Page 75 of Meet Me in the Garden

It’s dark inside. Not the pleasant dimness of the restaurant, but something closer to blackness. I can make out shapes of people at the bar, figures dancing, and then my eyes adjust. “Oh,” I say. “You can’t take me here.” Across the floor, women dance with women, men with men.

“What do you mean?” Ginny says. “Where did you think I was taking you?”

“Somewhere safe,” I say.

“Itissafe. It’s the safest place for us. Look.” She points to a small stage in the far corner where a woman stands over the dance floor. “Jo doesn’t mess around. See her with that flashlight? She doesn’t let anyone dance too close, just in case. And also, look. We can all pass if we need to.”

She believes it enough that I can begin to believe it, too. I realize I’ve been shaking. “We can leave,” she says. “Or I can get you a drink. You decide.”

My eyes have adjusted. I can see more now. The long plain bar. The handsome bartenders. The proprietor surveying it all like a schoolmistress. Ginny waiting to see what I’ll decide. “I’ve never been seen this way.”

She nods. Waits. A couple women at the bar watch us, frankly. It’s a whole different world.

“One drink here,” I say.

“And a dance?”

I smile. My whole body is tired now, crashing from the panic. She reaches for my hand. Warm and firm. I want more of her. The women at the bar turn their sights elsewhere. I want to dance with her, but she’s tugging me toward a bartender. “What would you like?”

“Whiskey,” I say. “On ice.”

The bartender is quick. Soon our glasses are waiting for us on the bar, and I’m desperate for her touch as we clink and sip.

It’s too loud for much talking. We drink and then she leads me tothe dance floor. She puts her arms around my waist—a spark, electric, coursing through me. I put mine around her neck. It’s torture not to get any closer, not to let my breasts press against hers, or my head rest on her shoulder. I stare her in the eyes, willing her to understand.

“What is it?” she asks.

“Take me home with you?”

We’re at her apartment in just a few minutes. She closes her front door and takes my dress off. I slip her undershirt over her head, unbutton her pants, and watch as she slides them down. A flare of sitting with her in Adele’s backyard, the last of the sunlight on her shoulders, and how much I wanted her then and how much I do, now. I’m glad I couldn’t hide it, even though I tried. Glad that she saw something in my eyes or my body or the way I resisted looking at her too closely.

I try to relax into the moment, but I can’t. Our only chance. She kisses me and I tense—stomach clenching, chest tight—even though it’s all that I want.

The kiss ends. Excruciating, for her to look at me this way. Concern where there had just been desire. She tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear. “A drink?”

“Okay.”

“Hold on.” She walks naked into a small hallway, her familiar stride but exposed now. The feminine curve of her hips, usually disguised by loose clothing. The angle of her shoulder blades and roundness of her buttocks. I’m crestfallen when she returns in a long shirt down to her thighs, carrying a robe for me. I slip it on while she crosses to the kitchen, opens a cabinet. Takes down a bottle of bourbon, pours some into mismatched glasses. She hands one to me and takes a seat on the far end of her sofa. I sit on the other, close but not as close as I could be. She folds her legs under her. “Have you been with a woman before?”

“Of course,” I say.

“Why would I assume?”

“I was with a woman back home. Before I was married. For about a year.” How could it be, that it was so short? A flash in time, the impact rippling out, on and on, lasting.

“A secret love,” Ginny says.

I nod. Blink hard. “You and that song.”

“Will you still stay with me tonight? We don’t have to do anything.”

We pass a cigarette back and forth, drink our whiskey until the glasses are empty. I settle in, stretch my legs out, close to her but still not touching. She looks at my foot, my calf, sets her hand on my ankle.

“Can we try again?” I ask.

This time, when we kiss, my body softens. She takes her time, kisses me slowly. Checks my face to see if I’m okay. I don’t want her to look at me anymore, not like that. I pull her onto me, sink into the sofa cushions. I’d forgotten what it was like, this pressure, this skin on skin and the wanting. I kiss her hard and faster and I take her hand, put it against my breast.

“Come,” she says, lifting off me, taking my hand. “I’m not making love to you on a couch. Not after waiting this long.”