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Abigail likes routines. Likes to have places to go and specific times to go to them, to have her life with just enough structure that she doesn't freak out. And so, once she's settled into her dorm, once she’s unpacked her bags and her moms have stashed plenty of snacks under her bed and a way-too-big first aid kit in her wardrobe, once she's said goodbye to them her moms and listened to all their advice, she spends the two weeks she has before the start of the semester casing out the city – getting to know it's streets and spots, what buses she must know the schedule of, how expensive the coffee shop by her dorm building is. By the time there's only two days left to go, she has her favorite library picked, the cheap restaurants jotted down, the coffee shops she'd like to study at selected. She's as ready as she'll ever be.
She tells so to Dan over the blurry zoom connection they're on.
"Have you managed to start your readings?" he asks, with a worried frown.
Abigail nods, "Of course." Not starting hadn't even crossed her mind, not when she looked through how much she had to get done. She felt like she was already late by the time she started, never mind that she’s yet to have her first class.
“I’m drowning in mine,” Dan says, sighing heavily. “And it’s all in such fucking small print. My head’s been aching for days.”
“Don’t they have any accommodations?” she asks, frowning. She and Dan have been friends ever since second grade. It had taken a while after that until he was finally diagnosed with dyslexia and gotten the help he needed, but Abigail had been used to doing what she could: reading their readings over the phone, going through his written assignments – whatever was within her means to help.
“I’m still going back and forth with the Disability Services. Hopefully this will be figured out soon enough,” he says, frustrated.
Abigail reaches for his face, wanting to touch him, but all her fingers find is the smooth texture of her screen. She lets her fingers linger nonetheless. She and Dan have been friends for over a decade, and it hurts more than she expected to suddenly be on different sides of the Atlantic.
“At least New York seems like fun,” she says, trying to comfort him, thinking of all the pictures he’s sent.
“It is. And smelly,” he says, making a face. “They say you become used to it though,” he adds hopefully.
“That’s disgusting,” Abigail says, suddenly thankful to be where she is. Her room might be the size of a shoe box, and the bars on the outside of the window make her feel claustrophobic, but at least she’s got it only to herself, and better yet, the wind coming through the window is clean and fresh.
“I miss you,” Dan says, his eyes tired and suddenly emotional.
“Please don’t cry,” Abigail says immediately. Having Dan cry when she can’t hug him would be too painful. “I miss you too.”
Classes start with so much intensity that Abigail finds herself drowning in them before the first week is over. Suddenly, her restful summer days wandering about town seem like a distant memory, something too peaceful to have ever been real. She spends the time she’s not in class holed up in the library, going through her readings and her first assignments, only going away when it’s dark outside. She eats in the dorm’s cafeteria every night and goes up to her bedroom feeling lonely and cold, wishing she could cuddle between her mums while they watch Bake Off and discuss pastries. She wakes up everyday with a text from Mum, and Ma always calls at lunchtime, and every other day Abigail comes home from dinner to video-chat with them, but she’s yet to figure out if that makes the distance easier or harder.
Still, somehow, she manages to make her first friend on her second week: Eme asks if she has a pen she could borrow and then, just like that, they’re sitting by each other in the library every day, and then Abigail is asking Eme if she would like to go out for lunch, and that’s it. They’re not in the same course – Abigail’s doing English Literature and History, while Eme is in Anthropology and Sociology – but their interests and schedules overlap enough that it’s easy to keep meeting and keep talking. Eme is not in the same dorm as her, but they start meeting most mornings at a coffee shop halfway between their places so they can walk to class together, and that is just enough to keep Abigail afloat as she works to find her ground.
In early November Ma asks to spend the weekend, which forces Abigail to come out of her cocoon and put the study aside. They go to the cinema and to the local history museum, and they have all their meals together – Eme even joins them once. At night, Ma sneaks Abigail into her hotel room so they can sleep together. Abigail sleeps better in her mother’s arms then she has in weeks.
She feels refreshed as a new week starts. She’s getting used to the speed of things, to the amount of writing and reading and thinking. She makes some friends in her course, including Jane, who is another trans girl, which lifts a weight of of Abigail’s shoulder she hadn’t even realized she was carrying; they all trade notes and advice on a group chat, and that helps too, having people she can turn to when it start being too much.
