“I think we should watch horror movies,” I say, placing the snack board on the table.
“Why would you want to do that when you will be alone in this house for a few days?” Farrah asks, plopping next to me.
Rowan and Sahara instantly sit next to each other, their hands so close, like on St. Patrick’s Day. The looks they share as we discuss what to watch, I feel like, are not for us to witness.
With Rowan liking girls, the question seems obvious. But with that ring on Sahara’s left hand, I don’t know if I should ask it.
“If we watch that clown movie I’m sleeping in your bed tonight, Monty,” Farrah says, clutching her blanket around her.
The girl isn’t afraid to go toe to toe with a man she disagrees with, but let a fictional one raise a knife and she’s screaming.
“Can we either watch one with only Black people or no Black people? I’m not in the mood to see us die first,” Sahara says, bringing her wine to her lips.
We can all agree on that, making the choice easy. I win out on the clown movie, and we watch in horror as these women are stalked and killed. It brings me back to the conversation with Callahan, so I snip a picture of the clown killing someone and text it to him with the wordhot.
I don’t get a response, and I wonder what he is up to.
At some point, Rowan ends up curled up with Sahara, but it doesn’t seem out of place because Farrah and I are doing the same thing. It’s one of those female friend things that confuse lesbians.
I watch them, trying to see if that’s what’s going on.
After the credits roll, I ask Rowan to come with me into the kitchen. We restock the snacks, and I take the opportunity to ask what I have been dying to know.
“What’s going on with you two?”
She leans against the counter, tucking her brown waves behind her ears. Trying to appear normal, she keeps her eyes trained on mine.
“She’s married.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Looking around the corner, she comes back to stand next to me, her voice lowering.
“I don’t know. We have these deep talks, and it seems like she is finding reasons to touch me, but she is married, and she is constantly talking about her husband.”
“Bi, or in the closet?”
She shrugs and starts to bite her thumbnail.
“Okay, but what are you doing?”
“I wish I knew that, too. I haven’t felt this way about someone in a long time. She just gets me. We talk about writing and living life, and she just has this way of making everything seem like an adventure. I want to kiss her so bad it hurts.”
I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her into my side.
“She is married,” I say even though I don’t have to.
“I know, which is why I won’t do anything. But if you heard the way he treats her.”
I hold up my hand because I don’t want to know anything else unless Sahara tells me. Maybe tonight she will open up.
We go back in the room and I start the conversation up while talking about how trash men are.
“Not all men,” Farrah says with this glossy look in her eyes.
I throw a pillow at her, and that knocks some sense back into her. “Okay, okay. Yes, the majority need work.”
“Even when you marry them,” Sahara says, downing her drink. I quickly refill her glass.
