“Eh, it’s bartending, I can get hired again. I wasn’t sure how long it would take me to find you.”
I was overwhelmed. “How—how long?”
“I’ve been here nine days. It might have been faster if I’d known to look at playgrounds instead of nightclubs.”
Clubs, God, that felt like another lifetime. Zane felt like along-ago dream, except that my heart still ached for him.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I should have trusted you. You deserved a real explanation.”
Zoe had been starting to fuss, and her expression now said that binky and bouncing wasn’t going to keep her quiet much longer.
“I have to get her home for her nap. Let me give you my new number.”
He took out his phone, but when he was done typing, he said, “Let me come home with you.”
“Zane—”
“You’re worried about this ex of your sister’s, right? Another person around makes you safer. If nothing else, I can mind the baby while you and Daphne have a talk, figure out how much he knows.”
I swallowed. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to. I want to be there for you.Withyou.”
“He’s dangerous,” I warned.
“Then we’ll be in danger together. Unless you don’t want me here.”
“I do,” I said too quickly. I had only managed to play it cool for about twenty minutes the first night we met. My friend, Tawny, teased me the next day about having heart-eyes. I had denied it then, but I wouldn’t now.
“I love you,” I said.
He kissed me once, quick enough for the park, but hard. “I love you, too. I should have said that when I had the chance, before. That’s what matters. Us, you and your sister, the baby—we have each other. Everything else will get sorted out eventually, as long as we hold on. Hold on to me, Callum.”
I handed him the baby and got to my feet, then put my arms around him and Zoe both. She smelled like talcum powder and sweet potato, and Zane smelled like leather and spice. Ibreathed deep. The ones I loved.
Stacked by Debra Anderson
I wondered what she’d be wearing. I had told her to meet me in the Special Arts Room Stacks. Early, I waited for her in the room with lecture-hall style seating.
It was a library, so I’d downplayed my usual slutty style for decorum. Petra was prim and proper. Dresses hung modestly to mid-shin. Black Mary Janes. No one would suspect the scalpel swirls, the designs decorating her chest under the delicate fabric. Her short black bob always gleamed. Never any make up, as opposed to my usual smoky eyes and dark, crimson mouth. She was gorgeous and had a light inside her that shined.
A slate miniskirt was glued to my body, leather boots rode to mid-shin, and a black top dove into my cleavage. True, it was a modest selection from my closet. But I purposely hadn’t entirely bowed to library decorum. The goal of my outfit was to embarrass Petra.
Petra promptly appeared, hesitant at the glass door. The librarian who had all but outright given me the stink-eye when I’d entered, looked at her suspiciously.
“Hello,” Petra whispered so quietly I could barely hear her.
The librarian stared at us through his oval, wire-rimmed glasses as I stood up to give Petra a hug, scraping the legs of my chair loudly against the floor. Petra winced, having seen thePlease Keep the Noise Downsigns propped up across the tables. She realized that she had immediate broken myNo Talkinginstruction that had been given earlier. Petra was ruled by decorum and politeness. She couldn’t not greet me.
We both absorbed the almost sacred silence in the room. I enclosed her in the giant bearhug I always gave her, but longer than usual so it’d make her uncomfortable in this setting. Petra felt so good in my arms, her bony body a sweet, fragile thingagainst the cushioning that was me. I decided to let her speaking hello pass this one time. I was, after all, head over heels for her.
“Hope I’m not too late,” Petra said, breathing against my neck.
Petra was never late. Details were her fastidious speciality. In fact, she would have made a wonderful librarian, except she’d have to deal with the public. An introvert’s nightmare.
We both sat down, dragging the heavy chairs again. We were in a fishbowl together surrounded by the glass door and walls. I stepped on her foot and messed up the shine of her Mary Janes to punish her for speaking again. She rubbed her hands on the bottom of her teal wrap dress, a repetitive nervous motion as though she was wiping sweat off her palms. I wished I could hold her hand to comfort her, but that would ruin our dynamic that we had happily established years ago. She looked at her ruined shoes that she had shined for our date. Then she anxiously eyed the stiff, manila file folder on the table. It was ominously labelled,Petra, in a big, black Sharpie marker.
I leaned in and kissed her while the librarian watched. No tongue. Dykes were always of special interest, especially in the nearly empty fishbowl. I despised putting on a show for men. Even if I was just being myself, I curtailed it.
