‘Jesus Christ!’ I gasp. ‘Did you have to sneak up on me?’
‘It’s dark! The sneaking is inherent!’
I push myself up because lying below her when all I can see are her bright wild eyes is making me feel all kinds of strange. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Womenlike that.’ Her words are barely audible but still manage to hit me in the throat. Why is she asking about this now?
‘You can saylesbian, Carys,’ I whisper back.
‘I didn’t want to presume their sexualities,’ she hisses.
I resist rolling my eyes because sometimes straight peoplecan be a little too sensitive around queerness and our language, even if it’s a good thing when they correct other hets. Either that or they’ve watched too muchDrag Raceand end up appropriating slang from Black ballroom culture that they’ve never heard of.
‘Fair,’ I say gently. ‘But yes, I know women like that.’
‘Oh.’
It’s been a long time since high school where I wasn’t so much out there as never mentioning it, but this smallohsends a shiver down my spine in a familiar, terrifying way.
Fuck, have I just let it all slip? Has she worked me out? Is she going to call me out for being here and queer (not in the general way, in the heterosexual reality dating show way).
‘Is there something you want to ask me, Carys?’ I say it in our normal volume, hoping that it comes across as unafraid.
The question weighs heavy in the air, and her perfume scents on my tongue. I’ve trusted her this long, but I’ve been burned before by straight people’s good intentions.
She shuffles away, back into her bed. ‘No, I just wondered if the parties have resolved their conflict.’
Okay, so we’re back to this. ‘Hopefully,’ I say, my stomach still squirming.
It’s so quiet that I almost don’t catch her say, ‘I think they really loved each other.’
‘And their cat.’
‘Leonard.’
‘You remembered the cat’s name?’
‘I never forget an animal’s name. I’m not so good at people.’
Given she just appeared at my side like a ghost, I can’t really argue. ‘I think you’re doing okay.’ It accidentally sounds a bit like a question.
I hear a snort that at first I think is laughter, but there’s abitterness, I’m sure of it. ‘If only. People are hard. I barely understand myself as it is.’
‘You worry about that a lot, don’t you?’ I feel like I can be more candid in the dark, especially now we’ve stopped talking like drunk Shondaland lawyers.
‘About misunderstanding people? Yes. Misreading the room. Saying too much.’
‘Well, if I ever do something you don’t understand, you can just ask me. I’d rather we talk about it than you worry, because chances are there’s nothing. If I was pissed off at you, you’d know.’
We both laugh at that, but she still sounds so hollow. What is going on with her? I don’t think this is just some kind of bug, unless it’s one that’s taking over her brain too.
‘Thanks, Dolly, I’m going to sleep now.’
She falls asleep quickly, her breaths deepening, and I try not to think about the way her cinnamon hair must be splayed across the pillow.
It’s quite depressing that even when I think she might possibly be gayvestigating me, I still can’t stop thinking about her.
Overnight, we’d voted for our third dates – the first time we get toseeour matches in person, even if across a partition – and I’m so fucking relieved to get a mutual match from Warren. To my frustration, production seem intent on throwing Patrick and Malachi together with me, so they appear on my date card too.
