Dangerously Close To Bearable, Chapter 4
Loving Chaos Ensues
Amy and Erica have scheduled their date. What now?
Waiting for them is making me nauseous. My stomach is close to heaving. Why did I agree to this? I’m not even dating a girl yet. I haven’t even kissed a girl yet (to the best of my recollection—Katy Perry and alcohol caused a lot of situations in the late 00’s that are fuzzy at best)!
But they were offering company, and after days and days of loneliness punctuated by brief bursts of connection with awful men, maybe I should be able to just hang with the girls.
What if I can’t hang, though? These three are the acknowledged “heavy hitters” in the queer femme section of the extended friend group. A bunch of bi girls who love every woman and one man, and aren’t afraid to show it.
I’m talking about them like they’re the fucking Femme High Council—they’re perfectly normal women, and they want to hang out with me.
The knock at the door cracks me out of my little spiral. They’re not the Femme High Council, not the—
Opening the door, all three of them stand at least a few inches taller than me, all doing their best not to look down their noses.
“What is this, some fucking Femme High Council?” I ask. Fuck!
“Not quite, I think the last elder is en route,” Betty says, licking her lips, “hopefully.”
“Yeah,” Zoey says, “Sarah just texted, she’ll be here soon.”
Betty looks back to me. “May we come in?”
I shake my head out, snap back into reality. “Yes, yes, yes! Come in! Y’all just…yeah,” I say, gesturing for them to enter.
They giggle, and the trio of women enters my home, carrying wine, makeup, a charcuterie board. Zoey, breezy and competently put together.
Betty, severe but simply dressed, red hair in a ponytail, tattooed arms bare and full of Friday the 13th flash.
Emily, I think, is next. She’s tall and wispy, lush curly brown hair, positively elven. She’s beautiful. It’s like there’s an otherworldly glow around her.
I’m about to close the door, when, “hey, hey, hold on hold on!” A voice shouts from the sidewalk. “Keep it open, I’ve got too much momentum to stop!”
Bringing up the rear and sprinting towards the door is…I’m not sure how to describe her.
She’s short, stout, and wearing athletic clothes that seem to be three sizes too big, stained with…several somethings. Her hair is a gigantic frizzy mess, pulled into pigtails, and she’s holding a six pack of sugar Dr. Pepper and a hot bag. “Meatball subs,” she says, “garlic knots, and peppy bites!” She announces, sliding to a stop on the floor like a fucking cartoon character. “Lost my shoes just in time.”
“Sarah delivers again! Thank you!” Zoey says, and kisses her on the mouth. Passionately, with visible tongue.
Oh. Okay.
What?
“Hold on—you’re the Sarah J everyone talks about?” I ask.
Sarah turns around, stares me dead in the eye, and waggles her eyebrows. “Oh yes, my fair and chubby—“
“Sarah!” Zoey hisses, like she’s correcting an unruly child or pet.
“What?” She asks, chastened. “I was stating facts.”
“You don’t even know what she likes.”
“I mean,” she counters, setting her bag on my kitchen table, “looking at her face, I had an effect.”
It’s true—I’m beet red and sweating from her casual objectification.
No one had treated me like that in years.
“No excuse,” Zoey says.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “She’s just excited to meet new people.”
“A little too excited, sometimes,” Zoey replies.
“It’s, um, it’s only harassment if the attention is unwanted,” I say.
The room goes silent.
“SEE?” Sarah exclaims. “I’m exonerated.”
I take a seat at the table, Betty uncorking the red, Emily pulling food out of the bag, Sarah and Zoey nuzzling up. “No, you’re not,” Zoey says, “and you’re the hard mode lay, you hit on people then chew them up.”
I gotta be down, I gotta be down, let’s joke. “Oh?” I ask, “Well, who’s, uh, who’s easy mode?”
Emily sheepishly raises her hand.
“Oh.” Right. “You’ve worked this out already.” Cool. Made an idiot of myself.
