Page 73 of Gifted & Talented

Eilidh looked at Dzhuliya again. And looked. And looked. For signs? It was true, Dzhuliya was a climber. It showed in the frame of her shoulders, the toned muscle of her back. Dzhuliya, always Dzhuliya, inseverable from Eilidh’s memories of Thayer in some idle, nascent way. When Eilidh pushed thoughts of Thayer aside, it was Dzhuliya who remained.

(Buzz, buzz.)

“You’re not dating anyone,” Eilidh observed aloud to Dzhuliya, who glanced up at her with a jolt, knocked unexpectedly out of her reverie. Eilidh had meant to phrase it as a question, but then again, it wasn’t. After all, if Dzhuliya was always there, then so was Eilidh. She would have noticed if there was someone else.

So much for amicable colleagues.

“No,” Dzhuliya confirmed. She held Eilidh’s eye for a meaningful stretch of time, then looked down. A quizzical, ironic smile played across her lips. “Does it matter?”

Lack of romantic attachment didn’t rule out the possibility of pregnancy—Eilidh wasn’t a total square. Then again, it was possible this had become a separate line of questioning, deriving evidence for some other hypothesis that was tangential, perhaps even irrelevant to Gillian’s.

The constant question of Dzhuliya. But what if it wasn’t a question? What if her constancy had been the answer all along?

“One drink probably wouldn’t hurt,” Eilidh commented. “I won’t tell,” she teased in a conspiratorial tone, realizing that she hoped for something. For Dzhuliya to say yes, that was clear, although what did it matter to Eilidh whether Dzhuliya misbehaved?

Oh, but it mattered profoundly, Eilidh realized when Dzhuliya met her eye again. Not as to the matter of Gillian’s hypothesis; something much more Eilidh-centric instead, swirling inward like a lure. The thing in Eilidh’s chest felt wild and devilish, a circling void. What was it about grief, the eroticism of sadness, the desperation not to be, how else to put this, alone?

“You could just stay here for the night,” Eilidh said in an undertone, and added before she could stop herself, “With me, if you wanted.” It was allsuddenly so clear, like fucking crystal. How do you solve a problem like Dzhuliya? You put it to bed.

(The thing in Eilidh’s chest wasalive,baby!)

If Dzhuliya noticed the sudden huskiness to Eilidh’s voice, she carefully made no allusion to it. “Oh, I don’t think your sister would like that. I’m pretty sure she hates me.”

“She does,” Eilidh confirmed (the thing in her chest was inattentive to all but its own thirst), “but trust me, it’s a compliment. Or, I don’t know, normal. Meredith hates everyone.”

“I know it’s stupid, but I just really need her to like me.” Dzhuliya gave Eilidh a grimace. “It’s diabolical, I know.”

“Believe me, she has that effect on everyone.” An incredibly intimate thing, a truth Eilidh had never intended to share, because she didn’t want to be honest. She wanted, put frankly, to be naked. The thing in her chest was being very clear about that. But in that particular moment, it felt natural to tell Dzhuliya the truth, and to imply by way of that truth that byeveryoneEilidh clearly meantme.

Dzhuliya seemed ready to acknowledge the choreography of the tension, the patterns of a familiar dance. Her eyes met Eilidh’s in a more meaningful way, laden with significance.

Then she looked away. “I didn’t realize,” Dzhuliya began, and trailed off. She reconsidered, then said, “You made it seem like the first time between us was a mistake.”

“Things were more complicated then.” False! They were amicable, a word only used for someone with whom you should not have sex.

Dzhuliya gave a little snort of a laugh. “I’d argue they’re more complicated now.”

“Then let’s argue,” Eilidh suggested, her eyes pointedly drifting. “Make your case and I’ll make mine.”

“I don’t think we should,” said Dzhuliya, in a way that sort of, maybe whisperedI want to.

The thing in Eilidh’s chest migrated south, filling her with heat. “Oh?”

“Funerals…” Dzhuliya trailed off. “Sex is a biological compulsion when people die. You know, a member of the herd gone, the need to reproduce. For the preservation of the species.”

Biology again. It sounded fucking filthy to Eilidh, who was obviously too far gone to think with the thing in her head. She had the sense that ifshe touched Dzhuliya just then, a thunderstorm of fire would erupt. No, no, she told the demon in her chest, I don’t want plagues, I just want a normal, contained amount of friction.

“And anyway, like I said.” Dzhuliya looked away, and Eilidh thought no, no, wait. “I should get home, and I definitely shouldn’t drink if I’m going to drive—”

Maybe Dzhuliya was right to bring up their sexual history. What had come between them before, why had they stopped? Eilidh had always been attracted to Dzhuliya, that was the source of the problem, who in turn had always seemed to look at herlike that. Eilidh remembered, vaguely, the first time she’d seen Dzhuliya two years ago; that Eilidh’s father had been trying to set her up then with someone named Justin. As if Eilidh could date a Justin—as if she could feel attraction to a Justin—as if she could call out JUSTIN!!!!! erotically, in bed. Dzhuliya had straightened then and caught Eilidh’s eye and smiled, and then a few weeks later there they were, in Dzhuliya’s dinky little hatchback trying to find some leverage, to make some room for their long legs and the sense of inadequacy that lived eternally in Eilidh—the feeling that if she crossed the line arbitrarily drawn at her father’s pretty assistant’s zipper, she would be uninvited to Thayer’s weekly lunch.

No crowd for Eilidh, no applause. Except her father’s.

(Her father, who was gone now. Her father, who, for better or worse, no longer got a say.)

“Dzhuliya,” said Eilidh, her voice low enough with want that she knew Yves and Gillian couldn’t hear her, though she didn’t care if they did. “Have the wine or don’t, but I would really, really like you to stay with me. Call it a second chance,” she said, knowing that in fairness, she owed Dzhuliya after last time. Honestly, fuckleverage—that had always been such a terrible excuse, a real putrescent blow of cowardice. Even Eilidh Wren, eminent prima donna, didn’t require king-sized luxury for an orgasm. The clitoris was simply not that complex. “Or hell, call it grief,” Eilidh compromised, because yes, sex would be better than sadness. That much she knew for sure.

Dzhuliya had a familiar look on her face. Eilidh remembered it, the same look from sneaking out of the dorms, meeting someone in the practice rooms. The look ofWe’ll get in troublethat only made things more delicious in the end.

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