I didn’t know who I could talk to. Sara and I co-existed; we didn’t really talk about things that mattered anymore. Colette was a good friend, but she never took anything serious. Meghan had made me feel like my sexuality wasn’t a big deal, which was a relief on one level, but also disheartening on another. It was a big deal. I’d felt most at ease talking with Elle the previous night, but she was simultaneously partially responsible for my confusion.  

I couldn’t shake her. Last spring it had seemed like an impossible prospect. Why in the world would Elle Graft be interested in me? And yet out of everyone in the bar, she’d chosen to spend the night talking to me. She could have gone home—albeit to grading—yet she’d chosen to stay longer with me. I’d made a mistake by trying to kiss her. But there had to be something between us. I might have been star-struck, but I was still reasonable.

I raised my hand and forced a smile to my lips as another runner passed me by. He didn’t return my smile. He wore reflective sunglasses that hid his eyes and ran with earbuds, shutting out the noise of the world. I never listened to music while I ran. Part of it was for safety—to be aware of the people and traffic around me—but running was an opportunity to empty my brain. It cleansed my mental palate. I liked the imagery of sweating away my stress. 

I listened to the rhythmic sound of my running shoes striking concrete and tried to clear my thoughts. As I passed one single-family home after another, I imagined families huddled around the television in the living room, watching football and getting ready for Sunday family dinner. It would be dinner-time soon enough at the Dyson home. My mom had probably made something in the slow-cooker while my dad and Brian yelled at the Vikings for losing another game. 

I wiped at my cheeks, a mixture of sweat and probably tears. I wanted my mom. I wanted her to wrap me up in a protective hug and tell me that everything was going to be okay. But I couldn’t talk to her about this. Not yet.

I was a few miles into my run when I heard the unmistakable rumble of thunder in the distance. The sky was still relatively clear, and the light rain remained a gentle patter that cooled down my skin. It didn’t take long for the skies to open up though, and the formerly soothing rain transformed into something more threatening. The sidewalk darkened in spots where large raindrops struck the ground. Soon, the light concrete was entirely dark. 

My wet shorts clung uncomfortably to my thighs. My hoodie felt like it had soaked up a gallon of rainwater, and it weighed me down like heavy body armor. My socks were soaked through. They were made from a sweat-wicking material, but the rain had come on so fast and so intense, that they hadn’t been able to keep up. If I continued running, my socks would soon rub my ankles raw.  

I slowed down to save the flesh on my ankles and took stock of my options. I could head back to my apartment, but I was several miles away and the rain showed no sign of letting up. I could try to get a ride, but there were few cars on the road, and I realistically wasn’t desperate enough to get in a stranger’s car. My thoughts went to Elle and the time she’d rescued me from the elements. She didn’t live too far from where I was. I didn’t know if she would be home, but I remembered her covered front porch and the twin Adirondack chairs. 

I didn’t dwell on the idea for too long before turning in the direction of her house. My ankles started to complain when I picked up the pace. The rain continued to fall, and the hood on my sweatshirt offered little protection. Water clung to my eyelashes as I squinted into the rapidly falling rain. 

Elle’s car was in her driveway, pulled close to the detached garage in her side yard. The front lamp on her covered porch glowed invitingly, like a beacon in a storm. I hustled down the walkway, not eager to see her, but desperate to get out of the rain. 

Once under the protective covering of her front porch, I looked back onto the street. 

“Jesus,” I mumbled. 

The sky had become a dark swirl of clouds, and the falling rain slanted into the gusts of wind. I’d suspected that it might rain while I was on my run, but I hadn’t anticipated that the weather would turn so quickly or become so fierce. 

I sat in one of the Adirondack chairs that I’d admired the first and only other time I’d visited Elle’s home. The weather continued to rage all around me, and I sat, shivering in my rain-soaked hoodie, hoping for the rain to let up. 

As if mocking me, a bright flash of lightning knifed through the sky, followed by a nearly immediate crack of thunder. The wind changed direction, and the pelting rain slanted just enough to strike me even under the covered porch. 

I was at least a mile away from my apartment—too far to run in a thunderstorm even if my feet didn’t hurt—and if I didn’t want to sit in the rain, I would have to announce my presence and hope that Elle answered the door.

There was no doorbell, so I lifted my hand to the front door with little expectation that she’d actually respond to my knock. I could understand if she didn’t answer. I myself ignored intrusions to my private life if I wasn’t expecting visitors. 

I knocked on the door and grimaced at how loud it sounded. The old wooden door seemed to rattle on its ancient hinges. The knock sounded desperate to me. I followed it up with a second knock, this one far less aggressive. 

I saw first a pair of blue eyes through the cutout window at the top of the door. A moment later, I heard the mechanical sound of locks, followed by the slow, tentative creak of the front door opening. 

“Yes? Can I help you?” I heard Elle’s unsure voice, but I couldn’t actually see her through the narrow sliver of a door opening. 

I realized I might have been unrecognizable in my drenched hoodie. I pulled away the hood and took a small step forward.

“Hunter?”

Her voice was full of confusion and wonder. 

