CHAPTER TWO
First Date
JULIETTE
Calling it a first official date is almost funny.
It implies we’ve been doing something unofficial until now.
That we haven’t already enveloped each other in every crevice, like we haven’t already had her nails down my back and my mouth on her throat, her breath stuttering because she tries so hard not to sound like she needs anything.
Our bodies intertwined into one most nights and our minds melded together every morning.
This isn’t our first anything. But it is outside of school confines, and it surprisingly doesn’t worry me.
I picked the place weeks ago. I wanted to start our summer off with a delicate affair.
I don’t want a casual little booth where teenagers whisper and watch.
I don’t want somewhere loud enough that we have to lean in close and then spend the whole night wondering if leaning in close is why people are staring.
Not for a night like this. Although I don’t think Adaline would ever care about people staring at us. She is unbelievably fearless.
I texted Adaline this morning. We didn’t stay over at mine yesterday because Adam doesn’t like us doing that every night. In his words, “You’ll have each other every day when you move to Oxford.” Which was true enough. A whole apartment was waiting for us.
I don’t ask Adaline where she wants to go. I told her what time and what to wear.
Black. Simple. Don’t argue with me.
She replied quickly.
“Yes, ma’am.”
I reread the messages. It’s stupid how something that small can settle me.
Our last day of school was two weeks ago.
Ever since then, we’ve been so busy planning the trip to Oxford, and by we I mean Adaline, because apparently the nerd in her never dies.
It’s unbelievably cute, but thankfully her plan is arranged, which means I get her for the next three months entirely to myself, not sharing her with any books or binders.
She wanted to show up separately to make it feel like a real first date, so I showed up early, of course.
I’ve been seated for the last five minutes, and my posture is as rigid as ever.
I need this to be perfect and I’ll be damned if it’s anything less than that.
My inner ramblings are cut short when I see Adaline walk in.
The restaurant is fairly quiet, and the hostess brings her to the table.
The ambient lighting cannot fade her beauty in the slightest. If anything, it amplifies it.
I smile when I see her wearing a black dress.
It’s fitted, not trying too hard, just enough to make the point.
Hair done in a way she probably thinks is casual but I know isn’t.
A small necklace at her throat that catches the light when she moves.
I stand up and pull her chair out for her.
“Hi,” I whisper in her ear as she sits down.
“Hi, baby,” she smiles once I’m back in my seat. The words send a shiver down my spine. They always have.
“You’re staring,” she tells me, looking almost bashful.
“You’re used to it,” I retort.
She smiles, slow and knowing. “Still rude.” I roll my eyes at her fake complaints.
“Still pretty.”
That earns me an identical eye roll that isn’t real irritation.
Her gaze drifts down my outfit, the cut of my dress, the lipstick I wore because I knew she’d look at my mouth.
She doesn’t compliment me right away. She never does.
She likes holding her reactions back, like it makes her stronger.
It doesn’t. It just makes me want to pull them out of her. She’s such a little fucking tease.
“You look…” she starts.
I arch a brow. “Go on.”
She exhales through her nose, annoyed at herself. “Like you planned this.”
“I did,” I say simply.
She shakes her head like she can’t decide if she likes that or hates it.
“You’re stunning.”
I smile, trying to contain the heat rushing to my cheeks. I lean over the table and fix the collar of her dress even though it’s fine. It’s an excuse. My fingers brush her throat. Her pulse is there, steady and hammering like crazy. I feel it, and my mouth goes dry.
“Nervous?” I tease.
“No,” she lies.
I smile. “You don’t have to be.”
She looks at me. “You are.”
I don’t deny it. Denial is pointless between us. “Not about you.”
“Then what?”
I take her hand. “About them.”
She glances around. There’s no crowd, just a few people passing.
Still, she understands. Of course she does.
She’s always understood me better than I wanted.
The table is small. Intimate. A candle in the center, glassware that looks like it could shatter if you breathe wrong.
The kind of place I’m used to but Adaline isn’t.
She picks up the menu and reads it like a test she doesn’t understand.
