Best Lesbian Romance 2012 Page 4

  She took her time looking, long enough for me to not only make and drink a cup of java, but also reheat some of yesterday’s potato and sweet pepper frittata and arrange smoked salmon on two plates.

  She returned to the kitchen and flushed pink. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’ve obviously come at a bad time, if you’re having company for breakfast.”

  I put a hand on her shoulder, pushing her onto one of the high stools at the breakfast bar. “This is for you. You have to eat, right?”

  She eyed the plate. “This looks delicious.”

  She said it in a way that I knew she had reservations, but I ignored them and passed her the silverware. She demolished the smoked salmon, but only nibbled at the frittata, managing to pick out the vegetables, leaving the egg on the plate.

  I refilled her coffee mug. “Are you allergic to eggs? I’m sorry, I should have asked.”

  “No, I’m just careful what I eat.” She paused. “Have you decided you can’t live with me because of that?”

  “The room’s yours if you want it. Six hundred a month, including Internet and cable, plus half the bills.”

  She smiled, showing slightly crooked white teeth. She was pretty, and the uneven teeth made her more interesting than if they’d been perfectly straight. Perfection is its own flaw.

  “Today?” she asked, hopefully.

  “Perfect! I’m cooking tonight. We can get to know each other better.”

  Get to know each other we did. After dinner—of which she’d picked at the roast pork, but devoured the vegetables and eaten a couple of spoonfuls of coconut pudding—we took our wine and relaxed on the couch. The TV stayed off, and we concentrated on learning about each other. We both liked sci-fi series; Joanna even admitted that once she’d dressed as a Klingon and attended a Star Trek convention. We both were politically active for GLBT rights, and we figured out we’d been on the same same-sex marriage march to the capitol building last year.

  And all the time we talked, I was mesmerized by her shiny jagged cap of hair and neat, compact figure. I was conscious of the thrum of desire building deep in my belly that said, yes, this is a gorgeous woman. One I wanted to know better. One that I wanted to kiss—and more. With her legs curled underneath her on the couch, she looked absurdly young, more a waiflike elfin child than a woman. But her long, graceful fingers curled around her wineglass confidently, and when she set her full lips to the rim and flicked a wicked glance at me from underneath her lashes, I knew this was no child.

  I tried to contain my response to her. Seducing housemates has never been a good idea, even if she could possibly be interested in a cuddly blob of laziness like me. Sleeping with a housemate is a fast track to rattling around in an empty house by yourself wondering how you’ll make next month’s rent.

  “Rule Four,” I’d told Jazz one evening a couple of years ago, when I’d lost another housemate after we’d ended up in bed after Mexican food and margaritas. To me she’d been a friend with benefits; to her, I’d been The One.

  “What’s Rule Four?”

  “Never seduce a housemate. Keep it separate.”

  “What are Rules One through Three?”

  “No idea. I’ll think of them later.”

  I’d had many housemates since that time, and many lovers, but since the instigation of Rule 4, they had never overlapped. And I’d never been particularly tempted—until Joanna. Joanna got to me in a way neither lovers nor housemates had. It wasn’t only that she was gorgeous (and she was), it was her humor, the way she ate so healthily and carefully, but could put away a bottle of red wine with ease. It was how she’d tiptoe down the stairs to go for her run at some unearthly hour but always forget about the loose stair and curse like a sailor when it creaked. It was how she’d always wash up if I cooked. Best of all, I loved how she never lectured me on my unhealthy habits or dropped hints about exercise. Often when I’d creep in from a late shift at the restaurant where I worked, she’d be sitting on the couch in her pj’s, a tumbler of red by her side, her glasses sliding down her nose and a book in her hand. She’d put down the book and pour me a glass of wine, following me as I padded around, shucking my uniform in random pieces around the house. Joanna would step over the black and white check pants without complaint, and then she’d prop herself in the doorway of my bathroom while I showered, and we’d carry on a shouted conversation over the running water.