“Hi.” 

I frowned at my lack of originality, but in my defense, I really hadn’t expected her to come to the door.

I worried my lower lip. I hoped she didn’t think I was stalking her. Bumping into her at Peggy’s the previous night had been completely coincidental, but I couldn’t claim the same now, showing up at her front door.

Something seemed to have clicked for her. My soggy appearance. The dark storm clouds. The rain pelting loudly against her copper roof. My socks squishing inside my shoes. 

The door flew open.

“Jesus … come in,” she urged, ushering me inside. “Get out of this rain.” 

I released a relieved breath as I crossed the threshold. Her house was warm and dry. 

Unthinking, I grabbed the bottom hem of my sweatshirt and started to peel the saturated hoodie off of my equally damp skin. I stopped when I felt my undershirt start to come off along with the outer layer. After some awkward maneuvering, I managed to remove my sweatshirt without stripping for Elle. I pulled my hair free from the rubber band that had held it back in a ponytail. I winced in pain as a few stubborn strands got caught in the band, and I ended up ripping the hair from my scalp. 

“Did you jump in the lake with all your clothes on or something?” Elle asked. 

“No.” I ran my fingers through my hair to detangle it the best I could. “I was running and got caught in the rainstorm. Who knew it was monsoon season?”

I finally took the opportunity to really look at her. She was dressed more casually than I’d ever seen her. Her wavy, brunette hair was up in a ponytail, and she wore an oversized t-shirt over grey yoga pants that ended mid-calf. The t-shirt had slipped off one of her shoulders to reveal naked skin. I couldn’t help wondering if she was wearing a bra. Or underwear. 

“Do you always run during an apocalypse?” she lightly teased. “And at night?” 

“No,” I frowned. She probably thought I had no regard for my personal safety. “But I needed to do some thinking.” About you, I silently added. “And I always do my best thinking when I run.”

“I do my best thinking in the shower,” she replied.

Her statement hung in the air like an uncomfortable suggestion. Her eyes were fixated on me, and I cleared my throat uncomfortably. I was wet enough without thinking about her in the shower. I would have loved a hot shower at that moment, but would never be brazen enough to ask to use hers or suggest she join me. We could save water that way; she struck me as the kind of woman who cared about the environment. 

“Um. Let me get you a towel,” she offered. “You’re dripping all over the floor like a melting snowman.”

The spell broke.

“Oh no,” I worried aloud. A small puddle of water had accumulated around my running shoes where I stood. “I’m so sorry.” 

“Don’t apologize,” she dismissed. Her words said one thing, but she looked rattled. She always looked so at ease in the classroom or in her office, but I could tell my presence in her front foyer was making her uncomfortable. “Just ... stay there,” she instructed.

She spun on her heel and promptly marched down a hallway. I watched her grab a towel from a hallway closet and then duck through an open door and out of sight. 

Left alone in the front foyer, I was also alone with my insecurities. I stared at a series of framed black and white photographs hanging in the entrance way, but I didn’t really look at them. The longer she didn’t return, the more I considered escaping back into the rain. 

I could leave right now, I realized. I didn’t have to wait for her to return. It would be a miserable ten-minute jog back to my apartment, but at least I wouldn’t inconvenience Elle any further, and I wouldn’t give myself the opportunity to embarrass myself. How did I honestly see the rest of the evening panning out?

I wasn’t going to stay for dinner. We wouldn’t open a bottle of wine and watch a movie on her couch. This wasn’t a date. We weren’t even friends. The rain would continue, and Elle would offer to drive me back home, making me feel like a child getting dropped off by the responsible adult.

No sooner had I made up my mind to run out of Elle’s home, when the rain suddenly picked up. I jerked my attention to the vaulted ceiling. It sounded like nuts and bolts were raining down on the roof instead of raindrops. The rain was so loud, I half expected to see holes forming in the ceiling.

Elle reappeared in the foyer. “I think it’s hailing.”

I fought back the tears. “I really chose an awesome day to go for a run, huh?”

“You’re more than welcome to wait out the storm,” she offered with an unaffected shrug. 

I dropped my head. “I don’t want to be a burden,” I mumbled.

I should have just kept running. I would have been back to my apartment, showered, and in bed by now. I shifted my weight from one foot to the next. My shoes—heavy with water—felt like cinder blocks.

“Don’t be silly,” she assured. “It’s not like you’re keeping me from any plans. You apologize too much, by the way.”

Her statement reminded me of the previous evening at Peggy’s. She’d questioned my perpetual politeness to which I’d responded with uncharacteristic sass. That night felt like a lifetime ago, and my confidence might never return, especially around her. 

She thrust a handful of cotton in my direction. “I got you a towel and a shirt,” she blurted out. “Don’t feel obligated to put on the shirt; I just thought you might be cold. There’s pants and socks that go with that, too, if you want.”

I took the towel and dry shirt without complaint. “This is perfect. Thank you,” I said, feeling humbled. “I hate to ask, but could I get those pants, too?” I pulled at my running shorts. Even though I’d been under shelter for a while, they were still drenched and clung uncomfortably to my thighs. “I’m kind of soaked through.”

