“Did you hear that? Did you hear how awesome we sound together?”
“I did,” I say, unable to hold back my laughter. I’ve never seen Mac this joyful.
“Tell you right now, you’re singing the backup vocals on this recording. I’m taking you to Nashville. We’re going to figure out where to put it on the calendar, and it’s happening,” she says, beaming and proud.
She’s said it before, but to be honest, I haven’t fully trusted everything she says, knowing her healing brain and dysregulated emotions could be in the driver’s seat when she says such things. This time, I’m convinced she means it.
“I’d like that,” I say and find I’m telling the truth.
The heaviness in my chest is utterly ridiculous. We’ve made no promises to each other. There’s no need to be emotional or dramatic, and she definitely still wants to see me. Hell, she’s willing to fly me out to Nashville.
But I know what’ll happen. She’ll go home, we’ll miss each other and get on FaceTime, she’ll fly me out, we’ll spend time in the recording booth, take a few days to ourselves, and then go back to our separate lives. We’ll try to keep the long-distance thing going, but…she’ll be on the road, and I’ll be out here, and I don’t know how it’ll work.
There I go again, breaking my own heart.
Stay in the moment, Kinley. Don’t ruin this because you’re such a fortuneteller.
She thump-drags me down the hall to what I’ve started thinking of as our bedroom. We tumble onto the bed, kissing and smiling and rejoicing.
“Oh!” she says, holding up a finger. “I got you something!”
She goes into the closet and brings out…
“Is that a strap-on?” I ask, cracking up.
“Yeah, do you not like this?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never had sex with a strap-on before.”
“Wait, are you a virgin?”
I snort. She raises her brows.
“No, I am not a virgin. You and I have had sex before.”
“But with penetrative sex, are you a virgin?”
“I’m bi with an active and varied sexual history. So…no.”
“Wait, how did I not know you’re bisexual?”
I shrug. “I tend not to bring up my sexuality with lesbians.”
“Damn, target locked and acquired.”
“Sorry, is my truth a little too much for you?” I ask, cracking a grin.
“No. I deserved that. I didn’t even ask.”
“You did ask if I was single, though, at the beginning.”
“I didn’t have to check your queer card because you were totally coming on to me.”
“I was not coming on to you,” I grumble, watching her disrobe and shimmy into the strap-on. “How was my insane amount of awkwardness a come-on?”
“That’s your bit.”
“No, it isn’t,” I say, helping her tighten one of the straps.