“We should go out,” Eme says one day. It’s Friday, the weather gray and cold, and they’re both done with classes for the week, so they’re seating on the steps that lead up to the library, cuddled up under one of Eme’s huge scarfs. “There’s a club just across from where I work. We could go check it out.”
“I’m not one for clubbing,” Abigail admits, blushing slightly. She likes the lights and the music, but the bodies are a bit too much at times, and she’s never been one for drinking – hers or other people’s.
Eme turns to her and smiles. “Me neither,” she says, leaning into Abigail. “But we have to make the most of it, don’t we?” She cuddles up closer, until they’re heads are tilted against each other. “C’mon, it’ll be fun,” she pleads.
“Don’t you have a shift tomorrow morning?” Abigail asks, feeling her resolution crack, but trying all the same.
Eme shrugs, unconcerned. “We’ll come home early,” she says.
Abigail sighs. “Alright, then.”
Eme squeals and cuddles tighter. “I’ll come by your dorm so we can get ready,” she decides, and Abigail nods in agreement, already going through the mental archive of her wardrobe as she tries to figure out if she has anything to wear.
She ends up in a pair of black shorts and a shirt with a little cleavage: something pretty and that makes her feel good, but not too much out of her comfort zone. Eme, who’s already wearing a tight dress with thin straps by the time she comes, seems to want to say something, but she doesn’t bother with whatever it is. Instead, she goes through Abigail’s jewelry to pick out something for them, braids Abigail’s hair in a loose french braid and lets Abigail do their make up, which isn’t easy with only the ugly light in her bedroom to help, but they make do.
They both put on heavy winter coats over their clothes and then make their way out, arm in arm, giggling and giddy as if they’re drunk already. Eme guides her towards the harbor, towards the ocean and the beach, and Abigail usually doesn’t go to this side of town, but she enjoys doing it now, enjoys the sound of the ocean getting louder as they come closer.
“That’s where I work,” Eme says, pointing out to a building on the other side of the street. Abigail has to squeeze her eyes to make out the sign – there’s nothing lighting it, nothing other than the moon and the lamp post nearby – but she reads it eventually: Nassau.
“Nassau?” she asks, surprised, wondering where she’s heard about it before. It takes a moment for her to figure it out, to remember Ms Scott telling her about it just a few months ago, when Abigail went up to her to tell her of her acceptance. “My English teacher told me about it,” Abigail says. “I think someone from her family works there,” she adds.
“Who?” Eme asks, interested, but then her eyes catch on something to Abigail’s left, and Abigail turns to see. There is a small door and neon lights and people lingering outside; above the door, a red neon sign reads Ranger. “Here we are,” she says, smiling widely.
Abigail nods. She takes a deep breath, shakes her heads, lowers her shoulders. She can do it, she tells herself, and she’ll have the best time.
“It used to be called Parisian Nights,” Eme tells her bemusedly as they take the final steps up to the door.
“That sounds like a strip club,” Abigail says, laughing.
“I think it was,” Eme admits. “Mr Scott says it changed management a while back, though.”
Abigail is surprised at the name, thinks of asking Eme more about it, but then they’re walking through the door into the dark room inside. The place is fancier than any of them expected, with a coat room by the door where a person just a couple years older then them takes their coats for two pounds a piece and a guard checks their IDs, and then they walk inside properly, into the flashing lights and drumming beats.
Abigail lets herself follow Eme’s lead: first to the bar, where they both ask for mocktails, though Eme also asks for a shot. “Just for a bit of fun,” she tells Abigail, offering to buy her one, though Abigail refuses. She laughs as she watches Eme swallow hers and make a face at the taste, and then they both grab their drinks and make their way across the dance floor, looking for a table. They get one just as another group is leaving, so they push their glasses aside and sit down. Abigail sips at her drink lazily as she watches the people around her, dancing carelessly, bodies pulled together tightly.