Elle bobbed her head. ‘“Of course. I’ll be right back.”  

The second trip took far less time than the first, leaving me with no opportunity to second-guess myself and my choices. 

“You can change in the bathroom,” she instructed, handing me the pants. “First door on the right.”

I didn’t need the directions. I was well acquainted with Elle’s guest bathroom. It was the same bathroom Meghan had dragged me to and had pleaded for me to hide out with her. If only Meghan could see me now. 

I shut the bathroom door behind me. I contemplated locking the door, but decided against it. Elle wouldn’t barge into the bathroom, knowing that I was changing my clothes, and even if she did, who was I to complain?

I pressed the long-sleeved t-shirt to my face and unabashedly inhaled. Her vanilla scent was absent, but the shirt smelled clean and perfumed as though it had recently been washed.

I removed my running shoes first and then my socks. I peeled off my sports bra, which had practically adhered to my skin from the rain and then my t-shirt

It was all too much. Being surrounded by her things. Wearing her clothes. The feeling was heady.

I stared at myself in the vanity mirror. I needed Colette. I needed to freak out and tell someone what was happening. Elle was practically in pajamas. I was in her clothes. A storm raged outside, and we were alone in her house, together. 

She’d let me stay. She hadn’t kicked me out, which wouldn’t have been in her character but could have been a possibility. But she hadn’t offered to drive me home. How easy would it have been to rush outside to her car and drive the short distance to my apartment? Surely that would have been less of an intrusion or burden than opening her house to me for who knows how long? 

I took a few calming breaths. I had to get a hold of myself.

In dry clothes, albeit not my own, I began to feel more like myself. Clutching my soggy running clothes, I left the bathroom in search of my hostess. I found her in the open-plan kitchen, preparing hot water on the stovetop.

As I padded, barefoot, into her kitchen, I was keenly aware of how naked I actually was. The clothes were a good fit, but they left little to the imagination. I started to doubt my decision to go without my sports bra even though it was still soggy, fully aware of how thin the t-shirt was and how the cold weather had tightened my nipples. I felt her eyes sweep over me in silent appraisal. 

“What should I do with these?” I asked, gesturing to my running clothes. 

She cleared her throat and held out her hand. “Here, I’ll hang those up for you by the fireplace.”

I pulled my damp clothes back against my body, holding them against me like a shield. “You’ve already done more than enough. I can certainly manage to hang them up myself.”

She nodded, humming, and turned back to the stove.

I laid out my running clothes on the stone hearth in the living room so they could start to dry. With no fire in the fireplace, it would take some time for them to be wearable again. 

I paused in front of the mantle. Above my parents’ fireplace one would find an assortment of framed photographs of my brother and me from throughout the years. Elle’s mantle was empty. It made me curious about her family. Did she have siblings? Nieces and nephews? Was she close to her parents? Were they still together? I was literally wearing her clothes, yet I was no closer to chipping away at the enigma of Elle Graft.

“I’m heating up some water if you’d like something hot to drink,” she called to me from the kitchen. “Tea? Hot Chocolate? Instant Coffee?”

“I’ll take some tea if it’s not too much of a bother,” I called back.

“No trouble at all. You have a preference of flavor?” she asked.

“Mint if you have it? It reminds me of my grandmother. She’d make it whenever I was sick.”

I shuffled back to the kitchen and leaned against the kitchen island. Elle continued to work with her back turned to me. When she stood on her tiptoes to reach for a container on a higher shelf, I couldn’t help admiring the defined muscles of her bare calves. I tore my eyes away when I realized what I’d been doing. Elle had graciously opened her home to me, and I was repaying her generosity by openly ogling her body.

“You planning on getting sick?” she asked.

“Well, I’m sure running in this weather doesn’t help.” I trained my eyes on the dining room window instead of her body. It continued to storm outside.

How long would I be allowed to stay? I wondered. Would she kick me out before my clothes had dried? And if so, would she let me borrow the clothes I was wearing? If nothing else it would give me another excuse to see her. I would be able to return The Bell Jar to her campus mailbox, but not a set of clothes without raising a few eyebrows.

The shriek of the teapot pulled me from my thoughts. Elle retrieved a ceramic mug from an upper cabinet and poured hot water into it. 

She plunked a teabag into the mug. “So, what’s on your mind?” she asked.

She scooted the cup of tea across the kitchen island. It was a plain white mug with the outline of the state of Michigan printed on it. 

“What’s this deep thinking you had to do so desperately that you went outside without a life preserver?” she probed.

I cradled the tea in both hands and let its warmth travel through my hands. The fragrant mint invaded my senses. She wanted to know the reason for my run. Why I’d thrown caution to the wind and had gone on a soul-searching jog despite knowing it would more than likely storm. I stared into the murky swirl of the mug’s contents instead of into the inquisitive gaze of the woman who’d unknowingly tormented me for a good portion of a year.

I took a breath. “There’s this girl,” I haltingly admitted. “And I can’t tell if it’s just a silly crush on my part, or if it could actually be something.”

