Out on Good Behavior releases in one week, and I’ve been posting teasers on Instagram for a couple of months now, but for the very last #TeaserTuesday before release, I figured I’d share something a little longer…in the form of an excerpt!
We chat about nothing for a few minutes as the room fills in a little more, then sit back quietly as the concert begins. It’s not that bad, truthfully, and Andi’s pretty good as far as I can tell. Not that I’m terribly focused on the music. My eyes keep darting to our arms on the rest between us, how close they are to touching but not. It would be so easy to reach out and take her hand, to answer the question once and for all. It’s not like it’s a big deal—plenty of people are out at Radleigh. Hell, just in this room. Sure, sometimes it comes with its annoying shit, but this is a pretty open-minded, liberal campus; I can’t escape the thought that if she really were into me, she’d have made a move.
I try to think back to when I was a little baby queer, but the truth is, I can’t even remember a time before I knew I wasn’t just into guys. Sure, I juggled “Am I gay?” for a while, not because I wasn’t attracted to guys but because I didn’t know there were a plethora of options between the ends of the Kinsey scale, let alone between “boy” and “girl.” I definitely played around with different labels until I decided pansexual felt like the best fit. But thinking I was straight? Not part of my particular past.
Sidra is really the person I should be asking; she came out much more recently and would probably have more insight. But she’s also a Relationship Person, and she’d never get why all of this is weirding me out so much.
I don’t even really get why this is weirding me out so much.
Honestly, this is ridiculous; I get far too much ass for me to get this worked up about one girl. If she’s straight, whatever, and if she’s in the closet, that’s her prerogative. It’s obvious I’m exceptionally attracted to her, and maybe that’s mutual and maybe it isn’t, but I have expended way too much brainspace on this crush that I should be spending on—
A stocking-covered thigh rubs against mine, and I glance down to see that Samara’s crossed her legs, making her dress ride up quite a few inches. It’s also pressing her leg against mine, and there’s no way she doesn’t feel that. Instinctively I press back, just a little bit, and wait for her to move.
I’m not sure how long we sit like that, or at what point our limbs start inching even closer, but at some point during a flute solo, my fingertips brush soft, bare skin, sending a little tremor through my fingers. I let my gaze drop to our arms, and I can see hers is covered in goose bumps, but she doesn’t move.
It’s not the slightest bit cold in here.
With any other girl, this is where I’d push it—trace lines along the silky inside of her forearm, or drop my hand to massage her knee—but I strongly suspect doing that now would spook Samara, and that’s the last thing on earth I wanna do.
So I leave my thigh pressed to hers. I keep my fingertips resting lightly on her arm. And I sit through the longest fucking concert in the history of human existence.