When Eme decides to join the crowd, Abigail decides to let herself stay behind. She feels fine in the corner they found for themselves, where they’re not too crowded and the smell of sweat isn’t overpowering. She watches Eme dance, watching her go at it alone until she catches someone’s eyes and, a few seconds later, they’re dancing together, laughing and talking beneath the music. Abigail’s eyes wonder: through the bar on the other side of the room, the DJ station, empty for now, the entrance, where people are continuously going through.
“Can I take these, love?” a voice screams from above the music.
Abigail turns to find a someone not much older than her, pointing at the glasses on the table, holding a tray already half-full.
“Sure,” Abigail nods, moving her and Eme’s glasses aside so the waiter can take the others.
The person moves forward to collect the glasses. She gesture s at Abigail’s almost empty one. “ Can I take that one?” she ask s . She shift s and the light catches on the pin in her shirt; Idelle , it reads .
Abigail finishes the drink in one big gulp and hands it to her, trying not to choke under the weight of Idelle’s eyes on her. “I’m Abigail,” she feels compelled to say once she’s worked through the drink, handing the glass back.
Idelle laughs. “Nice to meet you, Abigail,” she says with mirth, making Abigail realize that it probably looks like Abigail is trying to start up a some kind of flirtation with Idelle, which she wasn’t – at least, not until the thought of it entered her head.
Idelle smiles as she make turns away, and Abigail feels helpless, unable to stop herself from watching the way she walks across the dance floor, somehow managing to not drop anything as she makes her way to the bar.
“What are you looking at?” Eme asks, suddenly popping up by Abigail’s side, her breath heavy, her eyes delighted.
“I-” Abigail tries, awkward. She gestures towards the bar. “The- the waiter. Idelle,” she manages.
“Oh,” Eme says, nodding, taking her seat across from Abigail. “She’s gorgeous, right?” Abigail had still been fumbling to describe what exactly had made her so clumsy just then, but ‘gorgeous’ seems to cover it. “Have you met Max, though? She’s beautiful,” Eme sighs. “Like, drop-dead gorgeous. She dated my boss, though, which ugh,” Eme adds, shivering exaggeratedly. “No accounting for taste, I guess.”
Eme reaches towards her drink, and Abigail passes it quietly. She’s feeling strangely hot under the collar, which is ridiculous; all Idelle had done was take their glasses away and smile bemusedly when Abigail made a fool of herself. Surely those three seconds weren’t enough to get her feeling like this.
“Tell you what,” Eme says, leaning across the table, her glass coming down with a sharp clink. “Why don’t we go up to the bar, we ask for another round, and you slip Idelle a napkin with your number?”
Abigail turns towards Eme suddenly, inhaling sharply. Surely not. “No,” she says vehemently, shaking her head for emphasis. “I- I couldn’t-”
“Oh, c’mon, babe,” Eme says, before Abigail can struggle to the end of her refusal. “It’s just a piece of paper. You barely have to talk to them, and they’ll throw it out if they’re bothered. No harm, no foul.”
“They?” Abigail asks, confused, retracing their conversation.
Eme smiles gently. “Idelle uses both they and she,” she clarifies.
“You know them, then?” Abigail asks, curious.
Eme shrugs. “Everyone who works here comes by the pub at one time or another,” she explains. “This place is great for dancing, but you’d die of starvation.” Abigail laughs at Eme’s exaggerated dramatics. Eme is usually calm, at times even quieter than Abigail herself, but it seems like dancing allows her to let a bit loose, and Abigail is finding it a sweet sight to hold. “Now,” she continues, fumbling through her small purse. She grabs something and smiles, victorious. “Here,” she says, and Abigail realizes with dread that she’s taking out a clean tissue, quickly followed by a pen. She puts both down on the table decidedly. “Write down your number, then we’ll get drinks, and then you’ll dance one song with me before we leave. Deal?” She seems to sense Abigail’s reluctance though, because she tilts her head and raises her eyebrows in a challenge. “C’mon, what have you got to loose?”
Abigail hesitates still, but she’s feeling herself seduced by Eme’s arguments. With one final sigh, she reaches for the pen and the napkin. “Deal,” she says.
