Page 35 of The Devil Wears Tartan

I fight the urge to gulp as soon as I finish.

Kenzie glances down at her chest. “That would be great if my shirt wasn’t covered in brownies.”

“Ah. Right. Well...” I tug on the sleeve of my jacket, trying not to look at her chest too. “I was going to suggest we film it at my house since we’re close, so you could clean your shirt off there, or just borrow something.”

My cheeks heat even more when I realize that in a single sentence, I’ve suggested she strip out of her shirt and put on one of mine.

“That could work.”

The way she tilts her head and lifts an eyebrow makes it clear she knows exactly how flustered I am.

That does not help my burning cheeks cool down at all.

“I’m down if you are,” she says when I can’t come up with a reply.

I turn to face the doors and hide how deep of a breath I take. “Right. Good. Then follow me.”

* * *

We get through the first half of the fifteen minute walk to my house in pretty much complete silence. We’re in the heart of the Glebe’s quiet residential streets. Huge oak and maple trees rain the last of the season’s yellow leaves down on us as we trudge up the sidewalk.

Most of the houses here are the same style as my family’s: old, boxy brick three-storey buildings with vintage-looking gables and shingled roofs. When my parents took me and my siblings out for family walks as kids, we’d play endless games of ‘I Spy’ based on all the houses’ quirky details, like vines creeping around a banister or brass lion knockers on the doors.

Even though Kenzie is silent, I see her craning her neck around beside me, taking the autumnal scene in like she’s as enraptured by it as I always was as a kid.

We’re about to turn the corner onto my street when one of the black flats I’m wearing catches on a gap between two sidewalk slabs and almost sends me sprawling on my face.

“Crap,” I hiss as I fling an arm out to catch my balance. “These don’t even have heels, and I’m still tripping in them.”

Kenzie gives me a sideways glance. “Not your favourite shoes?”

I scoff. “I’m more of a Doc Martens or Converse kind of girl. My Aboyne is about as femme as I get.”

I laugh at my own joke about the skirted highland costume used for the ‘ladies’ style dances, but stop myself when I realize what I’ve just implied.

I’ve never mentioned being queer directly to Kenzie. I’ve never had a reason to.

It’s not a secret or anything; in all likelihood, she’s already heard it from someone else, but I still hold my breath as I wait to hear what she’ll say next.

“You’re not exactly butch either,” she finally answers, just as the end of our driveway comes into view up ahead.

I shake my head beside her. “I’m a solid futch.”

She bursts out laughing at that, and I turn my head to see her tip her face up to the sky, her mouth stretched wide in a genuine smile.

“So what would you say I am?”

“Hmm.” I risk tripping again as I scuff my feet through a pile of crunchy leaves that’s drifted onto the sidewalk. “You’re pretty femme, but not like, high femme.”

She nods. “That sounds about right.”

We’re really talking about this. After years of wondering, she really has all but told me she’s queer.

“So you, uh...You’re...” I stutter with all the finesse of a thirteen-year-old talking to their first crush.

“I like girls, yeah,” she finishes for me.

My throat goes dry, and I force myself to swallow. “Cool.”

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