Chapter 33 Five Days till Christmas
33.
Five days till Christmas
It rained all day Friday, heavy in the morning, then tapering off to a patter by early evening. Siouxsie’s French braids were damp when she slipped off her Hunter boots in the foyer. “Thought I’d do tomato soup and grilled cheese,” she told Liz, hefting two bags of groceries. “Perfect for a rainy night.”
“For sure,” Liz said. “Save me a taste? Vi and I are going out for dinner.”
It was offered casually, but there was nothing casual about the high kicks her heart had been doing all day, or the outfit Liz had painstakingly decided on. The high-waisted black pants that made her ass look intentional, freshly polished heeled boots, her favorite green silk blouse, and the boss-bitch leather jacket she’d splurged on when Sweet got pickedup.
Violet came downstairs in a tight black sweater and leather pants Liz hadn’t seen before. Red lipstick she didn’t usually wear. The whole effect was stylish. Sexy. For me. The realization sent a zing up Liz’s spine, pinballing to three distinct points in her body.
The rain stopped right before they left. The air smelled washed clean. Liz borrowed her mom’s Audi (hard pass on borrowing Ray), opening the passenger side door for Violet, which seemed to both baffle and please her date. Liz found the local indie radio station. “Underwater” by Tegan and Sara came on, jangly queer pop-rock. Liz turned it up.
I would go to jail with only boys, just to prove I was as tough as you.
It was different, this new space they were entering. Alive like adrenaline, brimming with promise and just a lick of danger. The road was empty, the landscape lunar. Liz had to remind herself not to speed.
—
The family had been coming to the Italian restaurant for years. It was upscale old-school: dark-wood paneling, vintage silver cutlery, tables set with tiny vases of wildflowers. And excellent food. The pink peppercorn mafaldini was famous in the tristate area.
The hostess led Liz and Violet through the main dining room. Liz watched for flares of recognition in the patrons’ faces, but no one looked twice, engaged in their own pleasant evenings of carbonara and Chianti.
Upstairs, the table in their private dining room was set with a white linen tablecloth and, as requested, two tall candles, bathing the room in an elegant glow. Their server was polite and didn’t hover, leaving them with menus and a dish of Liz’s favorite marinated olives, on the house.
“So fancy,” Violet said in approval once he was gone. “Thank you for organizing this. It’s nice to have you all to myself.”
Liz was pleased her instinct to book their own room had been correct. “My pleasure.” She unfolded her napkin, daring to add, “Anything for a beautiful woman.”
Violet shot back an impressed look.
They ordered a feast. Their wine came out first, followed by house-made focaccia with green garlic butter and a little gem salad. Next, grilled prawns with lemon, then clams with Calabrian chili and breadcrumbs. Finally, bowls of the pink peppercorn mafaldini coated in parmigiano for Violet, and the fettuccine with seared sausage and a tomato passata for Liz.
It felt like the old days, but different. Their legs brushed under the table and Liz didn’t pull away. The fact that they were on a date, a real one, underscored everything with delicious tension, electric unknowingness. This script was still being written.
Their conversation flowed easily, starting light and bubbly before spilling into deeper crevices than it ever had before. Violet opened up about her parents’ deaths, describing how no one sat next to her on the one-hour bus ride she took to her new school. “I think they all thought my tragedy was contagious.” Violet speared a prawn contemplatively. “That I’d infect them with my grief. But I just wanted a friend.”
“I was never the most popular kid either,” Liz confessed. “Birdie had tons of friends. Rafi and Ash were—are—always together. I was the one tucked alone in a corner with a book.”
“Same.” Vi smiled, her gaze catching the candlelight. “Lucky we found each other.”
“The luckiest,” Liz said, smiling back, trying not to swoon. They split a tiramisu, plunging their spoons into the soft, sweet layers. Liz paid the check with a generous tip. On the way out, in the bathroom mirror, Liz wiped away a smudge of mascara. Excitement and nerves and hope blazed in her chest. She couldn’t deny how much she liked the person she was in Vi’s presence—a bolder, more playful, more lit-up version of Liz Belvedere. She couldn’t deny the rush she felt when their eyes met. When they touched.
Dinner was over, but their date didn’t have to be.
—
Outside in the parking lot, Violet was leaning against the car, gaze tilted to the star-dusted sky. “So,” she asked as Liz approached, “what do you want to do now?”
“We could get a nightcap,” Liz said. “Or go back to the Inn. Or head somewhere a little more…private.”
Violet’s smile was dreamy. “That sounds perfect.”
Liz drove Violet to the affectionately named Lover’s Lake, a nearby reservoir. They parked in the empty lot and walked to the water’s edge. In the summer evenings, it was busy with couples of all ages. But this late on a winter’s evening, Liz knew they’d be alone.
“Oh, wow.” Violet pointed. “Look at the moon.”
It was almost full. Its bright light played on the shifting surface of the water, witchy. Liz considered the earth’s biggest satellite. Could love, real and lasting love, be like the moon? Sometimes disappearing out of view, but always showing up again. Because in actuality, it hadn’t gone anywhere.
Violet stepped close enough to tuck her hands into Liz’s jacket pockets. “Hi.”
The feeling of Violet being so close disappeared the night’s chill. Liz circled her arms around Violet. “I’ve never wanted anything more,” Liz whispered, “than how much I want to kiss you right now.”
Violet’s breath was sweet and hot. “Me too.”
Liz closed her eyes, already knowing she would remember this kiss on her deathbed, the foreign yet familiar feeling of kissing a girl, this girl, her favorite girl in existence. Their lips touched and the rest of the world fell away. Violet’s mouth was soft and insistent, coaxing Liz’s lips open, one gloved hand on her cheek.
It was a crack of thunder and the touch of an eyelash. Sunday afternoon and Friday at 2:00 a.m. The first sip of wine and the last. Liz slid her hand to the back of Violet’s neck, the skin warm under her ponytail and beanie. The point of existence was to kiss and be kissed.
In the arms of this woman on the banks of a quiet lake, Liz understood falling in love anew. But it wasn’t Liz who was falling. Rather, her deepest fears and misconceptions were falling away, useless armor disappearing. As Violet’s lips pressed into hers, again and again and again, Liz wasn’t falling. She was finally being held.