She’s mostly forgotten about it by Monday morning, her head filled with her tasks for the week instead. The weather is so dark when Abigail wakes up she almost gives in and stays in bed; in the end, only her own promise of getting some warm cocoa makes her get up, bundle up in a huge sweater, and leave her dorm.
She’s got her cocoa half drank already by the time she’s crossing the college hall for her classroom, when her phone vibrates in her pocket. Instead of a text from Eme, she finds a notification from an unknown number:
Hey Abigail, it’s Idelle :)
Abigail’s heart stops and she comes to a halt in the middle of the corridor, almost bumping with someone in front of her. She waits for more, needlessly refreshing the page as she does so, but there’s nothing else. She ends up locking the screen and walking into the room feeling dazed, only muscle memory making sure she reaches a desk safely before she sits down and unlocks the screen again. She feels herself flush as she finds a new message there.
Thank you for slipping me your number! I’d love to
meet up if you’re up for it :P How was your weekend?
Abigail hears herself snorting in amusement at Idelle’s silly emoji and almost doesn’t notice the sound she’s making; it’s only Jane turning around in her desk to look at her quizzically that makes her realize it. “Sorry, sorry,” Abigail says, blushing under Jane’s amused glance.
Quickly, and trying not too think if she’s being too quick, she answers back:
It was fine. Lot’s of studying 😅
How about you?
She hesitates for a moment and then, trying not too think too hard, she adds:
I’d love to meet up, btw 😊
The professor enters the room then, and Abigail looks at her screen with one last longing glance before putting it in her bag. She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment, letting herself hope.
She runs it by Eme later that day, who smiles as she hears Abigail’s news, immediately starting to suggest places where they could go.
“I don’t think I need all that yet,” Abigail says, as they finally quit lazying around and finally reach for their laptops. “She’s barely texted back,” she adds, trying to sound fine about it.
Idelle, she is finding, is a slow texter. Or maybe Abigail is the problem, used as she is to living with her phone in her hand, answering her friends as their texts come in. Idelle, on the other hand, takes at least two hours to answer to anything, so their conversation has barely progressed since that morning.
She’s finishing her work when Idelle texts again, saying her shift is starting so she won’t be on her phone; Abigail reads it twice before pocketing hers with something like disappointment brewing in her chest. She carries it with her all the way back to her dorm. Eme is working that night too, which means she’s properly alone, and so Abigail skips going to the cafeteria and just buys a sandwich and a soda from the corner store on the way.
Barely an hour after leaving the library, Abigail is in bed, already in her pajamas and everything. She reaches for her phone, remembering that Dan should be awake, so she decides to call. Dan, it turns out, doesn’t have much time, but Abigail still manages to get ten minutes with him before he has to go to class.
Outside, it’s so dark she can barely see out of her window. She goes to her desk to eat because she hates having crumbs in her bed, and she calls her moms as she does so. They manage to give her a bit more time, propping up the phone so Abigail can see it as they get their dinner ready. It makes something in her ache even deeper, but she doesn’t sign off until they say their dinner is ready, wanting it to continue for as long as possible. Once her screen goes dark, though, there’s no one else for her to turn to. And so, she goes to the bathroom to brush her teeth, and then she comes back and slips into bed. It takes her a while to warm up, and she’s just getting comfortable, when something in her gut twists. She’s throwing the covers aside in no time, knowing what it is she needs to do.
She doesn’t usually like to look at it. Still, she can never seem to keep too far from her, so she finds it where she knew she would, tucked between the pages of one of her old diaries, the one she keeps on her just because it holds the photo.
As always, it looks like it has barely aged; other than the ratted corners, it seems, to her, as fresh as it ever did. Abigail looks at it, at all three of their faces, and wonders if her mom ever found out she has it. In the photo, three faces look back at her: her mom, young and beautiful and so sad it almost hurts to look at, her hair as dark as Abigail’s; in the center, Abigail herself, her hair short, and dressed formally in baby blue shorts and a white shirt, smiling happily at the photo with her tiny baby teeth; and on her other side, her father.