“This is fancy,” she says, low. She has no idea truly how fancy this place is. It takes years to get a reservation, well only if you’re not a Kingston.
“Is that a complaint?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes. “Just an observation.”
“Keep observing,” I reply, and the corner of her mouth lifts.
The waiter comes. I order wine before he can ask. When he turns to her, I speak again, calmly.
“She’ll have the lamb.”
Adaline’s gaze snaps to me, eyebrow raised.
“Excuse me?” she says.
“Trust me,” I say.
She looks like she wants to argue out of principle, but then she doesn’t. She nods. “Fine. Lamb.”
“The salmon for me, please.”
The waiter nods and leaves, and I have to hide my smirk knowing that I got my way with this little brat. It’s usually a rare occurrence.
“You’re bold,” she says.
“I’m right,” I say.
She huffs a laugh. “Same difference.”
I lean forward and kiss her cheek, and we soon settle into conversation.
It never gets boring, hearing her ramble or her listening to me with the everlasting patience she has.
We talk about how I desperately want her to sell her motorcycle because of the safety risks, and her telling me she would rather die before she does.
She talks about school, about how everything feels like it’s ending and beginning at the same time.
I listen, watching her hands when she speaks.
She has a habit of fidgeting with her rings when she’s thinking, and I love it. I love listening to her.
“You’ve been quiet,” she says after a while.
“I’m listening, baby.”
“You always listen,” she replies.
I meet her gaze. “I love listening to you.”
She looks away first, trying to hide her smile.
Even now, we’ve seen every nook and cranny, and she still gets shy when it comes to feelings.
It makes my stomach tighten with satisfaction I don’t bother hiding.
The wine arrives. I pour for her before myself and watch when she takes her first sip.
Her beautiful face contorts into a grimace, and I can’t hold back my laughter.
“It tastes like shit.” She huffs.
“You have the palate of a child.”
“Might be true, considering I finished the food you cooked for me.”
“Bitch,” I mutter, pinching her arm. She swats mine away jokingly. We tease each other for a little while after that before melting into a more serious discussion.
Her expression turns almost nervous in a matter of minutes, and she asks, “Has your mom texted back yet?”
“She hasn’t.” My mum and my relationship has changed for the better since I came out.
Her homophobia dwindling with every day that passes, but when it comes to Adaline she still has her reservations.
They’ve never gotten along, irregardless of her being a girl.
I texted her this morning, asking her to host a dinner for us, and she hasn’t responded yet.
“I’m sorry, baby.” She puts her hand on top of mine. “Once she does, I promise I’ll play nice.”
Her earnest tone settles me, but I know Adaline hates playing nice. I’ll try and give her the benefit of the doubt.
“You keep looking around,” she says suddenly.
I shrug. “Habit.” I hadn’t even noticed I was doing that.
“From when?”
I could lie. I don’t.
“From when I was trying to be someone else,” I say.
She doesn’t press. She doesn’t need to. She knows the outline of that someone else. She knew her before anyone else did, even when I was pretending she didn’t exist. When I made her life a living hell. She keeps her hand on mine and squeezes encouragingly.
The waiter arrives, and so does my salmon and her lamb. She takes one quick bite, and her expression tells me everything I need to know, but I still ask anyway.
“What?” I ask.
She swallows. “You were right.”
I nod, a smirk plastered on my face. “I know.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling as she does it.
We eat. Slowly. I steal bites from her plate.
She steals from mine. Our knees touch under the table and stay touching.
At one point, her foot slides along my calf, absent minded, like she forgot we’re in public.
It’s exhilarating in the best way possible.
Halfway through dinner, someone glances our way, an older lady.
It’s not hostile, but curious, and yet my body turns rigid, an old instinct flaring up.
I used to be the kind of girl who made other people smaller so I could feel bigger.
That part of me is just there, in the background, like a stain you can’t fully scrub out.
Adaline’s hand reaches across the table again and closes around my wrist. Not tight.
Just firm. The kind of touch that says, calm down. My shoulders drop, and I listen to her.
“What?” she asks quietly, like she didn’t just save me from myself in front of strangers.
“Nothing,” I say. “Thank you.”