I tentatively looked up from my cup of tea to gauge her reaction. Did she know I meant her? Was my affection written plainly across my face? 

The corners of her mouth twitched. “Oh really?” There was a falsetto tenor to her voice that sounded out of place. Normally her voice was a much lower register. Was she upset? Curious? Was I reading too much into it? Did she even care?

I dipped the tip of my pointer finger into my tea and swirled the liquid around while I waited for it to cool. Patterns followed the direction of my finger. “I don’t know what to do about it though,” I continued. “I’ve never had to pursue someone. I’ve always been the pursuee.” I wrinkled my nose. “That isn’t even a word.”

In truth, I didn’t have much experience with either. If I’d been pursued at all I typically hadn’t been all that interested.

“I’ll turn off my English professor button and let that one slide.”  

Her cell phone, which had been sitting silently on the kitchen countertop, suddenly jumped to life. The screen lit up and the phone vibrated with an incoming text message, but I stood too far away to read it. Elle snatched the phone off the counter and fumbled with the device. She yanked open a nearby drawer and shoved her phone inside. It was an odd reaction to receiving a text, which made me all the more curious what the message had been and who had sent it. 

The phone had interrupted my moment of bravery. My tea was still too hot to drink, and I didn’t know what to say anymore. If I kept talking about this mystery woman, I was sure to spill the beans and tell her the truth.

Elle only stared at me, not contributing to our previous conversation or changing the subject. I grew frustrated with the situation. Why couldn’t she just read my mind? Why wouldn’t she wade through the double-speak of our conversation and realize she was the one I wanted?

My frustration turned to claustrophobia. The walls of the house were a prison. Her clothing I wore were my chains. Even the sensation of my damp hair against the back of my neck had become too much to suffer.

I gathered my hair in my hands to pull it into a bun, but the chain of my necklace had become tangled in a lock of hair. I tugged at the silver cross—a present from my grandmother when I’d made first communion—but felt the tug on my skull as well. 

I shuttered my eyes to keep from crying. “Fuck,” I muttered under my breath.

“Hold on,” Elle instructed.  “You’re going to rip your hair out.”

My hands froze in their frustrating task, and I waited while Elle rounded the kitchen island. She stood behind me and took my necklace in her hands. I could practically feel her breath on my neck. We’d never been so close before. There had always been something between us—a desk, the kitchen island, a bar table. 

I stood, frozen in place and staring straight ahead, while she worked. The tips of her fingers periodically grazed the back of my neck while she concentrated on freeing my stubborn hair from the links on the chain. Every time her fingertips brushed against my skin, I felt it everywhere. My skin warmed as though she were a flame.

“There,” she announced when the last strands of hair had been released from my necklace. “All fixed with minimum carnage.” 

I touched the cross against my collarbone. “Thank you,” I said in a near-whisper.

Elle continued to stand directly behind me. I could feel, but not see, her presence. “Not a problem.”

I had to know if I had a chance with her. I knew my gut was probably wrong, just as it had been the previous night when I’d forced myself on her, but playing careful was only going to continue to torment me. The What If’s of the moment would never give me peace. 

I thought about Heni—brave Heni in 1945, and how she had gone after what she wanted. A girl can follow the rules for only so long.

I turned on my heel to face her. In our bare feet she was slightly taller than me. I looked up at her through my eyelashes, not wanting to so obviously stare.

“Why won’t you touch me?” I choked out.

The words were vague, but my actions were not.

I grabbed her hand by the wrist and pulled it to my chest. The palm of her hand slid roughly over my breast with only the thin t-shirt between us. Before I could arch into her touch, she’d jerked her hand away.

What had I done?

The words of apology tumbled from my lips. “Oh, my God. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The tears I’d worked so hard to suppress sprung anew and gathered in the corners of my eyes. “God, I’m such an idiot. I don’t know why I thought you’d …” I shook my head until I thought I heard the rattle of my brain. “You’re amazing, and I’m such an idiot.”

I scrambled to escape, first to the fireplace where my damp running clothes hung. “I-I’m just gonna change quick, and then I’ll go,” I promised to her and to myself. My hands shook terribly. I couldn’t steady them. “I’m sorry for taking advantage of your hospitality.”

I couldn’t make myself look at her; I’d tormented myself enough for one day. I trained my eyes to the hardwood floor and scampered towards the guest bathroom. 

A solid hand captured my wrist. Strong, sure fingers curled around my lower arm, and I found myself being spun in the opposite direction of where I had intended to go. The air escaped my lungs when my body collided into Elle’s. Her fingers remained firmly wrapped around my wrist. 

If I had gasped any louder, I might have missed her next words:
“This is probably a giant mistake.”

She crushed her lips to mine with the same velocity as when our bodies had come together. My brain couldn’t register what was happening. One moment I was escaping with my figurative tail between my legs, and the next I was being inexplicably kissed by Elle Graft.

