Best Lesbian Romance 2010

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Introduction

  WHEN WE ALMOST MET

  COMING OUT PARTY

  THE ONLY GIRL I WANT

  FIVE

  THE OUTSIDE EDGE

  YOU ARE A FULL MOON WITHOUT CLOUDS

  FIRSTS

  SOAKED

  I NEVER THOUGHT OF LOVE

  GIRLS AND THEIR CARS

  HARD TO HATE HER

  QUEENS UP

  RECLAMATION

  THE LETTING GO

  THE LAST DANCE

  ALL IN

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  Copyright Page

  INTRODUCTION

  Love is one of those rare experiences that engage us on every plane—the mind, the heart, the spirit, and the body. The totality and intensity of the sensation probably explains why love and romance are such powerful drivers in our lives, urging us to connect deeply and intimately with others without reservation. Love has been likened to psychosis, albeit mostly a pleasant one—making us forgo our ordinary caution and rationality, sometimes risking heartbreak and disappointment, in order to share our deepest selves. Romance is the vehicle of that insanity—seducing us, amazing us, and in the best of times, freeing us to become more than we have ever been before. As with love, the nature of romance changes as we change—as we risk, as we lose, as we grow, as we triumph.

  The stories selected for this anthology are as varied as our unique and irreproducible experiences of falling in love, of being in love, and of remaining in love—for a moment or a lifetime—and as universal as the commonality that we as lesbians recognize in our struggles and our victories to love who and how we choose. Anna Meadows’s “Coming Out Party” and Erin O’Riordan’s “Soaked” capture the wild exuberance and agonies of young passion; Dalia Craig’s “The Last Dance” assures us that what begins in a moment of insuppressible desire may indeed prove to be the substance of a lifetime if we are brave enough to embark on the adventure. Sometimes we take that chance and lose, but Cheyenne Blue’s “Five” and Kris Adams’s “Hard to Hate Her,” remind us that we can emerge from disappointment and broken dreams stronger, braver, and able to embrace the wonder of love again. As in Jacqueline Applebee’s “I Never Thought of Love,” the relationships that change our lives don’t always arrive with fanfare, but sneak up on us, becoming so much a part of the daily landscape of our existence that our lives are changed forever almost without our knowing. Whether recounting the headlong fall into love at first glance or the subtle force of fate and circumstance that leads us to see the true nature of love in a different light, as with the two competitors in Renée Strider’s “Girls and Their Cars,” the stories in this anthology celebrate the joy, the diversity, and the passion of lesbian love in all its many wondrous forms.

  Radclyffe

  WHEN WE ALMOST MET

  Evan Mora

  We almost met in 1993, and again in 1998. We might have met on campus, or later, in a bar; we could have met just walking down the street. It would be eight more years before we found each other, but I believe we’ve crossed paths many times before, we two. Sam and I.

  In the fall of 1993 I was eighteen years old, a freshman in university, wide-eyed and naive, transplanted from my hometown of nine hundred to a city of three million, and a university of forty thousand. Daunting to say the least.

  “Do you want us to stay?” my parents asked when the boxes had been unloaded, and I was terrified at the thought of being alone in the sea of strangers that moved around us.

  “No,” I replied, my resolve marginally stronger than my fear. “I’m good.”

  So many new faces, so much to learn, so many discoveries yet to make. I played a lot of sports, made good grades, snuck my way into too many bars, and dated some forgettable guy.

  In the fall of 1993 Sam was twenty-three. She was in her last year of law school, living with her girlfriend right around the corner from my dorm. She did volunteer work for a legal aid clinic on campus, worried about paying the bills, and fell asleep every night in the arms of someone she loved.

  I spent a lot of time in the law library; I imagine that she did too.

  One of my roommates really wanted to get into law school. We studied in the law library because she said it inspired her. I went along because it was quieter than the dorm, and less congested than the main campus library.

  How many times were we there together, I wonder? Did we spend an afternoon side by side, immersed in our respective texts? Or did we, perhaps, cross paths at the door—she on her way in and me on my way out? I wonder if our eyes ever met. What would she have seen in the fresh-faced country girl I was then? Would her heart have tripped just a little, the way it did all those years later? Would I have felt that telltale fluttering in my stomach? The one that told me I was in trouble the minute she said hello? Maybe.

  But she was in love, and I had that guy…. I’d never kissed a girl, and she was already trying to build a future. We couldn’t have met then, could we? No. We weren’t ready yet.

  In the summer of 1998 I was twenty-three. I had a good job with even better hours—perfect for endless summer nights at the bars. I loved the atmosphere, loved the heat and the smoke and the heavy beat of the music. I was in love with loving women, and in love with the game. A shared glance across a crowded room, tentative smiles and shy flirtation, the delicious feel of two bodies moving sensuously together on the dance floor. I’d been with a woman or two—people I’d met through work—but that summer was definitely my first season in queer society. I felt more at home in my skin than I’d ever felt in my life.

