She looks like she belongs to me.
She feels like she belongs to me.
And when I hold her hand during the cocktail hour, I don’t think anyone can tell otherwise.
Geneva introduces me to some of the other partners at her media firm. “This is my attorney, Oliver Harris. He’s tops at contracts and business, and he looks out for me like a tiger,” she says. “And this is his fiancée, Summer.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Summer says to a tall woman with horn-rimmed glasses.
“And you as well,” the woman answers. “How long have you two been engaged?”
“Two weeks.” Summer gives the story that we practiced after the bacon-wine almost-fiasco.
“Congrats. And when is the wedding?” the inquisitor continues.
“In ten months,” she says, squeezing my hand. “We’re getting married in Central Park. We’ve always loved it there.”
“Right.” I pitch to sell our story. “We had our first kiss there.”
“Oh, how romantic,” Geneva puts in. “Where in Central Park?”
Summer meets my gaze, her brown eyes twinkling. “By the carousel.” She touches my arm. “Do you remember what I said in high school about kissing at that spot?”
My mind is a blank—a white slate of nothing. Then, like the sun rising, the memory returns. “Right. On one of our visits there. You said you wanted your first real kiss to be there. And I just laughed.”
“Why did you laugh?” Geneva asks curiously.
I don’t look at Geneva. I look at Summer and speak the truth. “Because I knew then, on some level, I wanted her first kiss to be with me.”
“Ohh! That’s so lovely.” Geneva clasps her hands to her chest. The other woman coos.
And Summer just smiles at me, only me. “I wanted it to be you too.”
I have no choice. I step closer, sweep my lips across hers, and kiss her the way I want to now.
Well, not entirely. I’d like to kiss her with no one else around. But here in the middle of a dinner party, I’ll take this.
Nothing about it feels fake. Not the gust of breath that escapes her lips. Not the slightest murmur she gives. And not how she responds.
But because we’re not alone, I end the kiss after a few seconds, reorienting on the present moment. “And we did kiss there for real, several months ago, when we started dating.” I pick up the thread of our fake story. “Because I realized after all these years that it’d always been her.”
All the hands flutter over all their hearts.
Summer’s eyes widen, shining with what might be the threat of tears, but she, too, gets back to the story. “So, earlier this week, we recreated our kiss for fun. To celebrate, you know?”
“Yes, of course,” Geneva says.
The other woman adds, “And did you know then that you were in love with her?”
“It took me a while to figure it out,” I say, and Summer visibly trembles at the comment. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, the way it moves through her body. The way her breath ghosts across her lips.
“But you figured it out,” Geneva says.
As I meet Summer’s gaze, I speak the full truth when I say, “Yes, I did.”
We’re quiet later as we leave, heading down the stairs to the street, where Summer waits for her Lyft.
We don’t say a word. It’s strange for us. But she breaks the silence eventually, gesturing to my client’s home. “Are you going to feel as bad as I will when you tell her we broke up?”
“Yes.” But not for the reasons she thinks. Not because I feel guilty. I don’t fucking care about appearances anymore.
I say yes because I feel like it’s already happening—the breaking up—and it does feel bad.
The feeling is magnified when the Honda pulls up to the curb and I open the door and say good night.
She waves faintly from the car, the look in her eyes a little sad.
It probably mirrors mine.
Last night really was just one night.
Once she leaves, I don’t call a cab or a Lyft.
I start down the block, but I’m not alone for long. A familiar voice calls out, “Care to walk a woman home, love?”
I turn around and wait for Jane, coming from the party. “If I must.”