“Once you taste the forbidden fruit,” Sarah says, “we can start evaluating your performance. Check the spreadsheet, run the sabermetrics—“
“She loves to talk,” I say. “How do you shut her up, a ball gag?” I’m going to hang. I won’t fail.
“Are you offering? I’m a bit of a DIY gal, maybe your panties and a sweat band.”
“Sarah,” I say, leaning over to her, “do I look like I own sweatbands?”
“So just the panties?”
The air between us is charged, something about her so fucking overwhelming. We see each other. That deep tan skin, so smooth, so luminous, her lips, curled into an evil little smile, and I want to be her target—
“Okay, okay, Miss June,” Zoey says, separating us, “you’re not here for Amy, we’re here for her.” A pause, then, as Sarah opens her mouth, “NOT like that.”
“Hey,” Sarah says.
“Yeah,” I say, shaky, “hey.” My pulse is banging in my ears.
“She’s been seduced,” Emily says. “And walks the left hand path.”
“By who?” Betty asks, looking from me to Sarah.
“Exactly.” Emily smiles.
Betty scoffs. “Are both of you doing bits tonight? Emily, I expected better from you.”
“Okay, okay, fine,” she says, pouting. “But we’re all happy.”
Zoey nods, taking a bite.
“Thank you. So…why are we here?” I ask.
“Mostly for the catered dinner,” Betty says, grabbing a sandwich. “Sarah will never pass up an opportunity to bring us Pizza Prince.”
“I know the purpose I serve in the group dynamic, what can I say?” Sarah dips a peppy bite in ranch dressing.
“But,” Zoey says, “we’re not here to talk about anything specific, I guess…mostly just to get you comfortable.”
“With what?”
“Ladies,” Emily says, “and also being social.”
I unwrap a sub, take a huge bite. Oh my god. I groan.
“I know, right?” Sarah exclaims. “This is the good shit.”
Nodding, I take another bite, and another. Jesus fucking Christ, when have I eaten anything this good? Years, probably, years of box dinners and canned vegetables.
“Erica told us about tomorrow night,” Emily says, “and we just wanted to celebrate with you.”
“Do I need to ask questions, or something?” I’m genuine in my inquiry.
“Not really, just hang out. We’ll probably do your makeup later,” Emily answers.
“She’s lying,” Sarah says, “they always want to, but we drink too much to do it.” She looks at Betty and Emily. “They do, anyways. I can work on you, if you want.” And she touches my hand.
My skin prickles. My god she’s hot.
I’m having sexual responses to another girl.
Another girl that’s not Erica.
But I also want Erica. And Sarah. Maybe Sarah?
Definitely Sarah.
***
“Imagine being on a date with someone who understands the bullshit you deal with—maybe a little more,” Emily says. “Not like, a competition, but empathy.” She delivers the last word as her elbow digs into my shoulder. The pain was a vivid orange, intense, but not too much. “I try not to do too much chair work.”
“Corporate wellness vibes,” Sarah added.
A date where you already had something in common? “That sounds…really nice.” I got men who weren’t fucking disasters, but they were few and far between, and tended to clock my emotional unavailability as a reason to stay away. Can’t blame them.
“It’s the magic of girl,” Zoey says.
“‘Magic of girl’?” Betty repeats. “Sarah rubbing off on you?”
Everyone goes quiet, and I hear all four of them screaming not to say it.
***
“Okay, look, I’ve had my share of bad dick, but…should I talk about it?” I ask. The wine is making me brave.
“I’m sure Erica has the same memories,” Betty replies. “Maybe she feels differently about them now, but it’s not malicious.”
“No, it’s not, I want to hear about you getting fucked,” Sarah says, on her third Dr. Pepper.
“What’s she like drunk?” I ask.
“Oh, you don’t want to know,” Sarah answers, her eyes narrowing.
“Sarah and I try to not drink too much these days,” Zoey says. “We cut back not because we hate alcohol…”
“But because you like it too much?”
Zoey nods. “Got it in one. Flavored hard seltzer and flavored vodkas is a recipe for disaster.”
