Chapter 2: I Kissed a Girl

“You kissed a girl.” Jacqueline pushed back her large sunglasses so she could gape at me better. She glanced around our office to make sure no one was listening. Roger, our boss, walked by and waved.

When he was gone, she focused her attention back to me and shook her head, her fiery red hair flowing with each turn of her head.

“You kissed a girl.”

“And I liked it,” I joked.

Because seriously, if I let myself think too much about it I was sure I’d go insane.

Olivia had left without a word after our kiss. I floated upstairs in a dream state, passed out, and woke up to the sun with a hangover from too much red wine and kisses. I didn’t know what to do, and I was late for work.

At first I didn’t want to tell Jackie. I didn’t know how she’d take it. Then she handed me a report and the words “I kissed a girl” plopped right from my mouth.

She didn’t think my joke was funny. Her peach lips frowned at me and she squeezed further into my cubicle. “I’m trying to wrap my head around this ... Who was it?”

“Olivia Beringer.”

Her eyes popped open. “That artist you were telling me about? Holy shit. You saw her again?”

“She asked me to dinner. I couldn’t say no.”

Jacqueline pulled over a chair and sat down. At least she wasn’t horrified by me, or worse, scared of me. She pulled at the sleeve of my shirt. “More. Tell me more. Now.”

I told her about how Olivia sent the painting, how there was this crackling awareness around her, how I’d never had such an amazing kiss before. Jacqueline listened to my whispers with amazing patience, nodding and swallowing when I described how suddenly nothing was more appealing to me than Olivia’s body.

“Is it like that with ... all girls?” Jackie asked, becoming self-conscious for the first time since I told her I might be gay.

I rolled my eyes. “How the hell should I know? I’ve only been aware another woman could excite me for about twelve hours.”

She ran her fingers through her hair and shifted awkwardly on her seat. I got the drift.

“No. I’m not thinking about you like that.”

I could have sworn she looked relieved. “Maybe it’s just a phase. Or maybe you’re, like, just into her art. Sometimes really talented people are just naturally hot. I’ve never been exposed to anything like that; maybe I’d become a dyke if I was around such power.”

“What if it’s not a phase? What the hell would I tell my parents?” I asked. I ignored the questionable use of dyke, and the strange way she seemed to be explaining away my experience. My amazing, once-in-a-lifetime experience.

She stared at me like I was a moron and let a small smirk creep across her face. She gathered up a few papers, stood, and gave one last shake of her head. “It’s a phase because it’s just not you, Liz. I know you.”

My friend walked away, leaving me wondering just how much she knew me. And just how much I knew myself.

Later that afternoon my cell rang just as I was getting that groggy I-need-another-cup-of-coffee feeling. I peered at the screen and saw it was Olivia. That perked me right up.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Elizabeth,” she said. She always sounded like she was smiling.

“Olivia. Hi. How are you?” I sounded like a moron.

“Fine, you?”

“I’m ... okay.”

“Would you be available for dinner tomorrow night? I was thinking you could come over to my place.”

“Your place?” I’m sure I squeaked.

“Would that be okay?” Her laugh was blowing away all my second thoughts.

“That would be lovely.”

“I’ll text you my address. Ta, darling.”

She hung up before I could say goodbye or change my mind.

Saturday morning I woke to five missed calls from my mother and one “WHERE ARE YOU?!” text. The woman thought that if I didn’t respond to her immediately I was dead in an alley somewhere. No matter how many times I reminded her I was 28 and that I’d been living on my own for many years, she couldn’t accept the fact I lived a separate life. I dialed her number with reluctance and she picked up before the first ring even finished.

“Where have you been?”

I looked at the time. 9:40 AM. “Sleeping, Mom.”

“This late?”

“I like to sleep in on the weekends. Like a normal person.”

She made a noise under her breath. “I wanted to invite you over for dinner tonight. You haven’t come over in months.”

I loved my mother—truly—but she was a neurotic woman that had a habit of accentuating my own anxieties and turning me into a frayed mess by the end of a visit. My father was a quiet man who often fed into her worries. Going over for dinner wasn’t something I particularly looked forward to.

“Can’t tonight, Mom. I have plans.”

“Ooo, a date?”