She knows that that’s her father, even though no one had told her. He’s handsome in a way Abigail never was, his features at once stern and kind, and Abigail knows where she got her eyes from. She never asks her mom about him; she doesn’t need to cause her the pain of it, because she already knows her father was bad and did terrible things. But, though she grew up happy and is thankful she’ll never have to remember it, she can’t help wonder. Couldn’t help stealing the photo when she found it in her mom’s stuff, and can’t help looking at her father’s eyes now, in the darkness of the night, when the her gut twists just so. Maybe it’s some kind of masochism, but she still wonders: if he ever sees her in the street, will he recognize her? Will he see the child he once knew, or will the years and the growth, the hormones and the hair, just make him look away, dismissing her as quickly as one dismisses a stranger?
Abigail turns off the lights, and slides back into bed, holding the photo to her face even in the darkness, her heart beating so hard in her chest she wonders if she will ever be able to fall asleep. She doesn’t know what she’s waiting for. But she is waiting.
She wakes up with a text from Idelle: a photo of them, looking as beautiful as Abigail remembers, holding a plate with the hugest burger Abigail’s ever seen. It is stamped with 4:36 am and they caption it with Shift done. Onto some self care now :)
Abigail smiles into her pillow and, too sleepy to be able to hold back, sends back:
Hope it was a stress-free one! And good morning ❤️
Abigail lingers over the heart for so long her second alarm goes off, prompting out of her reverie. The photo had fallen onto the floor in the night, and Abigail picks it up and puts it back into the diary without looking at it. Her moment of weakness in the night seems silly now, with the sun coming through her window and Idelle’s picture still open on her phone, and she won’t bother with lingering on it. She has everything she could ask for, anyway.
The classes pass quickly that day: nothing too stressful happens, and she’s able to finish the essay she has to hand in by Thursday without ever feeling like tearing her hair off. Idelle is no quicker at answering today, but the fact that they keep texting makes Abigail feel giddy beyond words, which isn’t at all helped by the fact that, before going to work that day, Idelle texts:
Anyway, not wanting to assume anything, but I
have thursday and friday off this week. would any
of them work for you? :D
Abigail silently slips her phone across the table at Eme, who takes a while to realize that Abigail is lightly kicking her under the table so she’ll look up. Eme gasps when she sees it and turns to look at Abigail, a wide grin across her face, her eyebrows raised in See? expression.
“If I’m not maid of honor when the time comes, I’m divorcing you,” Eme whispers across the table, sliding the phone back to Abigail, who blushes and grins back.
It seems almost too good to be true, that Abigail has actually managed to slip someone her number, that that someone actually texted back. If she actually makes it through the date with Idelle – is it even a date, though? Is Abigail reading too much into it? – she’ll swear to proofread Eme’s essays for the rest of the semester.
She and Idelle settle for an early dinner on Friday, so instead of going to study with Eme that day as she usually does, they go back to her dorm, where they promptly dump all of Abigail’s clothes in her bed in search of something to wear.
Abigail ends up picking an orange dress Mom had lent her a while back, which Eme styles with a pair of brown boots and a pair of Abigail’s most extravagant earrings. “You look lovely,” Eme reassures her, as she does Abigail’s eyeliner for her, since she never seems able to get the hang of it.
Abigail leaves for the restaurant – a Thai place about fifteen minutes from Abigail’s dorm; Idelle’s pick – with plenty of time to go. She’ll be early, but she prefers it that way; better early than having to deal with all her nervous energy cooped up in her dorm. On the way, she texts the group chat with her moms saying she might not be able to talk later that day, reads Dan’s text complimenting her outfit, and then turns her phone on silent, resolute to not being the kind of asshole that constantly is on their phone on the first date – though Abigail is still not sure if it is a date, never mind that Eme keeps on insisting it is.
The sun hasn’t set fully by the time she arrives, so Abigail decides to wait outside, shifting her weight restlessly from one foot to the other as she keeps checking both sides of the street in search of a hint of Idelle’s dark hair, occasionally checking her phone for any update too.
Eventually, after what felt like too long but still not long enough from preventing her heart from starting to race, Idelle emerges from her left. They luck stunning: they’re wearing a pair of tight black jeans, and a dark crop top that makes their boobs look amazing. Abigail looks away, self-conscious as she feels her face warm up, but before she can manage to think of everything else, Idelle is right upon her, smiling so widely Abigail can’t help but break into a smile as well.