“They replaced being snobs over booze with soda,” Emily says.
“And have we ever been derelict in our duty as mixer providers?” Sarah asks.
“No, but there was the birthday party where everyone drank neat because you two spent $550 on mixers.” Betty sounded bitter.
“Oh, Mrs. Becker is lecturing us on sophistication,” Zoey said, “like you didn’t do a Pretty Woman.”
“And Sarah didn’t do the same thing?”
“Hey.” Sarah held a hand up. “I’m already married. And she asked. And Foxx was okay with it.”
Zoey whooped. “Plus, I got out of that after the Lainey stuff. I am now officially,” she says, tapping her phone, clearly reading something, “a ‘low-volume FSSW’.”
Betty huffed. “I’d stopped hooking years before Alex proposed. I left him precisely BECAUSE he tried that shit on me.”
Emily rests her head on Betty’s shoulder. “Then he met me.”
Betty nods. “And then later I met you…”
Sarah smiles. “And everything was happy ever after.”
“It was.” Betty and Emily happy sigh, and share a kiss.
“Is there some context I’m missing here…?” I ask.
Emily looks my way. “We don’t want to just give you the bullet points.”
Zoey clears her throat. “Also, if I’m leeching off anyone, it’s Zack,” she says. “Barely.”
Another name. “Who’s that?”
“My boyfriend,” Zoey says.
“And the only heterosexual we tolerate,” Sarah adds.
“It’s tragic, really,” says Emily.
Betty taps her glass. “Weren’t we about to hear about Amy got fucked by her friend?”
My breath died in my throat. “Actually, maybe I can just not talk about it.” No one argued.
That felt like the right decision.
***
“Do they always do that?” I ask.
“Those two?” Betty asks. “Pretty much. They love interacting, but they have short batteries.”
Zoey sighs in agreement. “Yeah, Sarah is like a basenji: she’s either sleeping or sprinting. And she needs at least 16 hours of rest.”
I’m still wired from the evening. I’m resting on the couch between Zoey and Betty. Sarah and Emily are curled up on the loveseat—the tall woman is surprisingly compact, while Sarah sprawls like a cat in the sun.
“So, about Erica: she’s a person, a girl like the rest of us,” Zoey says.
“Right.” Betty pats my thigh. “You don’t need to do anything different.”
“But isn’t there, like, something super fancy or different I need to do? She’s trans—“
“And that’s it,” Zoey says. “I know it sounds a bit after-school special, but she’s not any different than the rest of us.”
It feels so dumb to be so damn nervous. I know how to talk to people, be nice to them, interact, have conversations. But “my best friend and number one booty call transitioned and asked me on a date” is new territory, if only for novelty’s sake.
Betty swallows some wine. “Be nice. Be mindful, but don’t…what would you say, ZoZo? Tiptoe?”
She nods. “You think she’s beautiful? Say it. That you like her makeup? Say it. Talk to her like you always did. It’s not as different as you think.”
“Right.” It’s that easy?
Maybe. Is this what I want?
A chance to see my best friend, looking better than ever, after saying she still has feelings for me?
So she can see what I really look like now, let me down easy, and I can’t even really blame her because she’s got the right idea?
That was the worst case scenario.
Not really. The worst case—
Zoey kisses my cheek. “We gotta get going. Don’t overthink it.”
“We’ll know,” Betty says.
They gather up their respective partners, who whine and moan about the indignity of being awake, and each hug me, pulling me close, letting me in.
“Hey, hold on,” Sarah mumbles. “I need to christen our newest sister.”
“What?” We ask.
“This.” She pads back over to me barefoot, and kisses my cheek. “You’re cool.” And she turns to the door. “Where are my shoes?”
“Here,” Zoey says, pointing to a very well-loved pair of Chuck Taylors.
Wow.
This is more than I deserve.
I say it, but I try not to believe it.
There we go! I hope you like the girly quartet—hopefully, you’ll see a lot more of them in the coming months.
Til next week!