  I fantasized about her, of course. In my most persistent fantasy she didn’t stay propped against the bathroom door, hidden from me by the corner and the misted shower screen. Instead she’d surprise me by opening the shower door and walking in. In my fantasy, she’d prop her ever-present glass of red on the soap holder and wind wet arms around my neck. Her clothes would cling to her, and she’d press her body to mine and kiss me without talk or explanation, simply her and me and wet, hot kisses under the shower spray.

  Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, every time I took a shower, I’d have to fight to keep the thoughts away. And my post-work ritual involving the shower spray and a knee-jerking climax had to stop. Because if she ever did walk in on me, I didn’t want her to think she wasn’t required.

  We’d often go out together, especially on weekends. We had many friends in common, and of course we shared the same haunts—the city’s only two dyke bars, the breakfast place on the park that did great eggs Benedict (although Joanna would scrape off the hollandaise sauce). Sunday afternoons, especially when the weather was cold and the wind threatened to carry us up and over the mountains, we’d often go to the bookstore downtown. We’d sit in the slouchy couches, one at each end, with a pile of books from the shelves and a big mug of moccachino (me) and a skinny latte (Joanna) and see who could find the most outlandish piece of prose in a book.

  After a few months, it was as if Joanna had always been there with me. She was like a girlfriend in every way but one: we didn’t sleep together.

  “How’s Rule Four going?” Jazz asked me one day as we sat out in the rear yard in the weak sunlight that comes with spring.

  “Good.” I took a slurp of the pink zin that Jazz likes. “Are you gonna cut my hair? It’s getting a bit long.”

  “Are you tempted to break it?” she persisted. “Rule Four. Not your hair.”

  I stared up at the tree overhead, which was gaining the first fuzzy buds of spring. “Do you think I should get a dog? It would make me take some exercise.”

  “You’d make Joanna take it running with her,” retorted Jazz. “Stop changing the subject.”

  I faced her. “Why do you ask? You’ve never cared before if I broke my rule.”

  Jazz hesitated, her round face earnest as she tried to explain. “It’s just we never see you without Joanna. We never see Joanna without you. You’re more of a couple than most couples. And... Well, if you’re not going to crack onto her, there are others who would like a chance.”

  “You?”

  “Yeah. I would. But if she’s yours, Sam, then I’m not going to butt in.”

  I took a swallow of wine. The chill was leaving the glass and it was sickly sweet. I wrinkled my nose. “Why d’you always buy this pink stuff?”

  “Why d’you drink it?” snapped Jazz. “A simple yes or no will suffice. Can I ask Joanna on a date, or will I be treading on your toes?”

  “That’s not a yes or no question.”

  A small bird hopped from the tree above my head to the windowsill. Joanna’s windowsill. Who was I to cocoon her from my friends, from people who might be perfect for her, just because I liked her? She was the housemate with whom I got on the best. I shouldn’t upset that by trying to worm my way into her panties—even if she’d give me a passing glance.

  I chucked the rest of the pink zin into the pot of basil. “Go ahead, then. Ask her.”

  It was the next day before I saw Joanna. I came home from the restaurant and found her curled up in her pj’s in her usual chair watching a Star Trek rerun. She uncurled when she saw me and ambled to the kitchen. “Want a glass of wine?”
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  “Sure.”

  “I’ll bring it to you in the shower.”

  I headed off to the bathroom and tried in vain to quash my usual fantasy. How would Joanna get the wine to me in the shower unless she carried it in? The picture in my head of her wet and smiling, glass of wine in hand, pressing her body against mine under the shower jets as the wine diluted with shower water wouldn’t leave my head. I went so far as to check that the shower cubicle was clean and free of grime before I stopped myself. Joanna wasn’t mine to seduce, and I would do well to remember that.

  I was washing my hair when I heard her at the bathroom door. “Wine’s on the counter,” she said. Her voice came from around the corner, her usual spot, propped in the doorjamb.

  “Thanks. I need that tonight.”

  “Want me to bring it in to you?”

  Her words, light, teasing, mischievous startled me so much I dropped the soap. Picking it up, I straightened and banged my head on the shower caddy and bottles of shower gel, shampoo, and facial scrub ricocheted off the shower walls.