Ugh, sort of but I couldn’t tell her that! She’d want to know all the details and I couldn’t articulate them yet. I was still in denial about the date part, too.

“Dinner with a friend.”

Mom sighed. “Always dinner with a friend, never ‘movies with the boyfriend’. I worry about you, honey. You haven’t dated in the longest time.”

“I went on a date the other night with a coworker. It was a disaster.”

My dog Toronto jumped on my bed. He must have realized I was awake and was now demanding a walk. He nudged my knee with his cold, wet nose and I squealed into the phone.

“What? What was that?”

“Just Toronto,” I sighed. “Look, I’ll try to stop by for dessert or something. Tomorrow would work better.”

“I don’t want to guilt you into it.”

“You’re not.” She was.

I fought the desire to just hang up. Talking to her was such work. “I just have plans with Olivia and-”

“Who is that? I’ve never heard of an Olivia before.”

Rolling my eyes, I slipped into pajama pants and hooked Toronto up to his leash. “She’s an artist. I met her the other night. She’s really great.”

Mom was quiet for a minute. “You’re going out on a Saturday night with an artist?”

I walked out into the brisk Saturday morning and stomped through a couple of inches of snow on the ground. Mom acted like an artist was a different species. Rolling my eyes, I pulled Toronto closer. “That’s what I said.”

“I didn’t know you hung out with artists.”

“Okay, Mom, gotta run. See you tomorrow maybe? Give me a call.”

“Elizabeth, I-”

I pressed end, not feeling very guilty.

Olivia lived in an impeccable brownstone in Brooklyn. My mouth dropped when I saw it. Honestly, I shouldn’t have been so surprised. She clearly had money. Still, seeing the tall brick building, exuding wealth and status in New York, was intimidating. And knowing the occupant made me shiver. I rang the doorbell and quickly shoved my hands back into my pockets to keep them warm.

She answered the door wearing a stunning purple dress that drifted all the way to the black heels she wore. Her stunning brown eyes were lined with thick makeup and looked all the more exotic for it.

“Elizabeth,” she exhaled, like she didn’t know if I’d show or not. And truthfully I’d thought about turning back around about fifty million times.

If last time wasn’t entirely wasn’t a date, this was.

I blushed and smiled. “Hi.”

“Come in. I’m just chopping some onions.” She wiped at her eyes. “Any of my makeup leaking?”

I smiled while stepping over the threshold. “You look perfect.”

Olivia shut the door and checked me out. Her whole face glowed. “Thank you. You, too.”

I followed her to her kitchen where bunches of different pans sizzled. It smelled delicious.

“I love to cook,” Olivia said, waving to the mess in front of us. “It soothes me.” She poured me a glass of wine, clinked my glass with hers, and watched me over the rim as she took a generous sip. “What soothes you?”

It took me a few minutes to think about it. Olivia let me stutter while she went back to chopping.” I-I’m not ... Well. I don’t know.”

“You need to relax, honey. Maybe I’ll give you a massage later.” She grinned at my blush. “No one takes care of you, do they? Or you don’t let them, perhaps.”

Sipping at my wine, I shrugged. I was uncomfortable. She sensed it and changed the conversation.

“Long, hot baths soothe me, too. I think about a lot of my work in there. Images I want to see painted.”

“I like baths. Bubble baths.” I smiled. “I take one every night, actually.”

Olivia’s eyes scanned my body. “Interesting. I’d like to see you unwind. Anyway, we’re having chicken tonight. I thought I better play it safe with you.”

“God, I’m beginning to worry you think I’m boring!” A nervous laugh bubbled up from my chest.

“No,” Olivia snickered. “I don’t invite boring people over here. I’m just scared of you, a little.”

My eyes widened. “Scared of me?”

“You’re intimidating in your own quiet way. So smart.” She cut into the flesh of the chicken, trimming its edges before throwing it into simmering oil. The scent of the onions cooking wafted over and my mouth watered. “And I don’t want to do anything to freak you out.”

It was calming in a way to hear that Olivia had fears of her own, in spite of her composure. It dawned on me later that maybe she was playing them up to get me to relax, but no matter what it helped to relieve the tension in my shoulders. I let out a long breath and gave her the first genuine smile of the night.