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Inez shrugs and changes the subject. “There’s a big twentieth anniversary bash on Saturday at Club Cross. You going?”
I feel myself tense. “I got the invitation.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“No. I’m not going.”
When I turn to walk away, she follows. “You have to go, Tandy. You were such a big part of the club. You’re…iconic.”
“Inez, I can’t. I’ve got plans.”
“What kind of plans?
“Just plans.”
I stop to pick up a binder of designs to take back to the office. Inez steps to my side. Her eyes narrow as she looks at me.
“Do those plans have anything to do with that girl?”
“That girl is a woman, and that woman has a name. And not that it’s any of your business, but we’re going out to dinner on Saturday.”
“That’s not funny, Tandy.”
“It’s not intended to be funny. It’s not a joke.”
Her eyes may be blue today, but they may as well be green with envy. I used to scene with Inez back in the day. She’s always had a thing for me, but it takes a lot to top her. She likes to have submission drawn out of her by more pain than I’m comfortable giving. A year ago, she got into bloodplay and while I don’t kink-shame, it’s just not my thing.
“You’re going out with a straight girl?” She crosses her arms, her tone somewhere between challenging and disappointed.
“Inez, I have no idea if she’s straight. I didn’t ask her. But I did ask her to dinner, and she said yes.”
“Tandy, she was in here less than twenty-four hours ago drunk and crying over some guy. And you’re going out with her? Did you even ask why they broke up?”
I sigh, my patience at an end. “I don’t know. I don’t care. It’s just dinner, Inez, and it’s not really your business.”
Back in my office I flop down in my chair and lean back to stare up at the ceiling. I’m mad at myself for how defensive I sounded. I’m a private person. I don’t owe anyone an explanation for my personal choices, not even Inez. Especially not Inez.
And I’m not assuming anything about Bliss. I just want to get to know her better. I hate the term “gaydar,” but if there is such a thing, mine is pretty accurate. When I locked eyes with Bliss, she held my gaze in a way straight girls never do, but that’s not what intrigued me the most. If my gaydar is ninety-five percent accurate, my ability to detect submissive vibes is 100 percent. If you know, you know, and Bliss might as well have had a flashing red light above her head.
I’ll know more about her on Saturday night. Inez needs to chill out. Like I said, it’s just dinner. That’s all.
Chapter five
BLISS
The week drug by at a snail’s pace, and all I could think of was tonight. I had a date. With a woman.
I came into the flower shop early this morning to put the finishing touches on a funeral bouquet and thought of my father. When you’re raised by a mentally ill parent, you don’t know there’s anything wrong with them until you’re old enough to put their behavior in context. I didn’t have friends growing up, no exposure to peers whose normal parents would have given me a clue as to how abnormal my life was. My father believed public schools were indoctrination centers; his decision to have my mother homeschool me was for my own spiritual protection.
I was a month shy of my twelfth birthday when my father went into the mental hospital for the first time. It was a summer afternoon and we’d parked the bus at a KOA Campground in North Carolina. My father said he was going to go into town and preach the gospel. I don’t know what happened, but the police came to the campground around nightfall. They exchanged earnest words with my mother, and when they left, she was shaking and in tears. The next day a nice woman showed up to ask me questions about my life. Later I’d learn that she was a social worker and advised my mother that changes would need to be made if she didn’t want me to be taken away.
Two weeks later we were off the road and living in a little rental house. Two weeks after that, my father came home lethargic from whatever medication they gave him to help him cope. My mother didn’t want to talk about what was wrong with him. When she wasn’t looking I peeked at the hospital discharge papers listing his diagnosis as severe bipolar disorder.
My mom enrolled me in school. I was behind in nearly every subject except English. I was an avid reader. The other kids made fun of me, except for one. Selma Carter took an immediate liking to me. Maybe it was because she was something of an outcast herself, although no one dared bully her. Although she wasn’t big, she was intimidating; even the boys were afraid of her. She was also smart. She helped me with my work and was so encouraging that I was nearly on par by Christmas that first year. By year’s end I was at grade level.
We spent summers exploring the woods behind my neighborhood. I wanted to invite Selma over but was embarrassed by my home situation. My father had improved but not enough to hold down a job. He spent his days walking around the house in his pajamas preaching loudly to the walls while my mother worked two jobs—one at the local laundromat and another as a grocery store cashier. Each night we’d all sit down at the rickety card table for a meager dinner, my stomach growling through my father’s lengthy, disjointed blessing. His religious screeds had become infused with politics thanks to his steady diet of talk radio, and he’d rail against feminists, godless homosexuals, and lazy freeloaders as my exhausted mother sat across the table.
“My father is weird,” I told Selma one day when she asked why I never invited her over. She lived in a ramshackle trailer, but her parents were nice.