  “Hey, it’s okay. No need to escape in terror. I’ll stay out here.” Her voice was closer, still amused.

  “It’s not that,” I mumbled. “Just dropped the soap.”

  “What was so bad about your day that you need the wine?”

  I considered as I soaped my stomach. What bits could I tell her? “The pastry chef dropped three dozen eggs in the cold larder. Then there was some asshole customer who sent back his salmon. ‘It’s obviously been reheated in the microwave,’ he said. As if.”

  “I didn’t think you even knew how to use a microwave.”

  I wasn’t imagining it, Joanna’s voice was closer. I still couldn’t see her; she must be just out of sight, around the corner. “That’s your domain. Microwave cooking.”

  Back to normal. Good one, Sam. I was proud of how even my voice was. No need to tell Joanna about the other bad bits of my day—the part that involved sitting on the back step of the restaurant kitchen, wondering if Jazz was inviting Joanna for sushi, or to the ballgame, or for a hit of tennis in the park. Wondering what Joanna would say. Whether she would accept.

  I grabbed the loofah and attacked my elbows rather than think about it.

  “I had a good day,” said Joanna in conversational tones. “Settled a big case at the courtroom door. Good settlement too. And I got asked out.”

  “Um,” I said and scrubbed harder. Here it comes. I turned the water up in a vain attempt to drown out the inevitable.

  “Don’t you want to know who asked? It’s someone we both know.”

  I turned my face up to the spray and closed my eyes, rinsing shampoo out of my hair. “Who?”

  “Jazz.”

  I tried to read her voice. Was it excited? Jubilant? Complacent? But her tone was carefully nonchalant.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Who says I accepted?”

  My eyes flew open. Her voice was definitely closer. She still wasn’t visible, but she must be just around the corner. To prove my guess, I saw her slim arm snake out and grab my wine from the counter.

  “If you’re not going to drink this, I will. It’s a rather nice shiraz. I’d hate for it to go to waste.”

  “I’ll drink it,” I mumbled. “But it’s kinda difficult in the shower.”

  “She asked if I’d like to have a hit of tennis.” A pause, and I imagined her setting her full lips to the wineglass, leaving a smear of lip balm. “I didn’t know Jazz played.”

  “She took it up a few months ago.” Jazz’s reason was now very obvious. Joanna was fit and sporty; Jazz must have thought a shared interest would give her more of a chance.

  “She’s lost a bit of weight lately. That must be why.”

  “Yeah.” I tried not to let the hopelessness infuse my voice. Joanna had noticed Jazz’s weight loss. So there was no chance for cuddly, inactive me. Even if I were interested.

  The soap slipped out of my grasp. Who was I fooling? Not Jazz, not me. Of course I was interested. Rule 4 would be blown out the window if I had any say in it. I wanted Joanna, in my home, in my life, in my bed. I bent to pick up the soap again, hoping the running water would cover my heavy sigh. I’d had my chance when Jazz had asked if I minded, and I’d blown it. Now I just had to minimize the damage, not let Joanna know, not make it awkward for Jazz.

  “So when are you going?” I asked. “There’s a nice sushi place near the courts, you could go there afterward.”

  “Who says I’m going on a date?” Her footsteps sounded on the tiles. “Sam, if you’re not going to drink this wine, I’m going to finish it. Which would be a pity, as I poured it for you.”

  And then her figure appeared around the corner, glass of wine in her hand, half-smile on her face. She opened the shower door and paused, considering.

  Oh God. My fantasy, so close yet so far. I tried for nonchalance. Holding the loofah in what I hoped was a suitably casual pose down over my pussy, I reached for the glass with the other hand. “Thanks.”

  Instead of handing the glass over, she took another sip. My eyes fixed on the smear of lip balm she had indeed left behind.

  “I like Jazz. She’s funny, and kind and good to be with. I’m flattered she asked me.”

  “And she’s sporty and is looking pretty good.”

  “Do you think that’s what I’m looking for? Someone like me? Oh!” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “That came out wrong. I’m not saying I look good.”