The pressure against my mouth was so overwhelming that I almost didn’t feel her hand move to cup the nape of my neck. She pulled me closer still until I felt the entire length of her body pressed against mine. A shiver—a small convulsion—traveled down my spine and then through my legs. I grabbed onto Elle’s firm biceps to avoid collapsing to the floor.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

Her sapphire eyes searched my face. She tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. It was too much like one of my library fantasies for me to believe any of this was real.  

When I didn’t immediately respond, she started to apologize. “I’m sorry. Should I not have done that?” 

I finally pulled myself together. I slid my hand up the back of her neck and stroked my thumb back and forth across the soft, warm skin. “I’ve wanted you to do that for so long.” 

Not needing to be told twice, she bent down and recaptured my lips with her own. I tasted her again for the third time in two days, but instead of this kiss being the result of miscommunication and my over-eagerness, I knew she wanted this as much as me. I kissed her back with an intensity, a ferociousness, reserved for no one else. 

She sucked my bottom lip into her mouth and lightly bit down. The contrast of her sharp teeth and soft lips had me gasping for air. Her mouth was yielding, but hungry. Everywhere I touched she was soft and perfumed. My daydreams couldn’t compare to the real thing.
But unlike in a dream, I needed air. I pulled back just enough from the kiss in order to breathe.

I didn’t remove myself from her entirely. I remained close with my arms draped around her neck and brushed my lips against hers. “This isn’t at all like how I imagined it,” I breathed. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

Her hands tightened at my waist. “How was it supposed to be?”

“I seduce you, but not looking like a wet mop.”

A grin formed on her face, first just at the corners before it took over her whole mouth. “You imagined this?”

My transparency had me sheepishly ducking my head. “Maybe a few times,” I mumbled.

Her fingers touched my chin, and she gently guided my head back up. Our eyes locked once more. “Well, it’s nice to know I wasn’t alone in this.”

“R-really?” 

Her admission was more than I could believe. Had she really thought about me like that? For how long? When had it started? Why hadn’t she done anything about it?

Impulse took over; I dropped to my knees, barely conscious of my kneecaps knocking roughly against the hardwood floor. My eager fingers grabbed onto the sides of her grey yoga pants, and I tugged them to the floor.

I couldn’t help the needy groan that escaped my throat when I discovered she’d only been wearing the yoga pants. She looked like perfection. She was more perfect than even my active imagination could have conjured. Even if I’d watched all the pornographic movies on the entire world wide web, it couldn’t have prepared me for this. 

“What are you doing?”

I heard her question, but I was too far gone to respond. I was on my knees, and Elle was naked from the waist down.

My hands went to her smooth, upper thighs, and I leaned forward to taste her. There would be no dipping my toes into the proverbial pool—this was a cannonball. I took my first taste, diving between her folds. I wiggled my tongue deeper to seek out her clit. My heart beat wildly in my chest as I kissed and licked and sucked the woman I’d wanted for so long.

I licked the length of her wet slit and my nose bumped into her protruding clit. I felt her knees buckle, so I did it again, mashing my face into her sex. Elle grabbed onto my shoulders, and I heard her quietly curse.

“Oh, fuck.”

I continued to lick her hard, spurred on by the way her body responded to mine. Her hips jerked in time with every thrust and stab of my dedicated tongue. I wanted to make her feel good; I wanted her to know I was worth any misgivings or doubts she might have. I wanted her to come undone.

There was something else I wanted to do—something I didn’t know if I was confident enough for. I released one of her thighs and blindly reached for her naked sex. I didn’t stop until my fingertips brushed against her naked sex.

I could have continued that way forever despite the reminder from my body that I was kneeling on a hardwood floor. But her frustrated grunt and a solid hand to my shoulder had me pulling away.

I leaned back to give my kneecaps some respite. I looked up to Elle for some signal or word of explanation. I couldn’t believe she’d stopped me mid-… mid-… didn’t even have the vocabulary for what we’d been doing. 

“I can’t,” she grunted. “Not like this.”

I could still taste her on my lips; my frustration bubbled to the surface. “Why not? I want this.” I threw caution to the wind. “And it’s clear you do, too,” I boldly added.

She tugged on the waistband of her yoga pants and shimmied her pants back into place.  “That’s … that’s not what I meant,” she said, barely containing a chuckle. “I just mean I can’t get off when I’m standing up. I was going to suggest we relocate.”

My eyes widened. Oops. I’d totally misread that. “Oh. Well, now I’m embarrassed by that little outburst.”

Elle offered her hand to help me stand up. She pulled on my arm, and the rest of my body followed. My breath hitched in my throat when our bodies collided.  The storm that continued to rage outside was nothing compared to the emotions swirling around in Elle’s kitchen.

She continued to regard me in silence. I wished I was privy to her thoughts. The momentum had been stalled, and I worried if we would be able to get out of our heads long enough to get it back. I knew she must have serious doubts about me. There was obviously the age and experience difference to consider. I was no longer her student, but I didn’t know if my school had a rule against this kind of thing. Was I jeopardizing her job just by being here? 

Elle didn’t release her hold on my hand. Our fingers intertwined, a feeling more intimate to me than even kissing. She led me out of the kitchen. When she’d suggested we relocate, I didn’t know what she had in mind. But all became clearer when we bypassed the living room, still hand-in-hand, and began to climb the stairs to the second floor.

