“Charles is sober.”
“Ugh.” Zach grimaced. “Of course he is.”
Darlene narrowed her eyes. “Which I actually really respect.”
“Oh, yeah. Me too.”
“But there’ll probably be wine at the dinner afterward,” she added, patting his arm.
Zach slouched further in his seat. Now, there was a dinner he’d have to attend full of brilliant, bookish people like Awful Charles and Jon Favreau and AOC—people who made him feel as insightful as a loaf of white bread. He grabbed Darlene’s hand and tugged her toward him, feeling needy. “Why don’t we skip it? There’s a good little wine bar up the street. We could get high, play footsie under the table.”
Darlene extracted her hand from his. “I told you we’re here as friends.”
The word slapped him across the face. “Why do you keep saying that?”
“Because,” she replied coolly, “it’s the truth.”
Zach fought the impulse to scream. When would Darlene admit that they were made for each other, that they were falling in love? She could have his money, all of it. Darlene was his future, and the trust was only important in that it’d enable them to be together as much as possible. Why was she insisting they were “friends”?
Maybe because, for her, it was just about the money. Maybe she wasn’t feeling the feelings he was feeling at all.
The lights dimmed. Awful Charles and Rachel Maddow came onstage to rapturous applause. Charles was preening, activated by the crowd, which Zach found both familiar and sickening. “Wake me up when it’s over.”
Darlene looked unimpressed. “You might want to rethink the whole anti-intellectualism thing, Zach. It’s not very attractive.”
Zach deflated like a sad balloon. That was it: whatever attraction she’d felt had worn off. She’d realized that being open-minded and kind and all those other nice things she’d said that night when she defended him in front of his family just wasn’t enough. His insecurity sickened him—he knew it was about as appealing as the “whole anti-intellectualism thing.” But he couldn’t control it.
Zach’s heart tore at the edges as Darlene trained her gaze on Charles.
58
Savannah flung open her front door, feeling like a wind-up toy let loose. “HI!”
Honey instinctively swayed back. “Hi.”
“Come in, come in. Gosh, you look so pretty. Is it too hot in here? I can turn up the AC, I just cannot seem to get the temperature right!”
“It’s fine.” Honey’s expression was bemused. Her summer tan had faded the spray of freckles across her nose. Savannah had the urge to touch them, connecting each dot, one by one. Honey frowned at her. “Do I have something on my face?”
“What? No. Ha! So good to see you.” She launched herself at Honey for a hug.
“Ow.” Honey wriggled. “Little much.”
“Sorry.” Savannah leaped back, embarrassed. “Just happy to see you! It’s been so long and I—” Am nervous and excited and scared and everything because I think I want to kiss you and I have no idea how!
“Savannah.” Honey’s brown eyes were gentle and possibly tinged with mirth. “Calm down, okay? Why don’t we have a drink and put the movie on.”
“Yes. Of course. Great idea.” Savannah restrained herself from offering five more affirmations.
Honey had traded jeans and a T-shirt for cutoffs and a T-shirt. Savannah had decided on a short summery romper, with just a touch of lip gloss and blush. It was too hot for much more.
Honey poured two glasses of the rosé she’d brought and asked if Savannah’s roommates were home. Arj was working, Leonie was visiting her parents in New Jersey, and Yuli was working on his latest young adult novel in a coffee shop.
“Just us,” Savannah said, as if this was a coincidence and not a well-executed plan.
“Great.” Honey’s tone was so noncommittal, Savannah couldn’t read it at all. Their conversation from last month sounded in her mind: I don’t want to get my heart broken by a straight girl.
But what if I’m not straight? is what Savannah wished she’d said. How do I know?
Savannah Shipley had accepted that, yes, she was definitely very interested in kissing a girl. Specifically, Honey. But she’d invested her entire romantic life in the steadfast belief—the knowledge—that one day, she would marry a man. Just like everyone else around her. And dismantling that idea was as overwhelming and impossible as asking one to demolish a house with a teaspoon. The foundations were too solid. The structure was too big.
And yet, there was: I only liked it because everyone else did.
Her New York vision board, with its central clipping of a hot guy in a tux, had been stuffed under her bed for weeks.
Honey sat on the sofa. “What are we watching?”
Panicked, Savannah doubted her choice. It was undeniably an offering. The first tap of that teaspoon against solid brick. “I thought we could check out a show called, um, Feel Good.”
Honey almost did a double take.
Savannah busied herself with pouring cheese puffs into a bowl. “I don’t know, it sounded fun, but we don’t have to if you’ve already seen it.”
Honey curled up at the far end of the sofa. Her eyes rested on Savannah curiously. “I saw it. But I’ll watch it again.”
Savannah’s phone vibrated. Dad Calling. She felt a flicker of guilt. But she wasn’t doing anything wrong. She turned her phone off. “Let’s do it.”
Feel Good was about a Canadian comedian living in London named Mae Martin who started dating a girl called George, who’d never dated another girl before. They were kissing in the first ten minutes and then they moved in together and then it came out that Mae used to be an addict but that didn’t matter because Savannah was already in love with Mae, and George, and the idea of Mae and George together. It was familiar and alien, and Savannah was experiencing a disorienting whiplash of recognizing a version of herself in George, a fictional character from a different world. With different rules.
When the episode ended, she immediately pressed play for the second one. Then the third. Then the fourth.
“Savannah?”
“Huh?” Savannah startled, finger on the remote.
Honey stretched, looking amused. “Can we take a break?”
“Oh. Sure.” Savannah checked the time and blushed. “Sorry.”
Honey rose to get the wine from the fridge. She poured them both a glass, emptying the bottle. “I take it you’re into it?”
Savannah nodded, the words spilling out in a rush. “Holy mack, it’s amazing. It’s funny and smart and obviously, um, sexy. I really like George and Mae is just so hot. She’s like a pretty boy and a pretty girl and I’m really into it.”
Honey laughed. When she sat back down on the sofa, it was closer to Savannah. Her cheeks were flushed from the wine. She propped her hand up with her head, her fingers buried in her dark curls. “Do you think she’s your type? Or are you just into girls, in general?”
Savannah inched closer. It felt like sharing a secret. An illicit, exhilarating one. “Maybe… girls in general?”