  “You look great. I’ve always thought that.” The old Sam would have said that. The Sam who was Joanna’s buddy and housemate would have offered the compliment without hesitation.

  Joanna’s eyes raked boldly up and down my body, and my breath caught in my throat. “You look pretty good yourself right now.”

  “I have love handles.”

  Her eyes settled on my hips, revealed by the inadequate loofah I still held. “You have curves. Not handles. I like curves.”

  If this were any other woman, I would have taken that as a blatant come-on. An invitation. But in our months of living together, Joanna and I had fallen into a comfortable routine. It wasn’t the first time she’d complimented me on how I looked, but it was the first time she’d said it in quite that tone of voice: low, caressing, almost a purr. As if she were stroking my skin with her words. I wondered how much wine she’d had.

  “I need to exercise more. I have muscles underneath this padding. It’s about time I found them.”

  “I think you’re fine, just the way you are. Cuddly bits and all.”

  The conversation was moving into the surreal. It would move into the bizarre if she said she didn’t want to go out with Jazz, she wanted me. Or if she acted on my fantasy and stepped into the cubicle.

  Joanna took a big breath and the wineglass trembled in her hand, its contents vibrating like soft-baked meringue. “Jazz is lovely, and I’m going to meet her for tennis sometime. And she did ask me for sushi afterward, but I said no. She wanted a for-real date, with kisses, and maybe sex, and a relationship up for grabs.”

  I held my breath. There was a “but” in there somewhere, I could hear it in her voice.

  “I told her it wasn’t fair. That I’d fallen in love with someone else.”

  I clutched the loofah tightly. The way she was saying the words—softly, as if she were a little afraid—made me hope.

  “Thing is, the person I’ve fallen in love with likes me. I know she does. We do everything together. But she’s got this stupid rule—”

  “It is a stupid rule.” My voice sounded unnaturally loud in the shower cubicle, even over the rushing water.

  “Is it?”

  I could see her face, her eyes huge, but brave, meeting mine without hesitation. “Rules are made to be broken. Jo—”

  And then I couldn’t continue, because the shower door opened wider, and suddenly she was in the shower with me, that stupid wineglass clutched tightly in her hand. The water poured over our heads, sluicing our bo
dies. Her pj’s were wet, and she laughed, a free and clear sound, and then she was in my arms and red wine spilled down my back as she wrapped her arms around my neck in a stranglehold and her lips crashed onto mine. The kiss was hot, and above all wet. Very wet. She tasted of shiraz and laughter. My hands roamed her body, exactly as in my fantasy, learning her shape, how she felt under my hands. The crashing noise in my head was the sound of Rule 4 smashing into a million tiny pieces.

  NOTE TO SELF

  Geneva King

  Note to Self: You’ve been set up on a blind date with your ex.

  Your dating life is officially shot to hell.

  “Danielle?”

  “Kizzy?”

  We stare at each other for an uncomfortable minute. It’d taken me six long months to get over our breakup, and even then I’d had to convince myself I’d really been dating Satan in disguise.

  If she is the devil, she’s gotten a serious makeover. No snarling fangs curl from her gums or pointy horns rise from her scalp. I can only see the front of her, but I’d wager there’s no leathery tail protruding from her backside either.

  Instead, she looks gorgeous, more proof that life is sublimely unfair.

  Her face breaks into a smile and she envelops me in a hug. “Darling, it is so good to see you! How have you been?”

  Darling? And why is she talking like she’s afraid of contractions? A year ago, y’alls had decorated her speech like gaudy jewelry. I hug her back, trying to ignore the scent that engulfs me. It smells expensive. And good.

  “Well.” Now that we’ve observed the niceties, I’m not sure what to do. “I’ve already got a table.”

  She beams and I notice her chipped tooth is no more. Actually, everything in her mouth looks a bit...straighter. Whiter too. “We should eat. Besides, I want to catch up.”

  This is a bit too weird. I know the lesbian social network is small, but give me a break.

  Note to Self: Kill Merrill.

  “Do you go by Jessalyn now?”

  Kizzy/Jessalyn nods. “I thought it was more professional. Kizzy sounds so backwoods country.”