Oh God.

We were going to her bedroom.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter TWENTY

 

With our hands clasped together, I had no choice but to follow immediately on Elle’s heels as we climbed the staircase to the second floor. She scaled the stairs at a steady, but unhurried pace. We turned right when we reached the top floor, and she led me down a darkened hallway. She dropped my hand, which had grown damp with nervous perspiration, to find the overhead light. 

Her bedroom was large and tidy. The bed was made, and there were no unlaundered clothes on the floor. The closet doors were shut, and mirroring the first floor, no framed pictures or knick-knacks cluttered the bureau of clothes or the bedside table. Even in her home decorating, Elle remained secretive.

When she released my hand, I began to fidget. “You have a lovely home. I meant to tell you that when I was here for the English Department’s party.”

“Thank you.”

I felt myself losing my nerve and slipping back into a practiced politeness that appeared whenever I didn’t know what to do. If this didn’t happen now, I recognized, it was never going to happen. We would spend the rest of the night being awkward and overly polite.

I launched myself toward her and crashed my mouth against hers. I was no expert at kissing—especially women—but I did what felt natural. When I slid the tip of my tongue along her lower lip, she gasped against my mouth. I took advantage and thrust my tongue into her open mouth to rub my tongue against hers. It wasn’t gentle or polite or careful, and she didn’t seem to mind.

The feeling of her running her hands through my still-damp hair jolted my awareness. This was actually happening; it wasn’t one of my dreams. I wasn’t going to wake up from this. 

I no longer felt immature or inexperienced in her presence. She reciprocated every touch with a sigh and a gasp, letting me know she was just as much into this as me. Emboldened, I brushed my fingers against the bottom hem of her shirt. I wanted her naked; I wanted to feel every part of her. Her entire body seemed to quiver when I slid my hands across her tightened abdomen.

But before I could remove her top, Elle’s fingers gently curled around my wrists. 

“At the bar last night, you mentioned this was fairly new, um—,” she struggled to finish the sentence, “territory for you.”

I pursed my lips. I knew what she was asking without having to actually verbalize the question.  “And you want to know if this is my first time.”

She nodded.  

I tucked my lower lip into my mouth. I didn’t want to appear naive and inexperienced, but I was. I couldn’t lie. As soon as we got more physical, she’d be able to tell. 

“This is my first time,” I admitted. “With a woman, I mean. I’ve had boyfriends.”

“Who I really don’t need to hear about,” she jumped in with a nervous, machine-gun laugh.

I felt the heat on my cheeks, and I looked away to hide my embarrassment. I didn’t want to mess this up—whatever this was—but I seemed determined to do just that. “Sorry.”

I looked back to her when she brushed away the hair that had fallen in front of my face. Her touch was exceedingly tender. She brushed stray hairs away from my face with a touch so delicate it made me feel like a precious and delicate treasure, something to be kept under lock and key. 

“We don’t have to do anything.” Her sapphire eyes regarded me with warm concern. She was being so careful, so deliberate to ascertain my consent, but I had no doubts about what I wanted. 

“I can’t stress that enough, Hunter.  I don’t want to pressure you if you’re not ready or you’re uncomfortable.” 

Her fingertips fell away, and I resisted the urge to grab her hand and return it to my face. Now that she had touched me, I never wanted it to stop.

“I can give you a ride home right now,” she offered in earnest. 

“While I appreciate your concern—it’s all very chivalrous of you,” I added. “I really want this, Professor—.”

“Okay, so as hot and incredibly taboo as that sounds,” she interrupted, hands comically flailing, “and I can’t even pretend that doesn’t play into practically every fantasy I’ve ever had,” she added, “you can’t call me Professor or Doctor Graft ever again. You have to call me Elle or I can’t do this.” She motioned between our bodies with my hand.  “Whatever this might be.”

I was thankful for the correction, more than she would ever know. Without the honorific between us, the labels and divisions fell away. I wouldn’t entirely get out of my head, but it was what I needed to assure myself that she saw this as much more than some illicit teacher-student affair. I wanted be equals. To simply be two women who found attraction and potential in the other.

“I think I can manage that, Elle.”  

I pulled on the front of her shirt and guided her toward the bed. I’d enjoyed tasting her for the first time on the kitchen floor, but this time I aimed for more comfort. I kept my eyes trained on her face, which was flush with emotions, equal parts playful and concerned.

We fell onto the mattress with Elle on top of me. Her knee slid between my thighs, and as much as I wanted to play it cool, I was unable to stifle a low, telling moan when her solid thigh connected my covered sex. 

She took advantage of my open mouth. Her tongue brushed against mine, and I pressed up against her long, lean body. I couldn’t get enough of her body. I wanted her touch, yet I wanted to be constantly touching her now that I had permission. My hands roamed her curves, memorizing the map of her body. 

