“Bitch,” I mutter, pinching her arm. She swats mine away jokingly. We tease each other for a little while after that before melting into a more serious discussion.
Her expression turns almost nervous in a matter of minutes, and she asks, “Has your mom texted back yet?”
“She hasn’t.” My mum and my relationship has changed for the better since I came out. Her homophobia dwindling with every day that passes, but when it comes to Adaline she still has her reservations. They’ve never gotten along, irregardless of her being a girl. I texted her this morning, asking her to host a dinner for us, and she hasn’t responded yet.
“I’m sorry, baby.” She puts her hand on top of mine. “Once she does, I promise I’ll play nice.”
Her earnest tone settles me, but I know Adaline hates playing nice. I’ll try and give her the benefit of the doubt.
“You keep looking around,” she says suddenly.
I shrug. “Habit.” I hadn’t even noticed I was doing that.
“From when?”
I could lie. I don’t.
“From when I was trying to be someone else,” I say.
She doesn’t press. She doesn’t need to. She knows the outline of that someone else. She knew her before anyone else did, even when I was pretending she didn’t exist. When I made her life a living hell. She keeps her hand on mine and squeezes encouragingly.
The waiter arrives, and so does my salmon and her lamb. She takes one quick bite, and her expression tells me everything I need to know, but I still ask anyway.
“What?” I ask.
She swallows. “You were right.”
I nod, a smirk plastered on my face. “I know.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling as she does it.
We eat. Slowly. I steal bites from her plate. She steals from mine. Our knees touch under the table and stay touching. At one point, her foot slides along my calf, absent minded, like sheforgot we’re in public. It’s exhilarating in the best way possible. Halfway through dinner, someone glances our way, an older lady. It’s not hostile, but curious, and yet my body turns rigid, an old instinct flaring up.
I used to be the kind of girl who made other people smaller so I could feel bigger. That part of me is just there, in the background, like a stain you can’t fully scrub out. Adaline’s hand reaches across the table again and closes around my wrist. Not tight. Just firm. The kind of touch that says, calm down. My shoulders drop, and I listen to her.
“What?” she asks quietly, like she didn’t just save me from myself in front of strangers.
“Nothing,” I say. “Thank you.”
Her thumb strokes my wrist once. Then she lets go, like she doesn’t want to draw attention. Before I know it, dessert comes, and as usual I prefer hers over mine. At one point, I feed her some of mine like we usually do. My fork inches away from her mouth. She stares at it for half a second, then takes it. Her lips brush the fork. My mind goes somewhere it shouldn’t.
She wipes sugar from the corner of my mouth with her thumb. I catch her thumb between my lips before I can stop myself. It’s quick. Barely anything. But the way her eyes darken tells me she felt it.
“Juliette,” she says, warning and want mixed together.
I smile like I’m innocent. “What?”
She shakes her head, but there’s a flush creeping into her cheeks. “You’re insufferable.”
“You love it.”
She pauses, then softly says, “I do.”
That sits between us like a truth that doesn’t need to be decorated. When the bill comes, she tries to take it from me.
“Adaline,” I say warningly.
“Juliette,” she mimics in the same tone. She continues glaring at me, but I start smiling, and that seems to throw her off. “What did you do?”
