Julie Olivia

Lorelei murmurs something that might sound like hostile work environment under her breath.

I want that beautiful laughter again.

Then, she gets in her car and leaves once more.

But that glimmer in my chest only grows brighter.

I know Wendy wouldn’t be looking at me like this if we weren’t talking about Sam. But sometimes, adults can play pretend too. And I pretend that smile is just for me.

“Why do you do that?”

She blinks at me. “What?”

“Dismiss yourself.”

A laugh bubbles out. “I mean, they’re just stories.”

“No, they’re not. I don’t think Sam wants to be like me,” I say. “I think he’d prefer to write stories, like you.”

“I don’t know. Like you’ve got a lot on your mind.”

“I do.”

“Sam?”

“Yes. Sam. Work. You.”

“Me?”

“I … yes. You.”

Suddenly, without thinking, without considering anything, I curl my palm behind her neck and lean toward her, Wendy following, and our mouths meet in the middle.

I’m kissing her.

I suck in a sharp inhale, like a sting of electricity finally touching ground. There’s a rumble of thunder, and, God, I feel the clap. I feel it in my chest at the way she presses her lips against mine, opening and closing, hand curling into my shirt, chasing when I pull back, pulling me closer when I push.

At first, it feels like another fantasy, but it’s real. Too real. I could never in my wildest dreams imagine her being this soft. The skin along the column of her neck. The silk of her dress captured in my other fist. The inhalations of her delicate perfume, fresh like cotton or laundry.

When Wendy kisses, she smiles.

Like kissing me could actually make somebody—her—happy.