Best Lesbian Romance 2014 (13 page)

I just wish I could be as cool with it as she is. People know Ramona's gay—I mean, when they ask, she tells. Like, when a guy asks her out, she'll come right out and say she's not into guys. Of course, not everyone believes her, because she doesn't “look” gay—whatever that means anymore, although apparently it still means something.

I think it means that unless we drop the BFF act and start acting honestly—walking the hallways hand in hand, sharing smooches and moony, swoony looks—no one will know what we mean to each other.

“Hey, Ramones, how come you're so…out there?”

She shrugs casually, but her ego trips the light fantastic. “Just call me Ramona the Brave.”

“Ramona the Brave, why do you tolerate me?” We've been going steady for an entire semester. How much guile can one put up with after a while?

She shrugs again, a sign that she's resigned to this. “Just hopelessly devoted, I suppose. I don't press the issue because it'll just make things tense and awkward. The more we fret together, the unhappier we'll be.”

“I see.”

“No, you don't,” Ramona counters, and passes me my glasses.

I don't need them. I can see Ramona quite queerly.

My head starts spinning like a pinwheel, the colors whirring and blurring into a bewildered rainbow. “Look, I know I'm not worthy, but I want to be because you're the one that I want—I don't need anything but you, and I'm sick of all this cowardly lyin' and even though I'm totally mixing up my musicals right now, I mean every word, Ramones.”

Ramona starts to laugh, but the look she's giving me is soft, clear, sincere. I marvel at the beauty of her authenticity.

I'm thinking of falling in love with her.

Actually, I'm thinking I already have. Our connection is… perfection is what it is. When I concentrate on that, instead of on the “consequences” of being her not-so-secret girlfriend, I realize there really aren't any. There are only perks and possibilities.

I decide to exile the denial, a.k.a. the shirt, so I toss it to the floor.

“We're going together,” I announce.

“I know we are.”

“To the cast party,” I clarify. “We're going together.”

“I know we are.”

“As a couple.” I try again. “We're going together as a couple.
A couple that's going together. A couple that's…a couple.”

Ramona's smile is wide with pride and her eyes shine like stage lights.

I open my arms.

She closes the space.

I hug Ramona to my heart's content.

“Well, let's get going together,” she chirps, loosening her grip. Ramona dons her denim blouse and begins to button it—badly.

I giggle, feeling lucky and loopy and lovesick. I take a picture of Ramona, my eye the camera lens, and add it to the thousands of snapshots that have accumulated in my cerebral scrapbook. This one is captioned:
Don't fail to sail on that dreamboat.

“You're magnificent,” I tell her, shooting Cupid's arrows at Ramona with my eyes.

She leans forward until our foreheads are touching. “And what are you?”

A serene smile tickles my lips. “I'm yours.”

“In that case, I'm glad you lost your shirt,” Ramona says, glancing at the rumpled lump on the floor.

“I'd rather lose my shirt than lose you.”

A grin nips at Ramona's lips, and then Ramona's lips nip at mine.

When we kiss, my whole body takes note, an ensemble of tingles all too happy to harmonize.

“Ready, Les?” Ramona asks.

She loops a lock of hair behind my ear and I slip my arm through hers so that we're linked like a magician's rings. There's a song in our show—“Those Magic Changes.” I just hope I can say the same for our situation.

Revelation?

Celebration.

Yeah, celebration. That's the most optimistic option.

“Ready, Ramones,” I answer. “Time for our relationship to take center stage.”

When we make the scene, we make an entrance: my arm around her waist, her arm around mine.

I can do this. No big deal. No sweat—except on my palms.

“Come on, snake,” Ramona says. “Let's rattle.”

“Are you asking me to dance?”

“Duh, dummy.” Coming from her, it sounds like a term of endearment.

She leads me through the throng of thespians convened in the converted basement of the school's Drama Queen (our director and favorite acting teacher), and we exchange greetings and congratulations with our cast mates.

No one cares how couple-y we look. Either that or no one notices, which, I have to admit, bugs me a bit.

What do we have to do, put a bug in someone's ear?

Apparently. After a dozen dances, including a few slow ones, not one cast member has cast an eyeball at us.

I guess we'll have to show
and
tell to get through to these folks.

“I'm twist-and-shouted out,” Ramona announces midway through the shindig. “I'll grab some punch and you grab a seat.”

“Okay,” I say, my hand heading toward her heinie.

“Get away from my party pooper!” Ramona giggle-shrieks, and tips me into an inelegant dip.

Doody enters, as if on cue (ewww), accompanied by Roger, Jan's love interest. That's funny—I don't recall asking where the boys are. They're nice and all, but during rehearsals, I got the feeling that they were hoping life would imitate art and a “showmance” would develop.

“They've entered right and left,” Ramona whispers, and I try to ignore the warm welcome her breath brings to my ear. “Actually—and unfortunately—they haven't left.”

“You girls were awesome,” says Roger. Real name: Rob, as in I'm-stealing-your-girlfriend, although in all fairness, I'm sure he doesn't consider it stealing since he has no idea that I've already stolen Ramona's heart.

A slow song comes on: “I Love How You Love Me,” a gender-neutral girl-group great.

Doody, more eloquently known as Jack, inquires, “May I have this dance?” He extends his hand. Take it or leave it.

I leave it. “I'm taken.”

“With me, I hope.”

“By her, you dope.”

“What, are you gay or something?” Jack chuckles. It's not mean-spirited, but my heart still feels like it's jumping on a moon bounce.

