There is a part of me that always suspected I fell on the LGBTQ+ spectrum somewhere. I liked boys well enough. Hell, I enjoyed having sex with them enough that I managed to get impregnated by my deadbeat husband twice. But there was also another side of me, a part of my heart and my lust that called out for other women and femme people as well.
In high school, the first time I thought about kissing Ivy, I shut it down as curiosity that I would not try to satiate. I would never try to figure myself out by using my friend, and besides, Ivy has always been so sure of her sexuality, and the two of us are soalike. Surely, if I were bi or pan or queer, I would know it for certain.
Then when I finally had the bravery to voice my thoughts out loud in college, the person I thought I could trust shut me down and made me feel like what I wanted was just a silly impulse. I felt defeated, so I packed it all away, never to be thought of again.
But as I stand here in the doorway, heat blooming between my hips as I watch Ivy assess the living room I shared with Earl, I’m not so sure that packing my sexuality into a neat little box was the correct move after all.
Maybe it’s the pregnancy hormones talking, or maybe it’s the thrill of what we’re about to do, but I am suddenly feeling incredibly horny. It’s certainly an unfamiliar sensation, especially in this house. It’s also extremely inconvenient, because the second Ivy turns to me, I’m sure she can see it written all over my face. My cheeks heat and sweat forms on my upper lip. She says something, but all I can focus on is my friend standing in my living room, all long lines and small curves that I’m suddenly itching to get my hands on.
“Lilah?” Ivy snaps, breaking me out of my trance. Who knows how long I was standing there, staring at her like a dog begging for table scraps.
“What?”
“I asked you where we should start.”
“Right,” I shake my head, trying to rid myself of this pesky wave of arousal. “Let’s start in the bathroom.”
Ivy smirks, and I follow her up the stairs, hoping like hell that whatever I just experienced was nothing more than a fluke.
9
FLUORESCENT FLAMINGO
IVY
Glitter is the ultimate material on earth. Think about it. What other substance can bring so much joy and so much irritation just by existing? It goes in makeup and hair and on clothes and makes us feel like shining, sparkly tree fairies flitting about, causing happiness and mischief, but drop some in the wrong place or around some poor, unsuspecting fool and, well…
They don’t call glitter the herpes of the craft world for nothing. It’s damn near impossible to get rid of that shit.
Which is why I have so much of it stored in Delilah’s bag right now, ready to wreak havoc on every inch of Earl’s home.
“Alright, should we tag team this bitch or split up?” I ask, catching Delilah in the corner of my eye. She’s standing perfectly still, staring into the open room like she’s seen a ghost or something, and it occurs to me that this is the first time she’s been back in the home she shared with Earl since she caught him cheating. She was with me when we came to pick up her stuff, but she stayed in the car while I packed everything up.
“Hey,” I say softly, crossing the room. “It’s okay, Lilah. We don’t have to do this. We can go. Or if you want to wait in the car, I can leave the glitter bombs and then we’ll be done with this.” I move to take her bag with our supplies, but when my hand brushes hers, she flinches and pulls away.
“No, no. I’m fine. It’s not…let’s split up. We’ll get done faster, and then we can be out of here. Don’t want to get caught by the nosy neighbors, right?”
Wasn’t she the one who was telling me not five minutes ago that we don’t have to worry about nosy neighbors? I arch a brow, but decide not to push as she unloads the compostable bags filled with biodegradable glitter we made last week.
I might hate Earl, but I love the environment, and while I’m perfectly okay with littering Earl’s life with the microplastics found in real glitter, Mother Earth doesn’t deserve to suffer, too.
We slink through the house, hiding glitter in every crevice we can manage. Anywhere Earl sits, stands, eats, or even pisses is no longer safe. The entire house is a ticking glitter bomb by the time we’re finished. No amount of vacuuming will ever rid him of the shine. Even every vent in his car has been filled with glitter, just waiting for him to turn on the air conditioning and get blasted.
Since we’re here, I make a few switches in the kitchen that will be imperceptible to Earl’s naked eyes. I also conduct a chemistry experiment or two in the bathroom, mixing substances in his shampoo bottle that are sure to give results that will delight the man. I also decide that I don’t love the smell of Earl’s home anymore, so I shove some fruit under the furniture. It’ll take about a week for the apples and pears to rot, but the resulting stench and fruit fly invasion will be so worth the wait.
“Are you sure you don’t want to order the beehive and hide it under the bed, Lilah?”
“Tempting. But Earl is allergic to bees. A hive under the bed will probably kill him.”
“All the more reason to do it. In fact, let's order two just in case.”
“How did you go from being nervous to drive down the street to attempted murder?”
“Please,” I say with a dismissive flick of my hand. “It would be manslaughter at best. And besides, I can be nervous and homicidal at the same time. Women contain multitudes.”
“You’re evil,” Delilah laughs, shaking her head. We sneak out of the house as quietly as we arrived, and pride thrums in my chest.
“Oh! One last thing!” I hop towards the kitchen, opening the wine fridge Earl had installed next to the dishwasher. Bro doesn’t even drink wine; he just likes to collect expensive bottles to show off to his shitty friends. Fortunately for me, he has wonderful taste in the wine he never drinks.