  In the summer of 1998 Sam was twenty-eight. She was a hotshot young lawyer with the world at her fingertips. She worked hard and played harder. She calls that summer her “summer of disrepute”—and from anything I’ve ever heard, the name fit. The stories say she could make a girl cross the length of the room with no more than a gesture. She’d leave her friends shaking their heads as she tossed a smile over her shoulder on the way to the door, arm thrown casually around the shoulder of her newfound companion. No one ever asked her if she remembered their names.

  I don’t know how we didn’t meet that summer. Seems impossible, really.

  With her short dark hair falling casually across her forehead, already streaked with the silver that draws me like a magnet, there’s no question that she would have caught my eye. I’m fairly certain I would have caught hers too.

  What might have happened, had our eyes met then?

  I would have smiled at her, I’m sure. I might have looked down for a heartbeat, but there’s no doubt I would have looked again, a coy smile playing at the corners of my mouth. She would have been smiling that cocky, self-assured smile I know so well—the one that screams sex appeal, and really, well…I would have been lost.

  She would have gestured for me to come, and I would have mimed a little Who, me? back to her. She would have nodded and I would have paused, pretending to consider what required no consideration at all before slowly making my way to her side.

  She would have given me some bad line, and I would have laughed at how terrible it sounded…but I still would have let her buy me a drink. I imagine standing there by the bar, swirling the ice cubes in my glass while she toyed with the label on her bottle, making the kind of small talk that strangers make when the undercurrent of electricity has sparked between them, but has yet to be acknowledged outright.

  “I haven’t seen you here before,” she would have said.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I might have replied, “there are so many women here, it’s hard to keep track of all the faces….”

  “A lot of faces, sure,” she’d have cont
inued, “but none as pretty as yours.”

  It’s the kind of line that should come off sounding heavy-handed and insincere, but looking into the handsome face of the smooth, well-dressed butch she would have been then, her dark eyes promising all kinds of heaven, I would have eaten it up like candy.

  “Dance with me?” she would have said, hand outstretched to take my own. She would have phrased it like a question, but only to be polite.

  I would have slipped my hand into hers and followed her into the rich heated darkness of the dance floor, would have welcomed her hands at my waist, drawing me firmly against her frame. My hand would have traveled up her forearm, over bicep and shoulder, would have come to rest against the soft skin of her nape.

  Her dark eyes would have glittered with approval, would have caught and held mine as our bodies moved together in rhythm with the music. It’s a seduction all its own, dancing with Sam—the slow grind of her body into mine, one hand reaching up, the pad of her thumb stroking across my lower lip, the other hand sliding lower, splayed wide just above the curve of my backside, pressing me closer, her thigh between mine, a prelude of intimacies to come.

  She would have kissed me then, a deceptive kiss with gentle beginnings, teasing the corners of my mouth with soft feathery touches. My mouth would have opened beneath hers, an invitation for more that she would have gladly taken. Her mouth would have fused hungrily to mine, her fist bunching in my hair, her tongue stroking deeply against my own.

  “Come home with me,” she would have said. An offer I could not have refused.

  But we were both dangerous that summer, in our own particular ways. She was nursing a broken heart, mourning the loss of that incredible first love—the one that we always think will last forever. And me? I wanted nothing but fun, because my heart belonged to someone else—someone who couldn’t be with me, but who, from time to time, pretended she was. So we couldn’t have met then either, not really.

  How long does it take to heal a broken heart? How long does it take to recover from that kind of intense, soul-deep young love? There’s no timeline to follow, no set course to take. We each do what we need to do. We mature. We move on. We live our lives.

  Sam met someone new, and so did I. Over the next eight years our lives had many parallels, though our paths never crossed. She was happy, and so was I. We each did well in our life—enjoyed our share of successes and travels, the company of friends and the security of home.

  But every heart yearns for the one that completes it, for the one that inspires it and makes it feel free. Every heart wants the one that makes it beat faster, makes it overflow with uncontainable joy. Without it there’s a loneliness that can’t quite be defined, a quiet despair that never quite goes away.

  And so it was with Sam and me, both single again, both hopeless romantics in search of that intangible something, living our lives ignorant of each other. Then a chance meeting—a fluke—one in a million, changed both of our lives forever. Luck? Happenstance? Call it whatever you like. All these years and all these places we could have, should have met, but didn’t…and then one day, fate sits us down side by side on a train.

  I hadn’t traveled by train in years. I’m not entirely sure why I did that particular time either. I made my way down the aisle, ticket in hand, and stopped when I reached my seat. There was someone in it, lost in thought, staring unseeingly out the window. I appraised the would-be seat thief for a moment before I spoke and felt a faint stir of interest.

  “Hello?” I said to attract her attention.

  “Hello,” she returned, her eyes now on mine.

  “I think you’re in my seat?” I gestured to the window seat she was occupying with the ticket in my hand.

  “You’re right, I’m sorry.” She offered a sheepish smile, which did funny things to my insides. “I thought it might have been empty, and I’d just switch spots to enjoy the view.” She stood up and moved into the aisle so that I could take my seat, so close I could smell the subtle fragrance of her cologne.

  “Sometimes you get lucky,” I offered philosophically.

