Charlotte plucked at the collar. “I feel a bit like Taylor Swift’s date on the Fourth of July.”
“You should be so lucky to date Taylor Swift.”
She turned around to face her friend. “Thank you. You know my style better than I do.”
Jackie chucked her under the chin. “Correct!” Then she turned around to mull over her outfit options, fists at her hips.
Charlotte had an easier time finding her words without Jackie looking at her. It felt wrong to just drop the conversation about her dad when Jackie chose to bring him up in support group. She had to at least try.
“And I mean it about your dad,” Charlotte said to her back. “I wish you’d told me.”
“You’ve been busy,” Jackie said nonchalantly. “Help me pick an outfit?”
Well, okay then.
Charlotte tried not to take the avoidance personally. She folded her arms across her chest and looked at Jackie’s bookshelf of clothing. “You’re going to be dancing. You’ll want something that will move well.”
“And that won’t stink.” Jackie picked up a black T-shirt with the college radio station’s logo on the front. The fabric had thinned from so many washes. “Fuck it, I’m going full 2011.” She paired the shirt with a high-waisted miniskirt and Converse high-tops.
Charlotte checked her phone while Jackie dressed.
“Any updates?” Jackie asked as she wiggled her ass into the skirt.
TEXT MESSAGE FROM MATT LARSEN TO CHARLOTTE THORNE, 9:07 PM: Doors are open!
TEXT MESSAGE FROM REECE KRUEGER TO CHARLOTTE THORNE, 9:09 PM: I think I’m too old for house music. don’t tell anyone
Charlotte bit back a smile at the unfamiliar sight of Reece’s name in her notifications. He’d fired the first volley. She bit her lip before typing her response.
TEXT MESSAGE FROM CHARLOTTE THORNE TO REECE KRUEGER, 9:12 PM: I’m telling literally everyone.
“Helloooooo.” Jackie watched her expectantly. “News?”
“Matt says the doors are open.”
“Awesome.” Her best friend set up shop at the mirror to work on her makeup, leaving Charlotte in her own little world on her screen.
Reece was typing…She watched the thinking bubble appear and expand as his text arrived.
TEXT MESSAGE FROM REECE KRUEGER TO CHARLOTTE THORNE, 9:13 PM: traitor
Delight quivered up her spine. It had been years since her college hookup days, but she remembered this dance like it was only yesterday. If someone was into you, they’d strike up a conversation between eight and ten p.m. via text, the tone deceptively chill. Over the course of the evening, they’d touch base, ask where you were, keep checking the pulse of your interest. Eventually someone suggested a place to meet up, usually neutral territory where you’d flirt and make out before relocating somewhere more private.
The fact that Reece reached out to her confirmed that this wasn’t just a one-way fantasy. He was interested. He could have texted Jackie, his actual friend, but he’d chosen to text her. And god help her, he knew how to banter. Her last girlfriend, Merielle, texted like an artificial intelligence bot coded by a fourteen-year-old. And it wasn’t like the gentlemen of NYC Tinder offered scintillating conversation…
“How do I look?” Jackie stepped back from the mirror and twirled around.
After dinner, Charlotte had brushed out Jackie’s hair and woven it into a double French braid. Paired with her outfit and signature red lipstick, the hairstyle made Jackie look like a babysitter who would teach your kids about socialism but still get them to bed on time.
“You look amazing. Very sophomore year but with more self-esteem.”
“I should hope so.” Jackie hopped up onto the bed next to her, careful not to spill her drink. “Let’s take a selfie before we sweat it off.”
Charlotte closed out of her texts and handed Jackie her iPhone. “You do it, your arms are longer than mine.”
Jackie took the phone without complaint. She held it aloft at a flattering angle. Charlotte smiled and willed herself to relax into this moment of happiness.
It’s a Friday night. I am twenty-one. Jackie Slaughter is my best friend. We are going to a party.
There is no train ticket in my wallet. There is no Monday morning meeting to prep for. There is no text message to send my landlord about fixing the radiator.
I am safe. I am home.
Jackie took a bunch of pictures. She flicked through them and laughed. “We look like a lesbian Odd Couple reboot.”
“We haven’t aged a day,” Charlotte decided. “I’ll send them to you.”
“Please do. Everyone on Instagram needs to see how much fun we’re having. And get a new phone, that crack is terrible.”
—
TEXT MESSAGE FROM REECE KRUEGER TO CHARLOTTE THORNE, 9:45 PM: don’t tell me if they play Carly Rae at Acronym, it’ll break my heart
Acronym occupied an old Victorian on the south edge of campus. The house looked a little worse for wear, its paint chipped and the front path overgrown. For decades the student newspaper tracked a conspiracy theory that the administration didn’t invest in Acronym’s maintenance because queer alumni were less likely to donate to Hein’s endowment. Every year, shingles fell from the roof like dead skin.
Students did their best to reattach shutters and freshen up the peeling paint. Baby gays like Charlotte taught themselves how to fix squeaky hinges and install new banisters. All the DIY repairs gave Acronym the look of a beloved pair of jeans, patched over and well worn.
What the house lacked in refinement, it made up for with its charm. To walk through its rooms was to visit an ad hoc museum of queer history at the university. Concert posters from Queen to Dua Lipa lined the hallways. The names of residents covered the bathroom walls, decades of signatures written in looping permanent marker. Abandoned shoes littered the entrance. A fresh pot of coffee and a snack always waited in the kitchen.
