Page 32 of The Summer List

“I love that,” I say. “Juice deserves to be an occasion, especially if it’s sparkling juice. You’re really embracing the upper class lifestyle, huh?”

“I’ve always loved sparkling grape juice!” she shoots back, some of her reserve slipping away to reveal the spark of her personality underneath.

“Just like you’ve always loved pickles?” I joke, propping a hand on my hip. “Do I need to brace myself for some grape pajamas too?”

“What’s wrong with my pickle pajamas?” she asks, slapping a palm down against the marble island. “Pickles are one of my favourite snacks, and the pajamas are cute, okay?”

I shrug and can’t keep myself from smirking. “I never said they weren’t cute.”

She blinks a couple times before murmuring, “Oh.”

Even though the kitchen is chilly enough she’s got a cardigan on over her tank top, I still feel the back of my neck start to get hot, like I’m back outside with the midmorning sun beating down on me again.

Only this time it’s her making me sweat.

She starts typing so fast I suspect she’s probably just spelling out nonsense to fill the silence. I shake my head in a failed attempt to clear whatever haze just clouded the air around us and step forward to drop my purse and hair dye onto the counter. I grab a glass from one of the cupboards and fill it up at the fancy water and ice dispenser built into the double-door fridge.

I can’t help thinking back to the night we met, when the topic of her pickle pajamas led to her blurting out she’s a lesbian.

I raise the glass to my lips, still facing the fridge, and chug half the icy water down before filling the glass again.

I wonder if she’s ever kissed a girl before.

I wonder what it felt like for her.

I kissed a few girls at parties before I met Nick, but always after I’d had a few drinks first. It wasn’t that I needed the liquid courage; it was because the ‘wow, we’re so drunk’ excuse seemed like a prerequisite for getting my mouth anywhere near another girl’s mouth, like if we didn’t have the alcohol burning in our blood to blame for the way we reached for each other, that need would be too real.

It would mean something.

Something we couldn’t take back.

So I’d down a few shots of whatever bottle was closest, just so I had an alibi in case whichever girl I kissed laughed and said, ‘I can’t believe we were so trashed we made out!’ the next time I saw her.

Turns out I needed that alibi every single time.

I wonder what it would feel like to kiss a girl who knew I wanted her, really wanted her, so bad I’d feel drunk and dizzy without needing to taste anything but her lips.

“Do you want some?”

I realize I’ve filled my glass so high the water is sloshing over the rim and into the overflow tray. I jerk my finger off the dispenser and whip around to face Naomi so fast I send an arc of droplets flying across the kitchen.

“Huh?”

She tilts her head and stares at me. I don’t blame her; I’m acting like I’m coming down with heat stroke or something.

“Juice,” she says, pointing a finger at her own glass. “Grape juice. Do you want some?”

I focus on not staring at her mouth.

“Sure,” I say, my voice stilted. “Yeah, that sounds great.”

“It’s in the green bottle in the fridge.”

I nod. “Right.”

I turn and gulp down my water like my throat is on fire, which it sort of feels like it is. My whole body is burning up, and I have no idea why.

I set my empty glass down on the counter with enough force to make the clinking sound echo through the kitchen. I yank the fridge open, drawing in a deep breath of relief as the blast of cool air hits my skin.

---