She kissed me into the bed and pressed her knee harder against the juncture between my thighs. An involuntary moan, almost a whimper, escaped my body each time her knee connected. I clawed at the back of her t-shirt, eager for there to be no borders between us, not even those made of a cotton-poly blend. 

She broke off the kiss long enough to sit back. Before I could question her intentions, she wordlessly smiled and pulled me to a seated position as well. My breath hitched in my throat when her hands gathered the bunched-up material of my shirt near my midsection. She carefully lifted the shirt up and over my head, ever mindful of my hair. 

I didn’t have time to dwell on my partial nakedness; all of those realizations diminished when her hands reached for the bottom hem of her own top. She yanked her shirt off with far less care with which she’d removed my own. I could feel myself gawking, but there was little I could do to stop it. Elle Graft was naked from the waist up. 

She reached for me; she cupped the back of my head and guided me back to a reclined position on the bed. She slowly lowered herself onto me, inch by inch, until our naked breasts finally touched. I clung to her sides despite there being nothing to grab onto. The feeling of her impossibly soft breasts pressed against mine was almost too much.

I lifted my head from the pillow to match her aggressive kiss. I panted into her mouth rather than breaking away to breathe. Our teeth gnashed together as our tongues wrestled for dominance.

I felt her hand between my thighs where her knee had formerly pressed. I bucked into the feeling. She dug her heel into me and rubbed in a lazy, wide circle. The pressure itself felt amazing, and her movements even more so, but that itself wouldn’t be enough to help me achieve orgasm despite my hair-trigger response to her. I grabbed her shoulders and thrust my pelvic bone to meet the ministrations of her hand. My fingers dug into her firm frame while I desperately sought more friction below my waist.

I wanted to cry from frustration when she pulled away again. The abrupt starts and stops assured I was never going to find release. And each time she broke off a particularly heated kiss, I worried it might be our last. All of this was too good to be true; I was sure that she’d eventually come to her senses and send me home. 

As I lay in her bed, I struggled to catch my breath as if I’d just run a great distance. I wasn’t physically tired so much as emotionally spent. She’d put my heart through a gauntlet over the past few months. 

She’d utilized no physical restraints, but her dark eyes had me pinned in place. She ran her fingertips down the center of my body—a butterfly-soft touch down my neck, between my naked breasts, and stopping at my abdomen. I wanted to watch it all, but the sensation of her tender caress had my eyes fluttering shut.

My eyes snapped open when I felt something warm and wet on my breast.

“Oh God,” I gasped.

Elle fluttered her lips and tongue against my naked breasts. She planted her hands on either side of my body and dipped her head to kiss the underside of my right breast. Her tongue wiggled a warm, wet line up to my sensitive nipple.

I choked out a strangled cry when she lashed the length of her tongue against the hardened bud. She lightly nibbled on my nipple, causing my back to arch off the bed. I saw stars when she sucked my breast into her mouth and flicked my nipple back and forth with the tip of her tongue. I held the back of her head, pressing her more tightly against my body. 

My upper body was preoccupied between me holding Elle’s head and she laving attention on my breasts, but it still wasn’t enough. I used my legs like arms and wrapped them around Elle’s torso. It felt so good to feel all of her body against mine. I groaned when my center connected with her midsection. I lifted my hips off the bed, seeking more contact.

Maddeningly, she moved with me, rather than against me, denying me the friction I craved. Each time I rolled my hips or thrust my lower body against hers, she mimicked my motion acting like a shadow instead of my mirror image. She seemed determined to resist my most carnal desires.

I needed more, and I wasn’t above begging. “Please, Elle,” I whimpered.

My plea didn’t fall on deaf or unsympathetic ears. Her fingers curled beneath the waistband of my borrowed pants. She didn’t immediately remove the garment; her eyes searched my face, looking for something in me. Hesitation? Doubt? Reticence?

I didn’t have the words to reassure her, but I lifted my backside off the bed, a silent sign of my eagerness. She dragged the sweatpants down my hips and thighs. The soft material slipped past my knees, and with a kick of one leg, I assisted in removing them entirely. 

As before, she took her time. While I’d dived into her, practically face-first, Elle showed an astonishing amount of restraint. She ran her hands over my upper thighs. Her soft touch ghosted over my skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Her hands traveled higher up my thighs until they rested where upper thigh meets pelvic bone. When she dug her thumbs into my hipbones, a jolt of pleasure washed over me. I wanted to feel her mouth on me, but I didn’t know how to ask for it without sounding pushy or demanding. With my silence I was forced to endure her achingly slow pace that had me unraveling at the seams.

Her hands remained on my upper thighs with her fingertips firm against my hipbones and her thumbs dipping between my inner thighs. Her fingers were immobile with the exception of her thumbs. She’d begun a rhythmic up and down motion; on the down-stroke, the tips of her thumbs brushed against my most sensitive flesh. 

The mattress dipped and shifted beneath me as she slid lower in bed until her head was level with my bellybutton. Her hands stayed on my thighs as if she worried I might flee; yet I had no intention of leaving her bed. She dipped her tongue into my bellybutton, causing me to squirm—less from the sensation and more with the promise of what else her tongue could do to me.

