Chapter 17
ISABELLA
“Oh, shit,” Cecilia says. She is looking at me too directly now, eyes going back and forth between me and the person behind me. The man is still apologizing, words tumbling over each other in a nervous rush, but I barely hear him.
The drink is cold where it’s soaked through the silk, clinging tightly enough to make me immediately aware of my own body and, worse, of Cecilia being aware of it, too.
“It’s fine,” I hear myself say, mostly to make him stop talking. But the top is ruined for the night, and probably for good if I sit here long enough pretending otherwise.
I slide off the stool. “I need to change.”
She stands immediately, like the decision belongs to both of us.
“You don’t have to,” I say.
“I know.”
Of course she does.
She says it calmly, but there’s something in the way she’s looking at me that makes it impossible to believe this is casual. It’s a choice, and that does something reckless to my pulse.
We push through the crowd together, and for a few seconds it’s all noise and bodies and the pressure of people trying to pass in both directions. Someone bumps my shoulder, unapologetically, and someone else brushes my arm.
Cecilia steps closer automatically; close enough that I can feel the heat of her even through the damp fabric stuck to my skin.
I don’t reach for her, but I want to, desperately. Lock my fingers with hers and drag her to my house and—
The door swings open and the music surges, then drops behind us when it shuts again. The night air hits my skin, and I inhale sharply.
For a second, neither of us says anything. The bar behind us is muffled now, the music dulled by brick and glass, and the quiet between us feels less like relief and more like a shift in the atmosphere.
“It’s close,” I say, gesturing up the street. “My place.”
Cecilia’s eyes follow the motion of my hand before coming back to me. She doesn’t answer right away, but I can tell she’s trying to decipher if I just asked her to come home with me.
We walk the few blocks in silence, but it isn’t empty. It’s anticipatory. Every step feels deliberate. I’m conscious of the sound of her shoes on the pavement, the way she matches my stride without effort, the heat of her presence at my side.
The house comes into view—warm lights glowing through the front windows even through the drawn curtains, making the porch cast a soft shadow onto the walkway.
I unlock the door with fingers that are steadier than I feel.
When I push it open, I step back to let her in first. She looks at me for half a second, like she notices the gesture for what it is, and then she steps inside.
I follow her in and close the door behind us, silence settling through the house immediately. The air smells faintly of fir and cedar. The contrast to the bar is almost jarring.
“I’ll just—” I gesture vaguely towards the stairs. “One minute.”
A blur of black and white launches off the arm of the couch and lands squarely in the middle of the entry, right between Cecilia and me.
She startles on instinct, one hand half-lifting like she’s about to defend herself.
“What the—”
“Shit, sorry,” I say calmly, toeing off my shoes. “That’s Natalie Portman.”
There’s a beat.
Cecilia looks at the cat. Then at me.
“You named your cat Natalie Portman?”
“I did.”
The cat blinks up at her with enormous, judgmental eyes and flicks his tail.
Cecilia’s mouth twitches. “Why?”
I lean down to scoop Natalie up, who immediately melts into my arms like he’s been waiting for this exact moment to be dramatic.
“Because,” I say, stroking behind his ears, “I watched Black Swan at a formative age.”
Cecilia freezes, a slow smile working itself onto her face. I move into the living room so I can see her better, and she follows, removing her shoes like I did just moments ago.
“Is that movie your queer awakening?”
I look at her over the cat’s head. “In hindsight? Absolutely. Also, Natalie Portman is a male cat. So…”
Her laugh breaks out fully this time—warm, unguarded, filling the room with an unfair kind of ease.
“You’re unbelievable,” she says. “And I mean it in the most literal sense of the word. This is all… very cinematic.”
“Starting with my nickname,” I reply with a smile and a small shrug. I’m sticky still, but my body does not seem to want to move away from her.
Natalie Portman narrows his eyes at Cecilia like he’s assessing his prey, then wiggles down from my arms and trots off towards the kitchen, tail high.
Cecilia watches him go.
“So let me get this straight,” she says slowly.
“Mm. Gay,” I correct with a smile.
She takes an intentional step in my direction, her gaze finding my lips, then my eyes. “You grew up here, in a town that looks like a movie set. Named your cat after Natalie Portman. And you’re surprised that people still call you Princess?”
I wince. “Okay, that’s low.”
She steps closer, still smiling. “And the cat being male?”
“I don’t think he gives an actual shit about his name,” I reply, and the cat chooses that exact moment to chirp from the kitchen. “He’s a cat.”
The air shifts suddenly into something more intimate. She looks at me differently now.
Like I make her curious, instead of infuriatingly mad.
“I should have known,” she adds quietly. “The intensity. The control issues. The tragic devotion to craft.”
“I don’t have control issues,” I blurt. “And the choreography was good. I’m a figure skater, after all.”
We’re shifting again without deciding to, standing between two armchairs in the middle of the living room. The house is warm, and Natalie Portman reappears briefly, as if to confirm that this is, in fact, his domain, before vanishing up the stairs.
Cecilia’s gaze drifts over the space, taking it in—the photos on the wall, the clean lines, the calm colors.
“It suits you,” she says.
“What does?”
“This.” She gestures with her hand in the direction of the large windows, her eyes never leaving mine. “It’s not performative.”
“I don’t perform at home, Ceci,” I say.
Her eyes flick to my mouth.
“Good,” she murmurs.
There’s another pause. But this one feels like an eternity. Finally, she steps closer, her own hands grazing my waist this time with less hesitation than before.
“Does Natalie approve of guests?” she asks, voice lower now.
“He’s selective.” I look at her, standing in my living room, hair mussed from the walk, eyes still sharp from earlier, jaw relaxed enough to tell me she feels this, too.
“And you? Are you selective with your guests?”
The question hangs in the air, waiting for my response, and it feels heavier than it should.
“I am.”
Her fingers tighten at my waist just slightly. “Then why am I here?”
I don’t answer right away. My fingers find the hem of my top, still damp and clinging, and I pull it off in one smooth motion, dropping it over the back of the nearest chair.
Cecilia goes still. Similar to the way she gets when she’s trying not to react. But I see it. The way her shoulders square. The way her jaw tightens for half a second before she relaxes it.
Her eyes move over me slowly, not greedy or shy, either. Intentional. Taking in the lines of my shoulders, the faint flush still lingering across my skin from the walk and the drinks, the way my hair is probably rowdy and loose around my collarbones.
Her gaze drifts lower, and I feel it everywhere.
And there’s something electric about being looked at like that—not as a headline or a legend or a symbol—but as a body in a room, warm and exciting and within reach.
“Princess,” she murmurs, and the word ricochets in my living room so loudly that it makes me gasp. Cecilia’s mouth curves, but her gaze stays heavy.
I step backward towards the staircase, not breaking eye contact.
“Are you coming?” I ask.
That does it. Cecilia exhales through her nose like she’s losing an argument with herself, then follows.