Until she kissed Honey.
Honey and Savannah didn’t leave Savannah’s bedroom for one hundred years. At least, that’s how it felt. Cool Leonie referred to it as love soup: the sensation of being completely submerged in another person. Savannah was in the soup, and it was delicious.
It wasn’t until Savannah kissed a girl that she realized how much she needed—craved—softness. Softness of skin, of lips, of hair, of voice. How much she’d been trying to enjoy masculine hardness because that’s what she was supposed to like. And now a galaxy of possibility had opened up. And it all started with one gorgeous brunette who was permanently sequestered in Savannah’s twin bed. A brunette with Hope’s independence, Faith’s sass, and Grace’s inner goodness.
“I’m so into you,” Savannah kept repeating, as they rolled on top of each other. “I’m just so into you.”
“I told you,” Honey would giggle. “I knew it.”
Now, early on a Friday evening, Savannah admired how cute Honey looked, dressed only in Savannah’s Kentucky Wildcats T-shirt and boy-short underwear, as she peered into the fridge. “What are we going to eat? If I eat any more pizza, I’ll turn into a pizza.”
“I know,” Savannah groaned. “I need to buy groceries. I’ve been… distracted.”
“We could go out.”
Out. Savannah was struggling with going—or really, being—out.
They had gone out a couple of times, to get pizza or happy hour wine. But Honey wanted to hold hands and make out, and while Savannah pretended she was cool with that, she wasn’t. It felt like too much. Like they were on display. Holding hands with a woman in public, having a girlfriend, marked her as different. Outside the norm. And on top of all that was her faith. She was pretty sure her God loved her, and accepted her for who she was, without caveat. But she wasn’t absolutely sure. The hipster churches in Brooklyn were open-minded. The regular churches in Kentucky were way more traditional. And the idea of being alienated from society or her faith because of who she was dating made her feel afraid. Which is why it was easier not to think about either.
Savannah followed Honey into the kitchen. “Can’t go out. Too far from bed.”
Honey laughed and hopped up onto the kitchen counter. “Let’s go away for a weekend. My friends are dying to meet you. You’ll love them; they’re hilarious.”
Savannah had read that lesbian relationships move fast. But this was warp speed. “You told your friends about me?”
“Of course. I was thinking it was time we were ‘Insta official.’ ”
Honey said it like it was a joke. But Savannah knew she wasn’t joking. Apparently her entrepreneurial spirit also extended to relationships.
“Hey, do you remember,” Honey said, “when we first met, you asked me when New York started feeling like home?”
Savannah was too nervous over where this was going to do anything other than lie. “Um, yes?”
“It felt like home when I met you.” Honey looked deep in Savannah’s eyes. Too deep. Way, way too deep.
“I’m starving,” Savannah blurted. “We need takeout—Thai food sound good?”
She was across the street and ordering chicken pad see ew before she knew it. God bless New York: a million dinner options from around the world on a single block.
They hadn’t discussed Savannah’s sexuality. Honey seemed to believe it was now a moot point, as relevant as discussing alien conspiracy theories after being sucked up by a silver spaceship. But Savannah didn’t bring it up because, ultimately, she had no idea what all this meant. Yes, she liked Honey. But was she gay? Bi? Queer or questioning? Into all women or just into Honey? Was it an experiment? Or something more permanent?
She was starting to understand that sexuality existed on a spectrum. But figuring out where she fit on that spectrum felt like seeing color for the first time and instantly being asked to pick her favorite. Honey was gay, and the way she felt about sex with men was the way Savannah felt about wearing flannel: hard pass. But Savannah couldn’t say with absolute certainty she’d never have feelings for a guy for the rest of her life. She knew she didn’t need to define herself, and even if other people wanted her to, it wasn’t any of their business. But the fact remained that for reasons she could name and reasons she couldn’t, she wasn’t comfortable moving at the same pace as Honey.
Savannah retraced her steps to the loft feeling apprehensive about the coming conversation. But as she approached the front door, that apprehension distorted into something weird and disorienting. There were voices inside that weren’t her roommates or their friends. As she turned the key in the lock, Savannah had the surreal feeling she was stepping back into her old apartment in Kentucky, falling through layers of time and space.
The two people standing inside turned and beamed at her. “Hi, Pookie!”
Her parents.
Were in New York.
With Honey. Who they’d been talking to. Her mom was wearing sneakers and a Patagonia vest, even though it was eighty degrees. Her dad was in a Hawaiian shirt. Savannah’s heart started thrashing about in her chest. It took her several seconds to remember how to speak. “M-Mom. Dad. Wh-what are you doing here?”
“Visiting you!” Sherry was smiling so hard her eyes were slits. “You said it was a great idea!”
Savannah recalled an email from weeks ago: Dad found a last-minute deal from Louisville to NYC! Should we take it? She’d barely skimmed it, whipping off a distracted reply: Sure, whatever, great idea. They’d never followed up. She’d assumed it was a pipe dream.
“This is a fun neighborhood, huh?” Terry glanced out the window and frowned. “Very cool.”
“Yes, it’s very… urban, isn’t it?” Sherry added.
Honey crossed her arms. She’d put on a pair of Savannah’s sweats. She looked like she did when serving drunk douchebags at the bar—outwardly pleasant, inwardly steely.
Terry was looking around the loft like he wanted to torch it. “You said four people live here?”
“We were just chatting with Honey,” Sherry said, turning to her. “Now, do you live here too?”
“No,” Honey said, looking at Savannah.
“This is my…” Savannah stared back at Honey. She imagined saying girlfriend This is my girlfriend. Her parents wouldn’t even hear that, they’d hear girl friend, and she’d have to correct them, No, Mom, this is my girlfriend, this is someone I’m dating. She imagined the silence. Twin blank looks. The Is this a joke?, the I’m sorry, what’s happening? The shock. The confusion. The nervous laugh, the sudden need to sit down. And then, as the truth of what she was saying sunk in, the horror. Not so much that she was dating a woman, although it certainly would not be good news. The horror that over the course of the six short months since she’d left her home state, their only child had turned into someone they didn’t even recognize. Didn’t even know. Or—and possibly, this was worse—that she’d been lying to them. For years. Willfully deceiving them about who she was. “Friend.”
Honey blinked. Just once.
Sherry addressed Savannah. “We booked a hotel in Times Square, so I guess we’ll just get a cab? We’re only here for the weekend, but I thought we could see a Broadway show and Dad wants to see some baseball—”