  “Yes,” she replied with a pause, “sometimes you do.”

  We talked for five hours. About everything. About nothing. We talked with the intimacy of strangers, with the fevered intensity that arises when like minds meet. There wasn’t a moment of awkward silence, and somewhere in the middle of excited exclamations of I know how you feel, and Yes—I know exactly what you mean! I became fixated on her mouth, wondering what it would feel like pressed against mine, wanting it more than I could remember wanting anything in a very long time.

  As daylight faded and the miles flew past, the atmosphere between us changed ever so slightly. The ride was almost over. She had a difficult trial beginning in a couple of days; I was visiting an aunt who’d recently moved to this city. She’d be there for three weeks, while I was heading home in a few days. We traded numbers with promises to meet again when we were both back home, but I couldn’t help but feel like I was losing something I’d only just found.

  Exiting the train station, I saw my aunt waving excitedly, and nearby, a driver holding a sign with Sam’s name on it. We stopped for a moment to say our good-byes, and she wrapped me in a warm embrace. Being pressed close to her like that in the middle of all those people was a particular kind of torture, sweet and arousing all at the same time. And if she held me a little tighter, and the brush of her lips against my cheek lingered a little longer than was customary between two strangers like we were, no one was the wiser.

  She called me that night.

  In fact, she called me every night for the next three weeks. Sometimes we only spoke for a few minutes.

  “I missed the sound of your voice,” she’d say.

  Sometimes we talked for hours, late into the night, like crazy teenagers who never run out of things to say. I became intimately acquainted with all the nuances of her voice. How it took on a bit of a husky edge when she was tired, how there was an underlying edge of strain in it at the end of a particularly trying day in court. I loved the way her voice became a low sensuous growl when we’d exhausted polite conversation and found ourselves discussing much more personal pleasures and desires. She sent shivers down my spine.

  We’d made a date for the night of her return, dinner at a nice place downtown. It seemed funny, calling it a first date, when really I felt like I’d known her forever. I was nervous though, I’ll admit that. I spent more time than I needed to getting ready, selecting and then discarding half the contents of my wardrobe before I settled on a simple green cashmere sweater and my favorite pair of jeans. It wasn’t my appearance I was worried about though, not really.

  The simple fact was, we’d only spent those few hours on the train together and had shared only that one too brief hug. I felt like I knew her intimately—we’d shared so many of our secrets and fears and wants and desires—but what if none of that translated into tangible chemistry?

  My thoughts were interrupted by the chime of the doorbell. She’d arrived. My stomach was filled with a thousand butterflies as I crossed the room and opened the door. She stood beneath my porch light in a faded leather jacket, hands buried in her pockets to stave off the winter night’s chill.

  “Hi…” I said—it seemed all I could manage. I hadn’t done justice to her in my memory. Her eyes were a richer, darker color than I’d remembered, and her mouth was more full and sensuous.

  “Hi.” She smiled, which made the butterflies go crazy.

  “Do you want to come in?” I opened the door wider. She nodded without speaking and stepped past me into the house. She was taller than I’d remembered too, I realized as she closed the distance between us. She had yet to take off her coat, and I’d barely closed the door when her hands framed my face and her mouth hungrily found mine.

  There was no hesitation in her touch, in her kiss. There were no gentle explorations or soft whispered words. There was only burning need—both hers and mine—consuming us with an intensity tha
t bordered on desperation.

  I’d worried about chemistry, but this was so much more. Kissing Sam was like…coming home, and I didn’t think I could ever get enough. She kicked off her shoes and we fumbled with her jacket, her mouth never once leaving mine. We took a couple of steps, in no particular direction, and I bumped up against the kitchen counter. Without missing a beat, her hands were at my waist, lifting me so that I was sitting atop it, and she was positioned firmly between my thighs. I moaned at the contact, which inflamed her all the more, one hand tightening at my waist, the other burying itself in the length of my hair.

  I don’t know how long we stayed like that, ten minutes? Twenty minutes? Thirty? I only know that at some point the terrible desperate need eased a little, and we could pause for a moment, even smile a little, and offer small soothing kisses to swollen lips.

  I think we knew then that we were at some great beginning. I felt it, and I could see it in her eyes. And it’s weird, but knowing that made me suddenly feel as though we had all the time in the world, for everything.

  I hopped off the counter and took her by the hand, leading her up the stairs and into my room. She sat on the edge of my bed and I stood before her, removing my clothes until I was fully revealed. For a moment she said nothing, but her eyes were alight with desire, moving over my body in an intimate caress that aroused me more than anything else she might have done.

  “You’re beautiful,” was all she said, and she held her hand out for mine, pulling me gently toward her and into her lap so that I was cradled against her chest.

  She kissed me again, slowly this time, with a devastating thoroughness that left me breathless. And while her mouth was exploring mine, her hands were discovering new territory as well. Her palm smoothed over the contour of my hip, spanned the curve of my belly, traced the bottom of my rib cage. There was possession in her touch when her hand cupped my breast, teasing my nipple into aching hardness.