(Just to let you all know, this is a lesbian love story--a one-shot. There's no explicit sex or anything. But, there is some subject matter that may be a bit adult for some young teens.)
7 pm on a September evening. I drowse in my armchair as a song finishes up on the radio. The announcer comes on, announcing that the singer was one of the countless teen starlets with her latest single. I’m pleasantly surprised. That girl has a voice beyond her years.
Settling in my chair, I almost sink into sleep when my phone rings. I pick it up.
“Hello?”
“Chloe? I really need your help right now.”
It’s her.
I try to control the worry, the excitement in my voice, “Of course. What’s wrong?”
“My daughter just came out.”
“Came out? You mean…”
“Yes. She told us she’s a lesbian.”
I’m chuckling, leaning back. “I’m not surprised. All my predictions are spot on.”
“Oh, shut up, Chloe,” I can still hear the smile in her voice, even when she tries to be firm. “Peter told her to leave.”
“Leave?” I grasp the situation right away. I stand up. I pace. “Where are you? Where’s Melanie?”
“We’re fine. I’m with her right now. She’s a mess, sobbing in the backseat and…well, I was…”
“You don’t even have to ask.” I’m already peering out the window. “Come here right away.”
“Thank you, Chloe. Thank you.”
“Anything for you, love.”
She hangs up. I hold the phone to my chest. Then I turn away and survey my house.
It’s mostly clean, except for the wine bottle and the empty glass beside it. I put the wine in the refrigerator, the glass in the sink. Then I go upstairs to change clothes. She’d be guilty if she saw me in my bathrobe.
I don my sweater and pajama pants. I’m in the bathroom, wondering if I could use a tad more make-up when the doorbell rings.
And of course, Walker runs to the door and starts yipping at it.
“Oi! Walker!” I’m running down the stairs, telling the hyper mutt to go back to sleep even as I’m wrenching over the door.
There she is. She smiles at me. She’s as perfect as ever, as lovely as ever. I smile at her.
“Thank you,” she says. “For taking us in.”
It’s when I register Sarah Johnson’s seventeen-year-old behind the woman herself, peering at me tentatively. She’s a mess, mascara and eye shadow ringing her eyes. She looks like some sad raccoon.
“Come in,” I stand aside. Both of them have suitcases. The sight of Sarah’s sends a thrill through me.
“Now, Melanie will have the biggest guest room,” I tell Sarah. Melanie looks a bit shell-shocked; arms wrapped around herself, face caught between sadness and fury. She’s in no state to argue sleeping arrangements, let alone register them.
Sarah reaches for me as I take Melanie’s bags. “Let me help you with that…”
“There’s no need. I may be forty-three, but I’m still damn limber.”
Sarah laughs mirthlessly. “What can I do?”
“Do you know where the brandy is? The hot chocolate?” I smile inwardly as Sarah nods. Of course she does. She knows everything about this house.
“Good,” I continue. “Give her half hot chocolate and half brandy.”
“Half? I thought it was mostly hot chocolate.”
I glare at Sarah, albeit without any real heat. “Look at your daughter. The state she’s in, the original recipe won’t work. Do as I say.”
We go our ways. I put Melanie’s suitcase on the bed and do a quick inspection. Spotless, save for the occasional dust-covered surface.
I head for the kitchen. Sarah’s already setting the mug in front of Melanie, and she smiles at me. It’s one of gratitude, but I can already feel the tension between us.
I return the smile and focus on Melanie. Sarah sits beside her daughter.
“What happened?” I ask no one. The question hangs in the air. Melanie sips and coughs. Sarah winces. But the color returns to Melanie’s pale face and she sniffles, her face contorted in agony.
“I told my mom and dad I was a lesbian. Mom took it well. Dad didn’t,” tears leak from under the circles of make-up.
“He told me to get out. And Mom gets up and starts yelling at him—no, screaming at him. Saying that I’m his daughter, that he’s supposed to love me no matter what. Dad’s kind of quiet, saying that he just needs me to get out and to let him wrap his head around this.
Mom says, ‘This? This? There is no “this”. There is you, your daughter, her sexuality and your fucking homophobia.’”
“I still can’t believe I swore.” Sarah mutters.
“The situation called for it, Sarah.” I shrug. “Go on, Melanie.”
“Dad says that Mom could leave. ‘It’s not that simple,’ he says. ‘There’s so many factors to this.’ And Mom just says that there’s only one thing to do—accept me for being a lesbian. She told Dad that you were a lesbian and that he’d knew.”
“I am, Melanie.” I smile. “And proud of it.”
Melanie smiles wanly back, finishing up her story, “Dad said she—you weren’t important. After that, Mom just packed and left.”
She’s quiet after that. Sarah shoots me a look. And I reach across the table, taking Melanie’s hands in my own.
“Melanie, you have to realize there are people who will accept you and people who won’t. You had your first experience with intolerance today and it won’t be the last. But, are you sure?”
Melanie nods. “I locked myself in my room one day and looked at porn. Gay, straight, lesbian.”
Sarah looks surprised, then furious. She opens her mouth, but I beat her to the punch.
“That may not have been the most effective way, but at least you know. And you’re sure, right?”
“Yes.”
“Melanie, you have the right to love anyone you want. Just know that all this stuff about gender is bullshit.”
“Chloe.”
I ignore Sarah. “And you don’t let anybody, including your dad, tell you different. Love is two souls uniting, not about gender. Why do you think God created gay sex? And dildos?”
Melanie’s giggling, hiccupping laughs that sparkle in her eyes. Sarah’s now glaring at me, even if her mouth is trembling into a smile.
I finish up. “We’ll talk about this more in the morning. Take your hot chocolate and get some rest.”
Melanie obeys. Sarah and I both listen to her shuffle up to her room before we speak.
“Wine?” I break the silence.
“Please,”
I get a fresh wine bottle, a merlot. I get two oversized glasses. I fill one up one-quarters of the way, the other three-quarters. I give the latter to Sarah. She throws her head back and drinks. When she’s finished, the wine’s down to my level. She’s breathing hard. And she squeezes her eyes shut. Tears leak from her eyelids, trickling down her cheeks.
“Everything that happened was my worst nightmare, Chloe,” her voice is strained, trembling with the need to stay composed. I take her hand in mine.
“You knew Peter didn’t approve of gays and lesbians. What did you expect?”
“Divine intervention?” her voice breaks.
And that’s when I can’t take it anymore. I lean forward, kiss her. I swallow her pain, make her tears my own. I breathe in her shampoo, taste her minty breath. When I finally pull back, she’s more composed.
“This is why I ask you to not marry him.”
“I know,” she whispers.
“We were so secretive. We haven’t kissed in three years. We haven’t had sex in five.”
“Then there’s no time like the present, is there?” Sarah grins. Its equal parts sorrowful and anticipated. I laugh. I kiss her again, opening my mouth to let her in. And I can’t help but shiver.
“I missed you,” I whisper when the kiss ends, grasping at her shirt, her jacket. “I missed you so much.”
Sarah’s groping too, “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
And then there’s nothing more said. We communicate via touches, nudges. And the end result is wonderful.
Just like Sarah.