Ramona looks at me. I look at Ramona, who looks more hopeful than expectant. I take a deep breath. An order of oxygen with a side of courage—and make it snappy.

“As a matter of fact,” I reply, and push my glasses up the bridge of my nose, because that's what bespectacled people do when we mean business, “I'm gay
and
I'm something.” I hitch my hand to Ramona's. “This is my girlfriend,” I continue. “She's something else.”

“She's also as gay as a lady is pink,” Ramona adds, our joined hands swinging to and fro like a swishy poodle skirt.

“Unreal,” Rob remarks. In the '50s, that meant exceptional, so we'll take that as a compliment.

“That's the word from the bird,” Ramona affirms, and we watch as the dejected duo departs. “May
I
have this dance?” She extends her hand. Take it or else.

I take it.

We sway together, huddled in a cuddle, because I don't need a Jack in my box or in my arms.

“Leslie, I have so much gay pride in you right now, it's not even funny.”

“Just call me Leslie the Lesbo.”

“Leslie the Lesbo, I love you.” The declaration is delicate, decisive, definitive. The words barely hover before they cover my heart, which proceeds to melt into a giant puddle of fondue. Meanwhile, my eyes have started to water, but I don't mind, because on a queer day, you can see forever. And right now, I can see myself with her forever, and—

Oh, boy. It's official. This girl totally Ram-owns me.

“I love you, too,” I ditto without further delay.

“You love U2? I thought you were all about the Ramones.”

“Oh, I
am
all about the Ramones.”

The distance between us dwindles, the frenzy of freckles on Ramona's nose getting fainter; the scent of her hair, a duet of almonds and oranges, getting stronger.

“Don't be afraid to take risks,” she whispers, kissably close. “No risk, no reward. Right, Lesbo?”

My breath zigzags in my throat.

“I could care less what people think,” Ramona reminds me. “Could you?”

“I…could care less, too.”

“Then do it. Care less. And kiss more.”

I give her first a half-smile and then a whole one and now I'm tilting my head for a meet-and-greet with her mouth. I pursue the pressure of Ramona's lips and discover, to my surprise, that I thrive under pressure.

I also discover, to my surprise, that no one flips or flips out or offers us a knuckle sandwich. Nobody gives a hoot and only a
handful give a holler: an LOL here, an OMG there, and the rest are all in “awww.” Those kooky kids.

The slow song segues into something speedier: an oldie by the Knack.

“I love this song!” Ramona announces, and bounces.

So I serenade her, my voice vacillating between shy and sweet and loud and proud. I hope she can hear my rendition over everyone else's and I especially hope that she takes it personally. “M-m-m-my Ramona!”

Let's broadcast it to the world.

Well, today the theater world.

Tomorrow, the whole world.

So look out, world, 'cause queer we come.

SECOND CHANCES

Jade Melisande

Abigail slowed to a walk and finally came to a stop at a crossroads, pulling the cap from her head and gloves from her hands one by one as she brought her breathing under control and felt her heart rate slow. Her breath billowed from her mouth in vaporous clouds and condensation formed on her sunglasses, which she removed as well. She put an arm around first one knee and then the other, pulling them up high against her chest to give her hamstrings and glutes a good stretch before they cooled down too much. In response, a muscle spasmed in her ass. She groaned and reached back to massage it.

“Need some help with that?”

Abigail spun around to find the owner of the voice grinning at her: a tall, slender woman with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, large grayish-green eyes and a mischievous grin. Unlike Abigail, who wore her typical running gear, the woman was in hip-hugging jeans, boots with
actual
spurs (though not the sharp pointy kind in cowboy movies, Abigail noted) and a
long-sleeved T-shirt that stretched across full breasts and well-defined arms. A cowboy hat topped her ensemble, shading a face Abigail guessed had seen a few less summers than hers, though not many.

“Hi,” Abigail said uncertainly. Had this woman just offered to massage her ass? She'd never been hit on by a woman before. If that was what was happening.

She gave herself a mental shake. Of course that couldn't be what the woman was suggesting. She had to have been joking. Of course she was joking.

“Um, thanks,” she said, “but I've got it under control.” She lifted her leg and hugged it to her chest again to get the maximum stretch. The woman stepped forward and placed a hand on Abigail's shin, exerting gentle pressure on it, presumably to help Abigail with her stretch.

Presumably.

Abigail met the woman's eyes, only inches from her own. She felt the warmth and firmness of the woman's hand on her leg and saw a hint of that same grin she'd given her moments before lift the corner of her mouth. Her breath caught in her throat and the place where the woman held her leg suddenly felt hypersensitive.

“Thank…thank you,” she said, dropping her leg and stepping back.

The woman stuck out her hand. “I'm Laura,” she said.

Abigail took it in her own. “Abigail,” she replied. The woman's hand was firm and strong, yet delicately boned. And warm. Abigail wondered when the last time was that she had held a woman's hand.

She pulled her hand away abruptly. This wasn't hand-holding, this was hand-shaking. She felt her face heat and looked down in embarrassment and some confusion.

“Nice to meet you, Abigail,” the woman said. “Are you vacationing around here?”

Abigail looked up at her. Her smile was generous, inviting, and Abigail found herself warm to her. “Frost Valley Resort,” she said, nodding back the way she had come with her chin. “You?”

Laura chuckled. “Nope. Born and raised here,” she said. “My vacations are taken in the tropics. Got to get away from real life occasionally, right?”

The thought of “real life” brought a small frown to Abigail's face. Getting away from real life was certainly what she was doing here.