She continued to press her lips against my quivering skin until she was positioned between my anxious thighs. Her breath was warm against my shaved skin, and my whole body tensed in anticipation. I clutched at the comforter, balling up the material in my hands. 

I released a breathy sigh at the first touch of her tongue against my outer lips. Everything clenched as her tongue tentatively explored my folds. Her warm breath on my skin forced me to relax. 

Her fingers tightened on my upper thighs before she sank her tongue inside me. 

“Oh, my God.” 

I released my hold on the duvet to grab the back of her head. My fingers dug deep into her hair, and her tongue plunged even deeper. My lower body jerked as if electrocuted when her nose bumped against my clit. I heard her rapidly swallow and watched the muscles in her throat working as she greedily drank from my sex. She moaned against me, making me feel the vibrations everywhere.

I called out her name when her tongue retreated to flick against my engorged clit. My hips jerked and bucked off the bed, but she only held me tighter.

I no longer worried about sounding too demanding: “Please, Elle,” I gasped. “I need your fingers.”

Her mouth twisted into a knowing smile. It hadn’t escaped my notice that she hadn’t spoken in a while, but then again, her mouth had been preoccupied with other things. I propped myself up on my elbows so I could watch everything. If this was the first, but also last time that I had sex with Elle Graft, I wanted to commit everything to memory. 

She ran her palm down the center of my abdomen. Her hand continued to travel south before flipping over, palm side up. She traced along my outer lips with just the tips of her fingers. One and then two fingers pressed against my opening. 

Her gaze lifted to mine as she slowly pushed forward. I watched her middle and forefinger disappear to the second knuckle. I sucked in a sharp breath at the new intrusion. I normally masturbated with one finger; I felt myself stretch around her demanding fingers.

She pulled her fingers out and spread my liquid arousal across my shaved sex. My early arousal seeped from my sex and coated her two fingers. She pushed her fingers deeper the second time and remained motionless while I adjusted to the feeling.

Before I could get too comfortable, however, she dipped her head and sucked my clit into her mouth. I could hear the telltale click of sex as she pushed and pulled her fingers in and out of my sex with even and steady strokes.

“Elle … Oh God,” I groaned. “I’m so wet for you.” It felt as though a dam had broken between my legs.

Her eyes closed as she continued her dedicated attentions. My legs twitched and jerked while she lapped at my clit. Short bursts of pleasure jolted through my body.

She couldn’t have known it, but our foreplay had begun long before that night. I wasn’t going to last very long. My stomach muscles tensed. “I’m gonna …” I gasped.  “I … I’m so … so … close.” My whole body jerked and spasmed. “I—Oh, God. Don’t stop, please don’t stop.” 

Elle lifted her gaze; her eyes looked practically black. “That’s it. Cum for me, Hunter,” she coaxed. “Let yourself go.” Her pistoning fingers quickened inside me.

Her words alone would have been enough to push me over the edge, but the combination of her fingers and her mouth had me screaming towards my orgasm.

“God, Elle.” A low, throaty moan bubbled up my throat. “Fuck. Fuck. It’s so good. I can’t … I … Oh, God. Oh, yes. Your fingers. Yes, just like that,” I encouraged. 

My lower body moved in time with her, meeting her thrust for thrust. Her knuckles connected with my pelvic bone each time she plunged her fingers into me.

I heard her praise over the rhythmic squeak of the mattress. “You’re so gorgeous,” she murmured before recapturing my clit between her parted lips.

“Oh, shit!” 

My body involuntarily shot upright in bed. I grabbed Elle and pulled her head harder against me. My fingers instinctively entangled in her loose locks.

“Elle. I’m … Fuck!!”

Oh, my God.

I was no longer in control of my body. I fell backwards, like falling several stories from a high building. But instead of hitting solid earth, the back of my head hit Elle’s pillow. 

My eyes were too heavy to open. I was short of breath, and my heart hammered in my chest. I exhaled, letting all the air out of my lungs. I finally released the death-grip from Elle’s hair. Her scalp was probably sore.

Elle gingerly eased her fingers out of my swollen sex. She placed small, tender kisses on the insides of my still-shaking thighs. 

“Good?” 

I didn’t know why she needed to ask. My body felt so relaxed, like all of my bones had melted.

I flexed and curled my toes.  “God, Elle,” I groaned. “So good.”

Her arms appeared shaky and unsteady as she crawled up the mattress to my level. She pulled up rumpled sheets from the bottom of the bed to cover both of our bodies. She rested her head on my chest. I was sure she could probably feel the heavy pounding of my chest against her ear. 

When I took a great breath, she did the same, and we simultaneously exhaled. Eventually, I would regain feeling in my extremities and be able to return the favor, but for now I was content to just be still with her.

My fingers found their way back to her head, and I stroked her hair as she continued to lay on my chest. I let the chestnut strands slip through my fingers. The moment—running my fingers through her hair, how she used my sternum as a pillow, and our mutual comfortable silence—felt nearly as intimate as the sex itself.

I could see myself falling in love with this woman. It would be so easy.

I might have already been there.