38
Lillian
So we head downstairs. Together. Which is a problem.
Because if I sat next to Sasha for another second with their voice mixing with mine I was going to kiss them and I said friends friends friends and they don’t like me that way and I’ve got a box of my ex’s things in my closet. I thought I’d go downstairs, clear my head and then put the popcorn in between us.
But I just know it’d be the warmest, softest kiss. Sasha’s wearing leggings and fuzzy socks and a huge gray Wavelength sweater that they saw and immediately wanted. They wouldn’t let us give it to them for free even though it’s a misprint that says Wavelenght. Sasha said merch is the real way you pay bands for music. Since we thought no one wanted it, Quinn had been doodling Wavelength logo ideas on the sweater.
Sound waves lapping at the shores of a city.
A microwave with a face on it.
Rulers growing out of the ocean like trees.
When we get to the kitchen, my mom’s standing at the counter, just back from work. She’s still dressed professionally, suit jacket and such. She’s scrolling on her phone and eating leftovers straight out of the container.
“Hey, you two,”
she says, like it’s normal for Sasha to be over even though Sasha is the first new friend of mine to enter my house in some while. Possibly years.
Sasha’s looking at the fridge, which I’d prefer covered in a sheet. Or shot into the sun. Every picture of me on there features a previous version of myself whose look I like less than the version now.
After going through most of the cupboards, I turn to my mom.
“Popcorn kernels?”
She points to literally the one cupboard I haven’t looked in.
“What else do we need?”
I ask Sasha.
“Um, honey and cinnamon and butter, or coconut oil, and vanilla and maple syrup and nutmeg.”
They smile at my mom.
“I’m Sasha. Sorry I’m stealing all your ingredients.”
My mom looks up from her phone, deadpan.
“You’ve a very demanding guest, Sasha.”
“I’m Lillian’s high-maintenance friend.”
Even Sasha says “friend.”
“Will you be needing cassia or Ceylon cinnamon?”
my mom asks.
I’m making a little row of ingredients on the counter. I look in the spice drawer. I only use the cinnamon shaker that Jasper mixed with sugar.
“I can make do with cassia.”
“That’s very decent of you,”
says my mom.
Then she leaves. That’s the whole conversation. Goddamn it, why did Jasper inherit all her effortlessness and not me? It’s insufferable, and I aspire.
Even though it’s my kitchen, I’m not much use except for trying to find things for Sasha to make food with. They don’t seem to mind.
“It’s been a while since I’ve been in a real kitchen,”
they say.
“It’s so spacious.”
“Does your house not have a full kitchen?”
Sasha checks if the honey in the microwave is melted enough.
“No, it’s tiny and weird and partially renovated. Neither of my parents are much for cooking.”
I’d like to come up behind them and wrap my arms around them and kiss the back of their neck. I would like to be a snuggly, distracting, sexy nuisance while they’re trying to work in the kitchen instead of sitting on the counter talking. Not that I mind that. It’s just that I like the way they move, and I’d like to move with them.
I didn’t ask for this heart.
Some people have casual hearts.
Hearts that hook up and never think dancing-in-the-kitchen thoughts.
“If I ever write a song where people are dancing in a kitchen,”
I say out loud.
“you’ve got to have me put down. I’ve gone country, and there’s no saving me.”
“I dance in my tiny kitchen every day,”
says Sasha. They twirl around, a demonstration, a laugh, a blur, something I want to catch and hold on to.
The back door slams — Jasper back from running. He comes into the kitchen wearing shorts and my headband and gives this little nod to Sasha as if they’ve already met.
To which I give Jasper the look of you talked to the person I told you I have a crush on? He gives me the innocent who, me? look back. He asks Sasha how their test went and takes some popcorn on the way by. Declares it a blessed gift to humanity and heads off to shower.
“The stamp of approval,”
says Sasha.
“Anyone else I should meet? Godparents, music teachers, pets?”
They point at a picture on the fridge.
“Maybe I should meet this weird cousin.”
“That’s me.”
“Wow.”
“Is that wow like ‘hot damn,’ or wow like ‘you poor thing why did no one tell you those bangs were a bad idea?’”
“Sooooo, how about that movie?”
Cyprus should have stopped me. The blame for that haircut is squarely on her shoulders. But I lead the way back up to my room rather than focus anymore on my past hair regrets.
We put my laptop on an old speaker, and I hold the bowl of popcorn in my lap instead of using it as a barrier. I tell myself that I have to sit close to Sasha for strictly practical reasons. That laptop screens are small and that’s why the bowl isn’t between us. Sasha’s already enjoying the start of the movie while I’m feeling a whole wish-wash of things. Nervous? No. Adrenaline? A bit of that. Anticipation and excitement, I think.
My fingers are sticky with the popcorn, which helps keep me away from Sasha for the first part of the movie and doesn’t help me with thinking about how their mouth would taste right now. I can feel a slight pressure every time they grab some popcorn, one step away from touch. I last for half an hour.
I pause the movie.
Sasha glances over at me.
I could say I have to go to the bathroom. Makes sense. I need to wash my hands, though honestly we’ve both licked the honey off our own fingers. Like in a normal way. Silly, not porny.
And I felt dirty for thinking there was anything sexual to it, but I like people kissing my fingers. That’s allowed. I’d like Sasha to kiss my fingers. There’s a lot of nerves in fingertips. It doesn’t have to be about penises. Hands are very sexual without any phallic connotations.
That’s a demonstration of how I do have a filter. I didn’t relay that whole thought process to Sasha. Some people may think I say everything that pops into my head, but they don’t know all that happens in there.
“I don’t want to make this weird,”
I say, which is the very best way to make anything weird.
“But do you want to cuddle? Like platonic cuddle? If not, that’s all good. No pressure.”
“Doesn’t everyone want to cuddle all the time?”
“So, yes?”
“Definitely yes.”
I press in close to their side, my face against their sweater, my legs swung over top of theirs and our arms around each other. I’m not going to side-hug cuddle. Cuddles should be entangled. My body is starved for this, and now that I’m here and settled and the movie carries on and Sasha doesn’t act any different and gradually, gradually my heart rate slows to normal, it doesn’t feel like a trick. I thought it might be me suggesting one thing and feeling another. This warmth surprises me, more intimate and natural than I thought it’d be.
I feel safe with Sasha. I trust them.
The way their body relaxes into me tells me they feel the same.
Possibly, there’s nowhere I’d rather be.
At the end of the movie, the streaming service could let the credits roll by. Instead, it starts playing something jarring and fully unrelated. It doesn’t want to give us the moment where we’re still touching but without anything we can pretend to be focused on. It forces me to shift from Sasha’s arms enough to close the lid and break the moment.
This is why I hate corporations. They’re never on the side of love.
Not that love has anything to do with this.
I stretch and offer Sasha a ride home. It’s not because I’m tired of having them here. I suddenly feel exhausted, a bit empty, far away.
As soon as the cold air in my room hit where my body had been warmed against Sasha’s, there was a switch inside me. Like a circuit breaker tripped by feeling too much. It snapped off. It could be to protect me, or it could be a malfunction. Either way, the lights go out and I need to be alone.
They say they’re okay to walk home since it’s not that late or that cold yet. They say.
“I’ll see you tomorrow”
like it’s a guarantee. I didn’t really want to ask to borrow the car or talk to anyone else tonight. Sasha saves me by saying they’ll show themselves out. Maybe they could feel the shift in me.
They hug me goodbye. It’s a nice development, but in this moment, I don’t feel it at all.
“Don’t worry about the showcase,”
they say.
“The world forgets most things. It gives a surprising number of second chances. I’ll leave you to put away your gear.”
They close the door gently, as if a loud sound might be too much for me.
Little does Sasha realize that dumping my gear on my bedroom floor is putting it away. There’s nowhere else for it to go. And nowhere else for me to go besides bed.
I’m under the covers before Sasha’s left the house. I hear voices, the sound of Sasha saying goodnight to my mom. It’s a brief exchange, too short for anything mortifying to be said. Then the back door opens and closes, softly again.
Sometimes a presence brings an absence back, and my bed feels emptier than it has since the night Emelia and I broke up.