“Hi,” Abigail says, jostling her purse as she tries to settle her nerves.
“Hi,” Idelle says, still smiling, but now it is directed at Abigail.
Abigail breathes deeply. She feels restless, like she’s on the edge of a cliff, but for some reason she’s smiling so wide from her smile her cheeks hurt.
It goes better than she could ever have expected. Even at first, when they were both settling into their table, trying to figure out what to order, still uneasy around each other and not sure of how to talk or what to say, Abigail still felt more comfortable than she ever thought she could have. And then, the conversation started to unfold, and they started talking about their lives and sharing their experiences, and Abigail quickly found herself clicking with Idelle almost as easily as she had clicked with Eme all those weeks ago.
“There’s a place around the corner that has the best chocolate cake,” Abigail tells her at the end of dinner, emboldened to keep going by how well it’s going, how good she feels.
Idelle smiles. “Lead the way, then,” she says.
They split the bill and zip up their jackets before going outside. The sky is dark now, littered with some stars and mostly full moon that lights the way as they make the way to the place Abigail knows; Jane had shown it to her once, and Abigail is suddenly thankful to her for that.
She and Idelle sit on a booth, so close their legs are touching – Idelle seems to pay no mind to it, though, so Abigail tries not to either, tries not to pretend it makes her feel hot from the inside out, that it is so distracting she can hardly focus. They split a huge slice of chocolate cake, and Abigail tries to not seem too giddy as she answers Idelle’s questions: she’s curious on how it was to grow up with a trans parent, how it changed things for Abigail.
“I mean, it made things easier in a way. Like, I knew no one would be… would be mad, or would kick me out,” Abigail answers honestly. “Though my mom never talked much about it. For her, it was one of those ‘I’ve always known’ things, you know? And for me, it wasn’t like that at all. That was what made me nervous. I felt that, if I hadn’t always known, then I must’ve been faking it somehow.”
Idelle nods vehemently. “I get that,” they say. “I mean, not the parents part. I’m not very close with mine, actually,” they say, using their fork to slowly cut out a piece of the cake. “But the faking it. I’ve gotten that a lot, and it made me take so much longer to understand this whole gender stuff. I don’t think I have any answers now, actually,” they say with a laugh. “But nonbinary feels better than woman does. And though I’ve had to deal with some assholes, everyone at work is cool with it. That makes it easier,” they conclude, finally taking the forkful of cake to their mouth.
Abigail tries not to stare too hard; there’s a crumble of chocolate cake at the corner of Idelle’s lips that she just can’t seem to ignore. Still, she asks, “Are you very close with the people you work with?”
Idelle tilts her head, thoughtful. “Some,” she says, once she’s swallowed. “Rackham and Bonny are the bosses. I get along with them alright, but don’t really have much of a relationship with them. Then there’s Max, which I’m closer too, and I trust her a lot, but she’s my manager and she’s fucking the boss, so…” Idelle trails off with a laugh. “But Charlotte and Isabella and I are really close. Charlotte and I have lived together at some points,” she explains. She reaches for a napkin and cleans her mouth, finally saving Abigail from her distress.
“But anymore?” Abigail asks, curious.
Idelle shakes her head. “One of my friends had a free room, and the rent was a bargain, so I took that,” she says. “I’ve actually gotten really close with him, so it’s been nice.”
They finish the cake while they trade stories about their friendships but, before Abigail can start worrying too much about what comes next, Idelle is asking her if she’s in a hurry and, when Abigail shakes her head, they signal the waiter and order some tea, telling Abigail how they like to have a cuppa after dinner.
“Oh, I was really needing a night off,” Idelle sighs, relaxing into the seat with the mug in her hand.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” Abigail asks, the words out of her mouth before she can help herself. She blushes once she realizes.
Idelle clearly notices her blush, for they eye Abigail with an amused glance. “Oh, you’re adorable,” Idelle says, and Abigail would feel condescended to if it wasn’t for the warmth in Idelle’s eyes. “Yes, I am enjoying myself,” they say. “Not only was the food delicious, and the cake was amazing,” they say smiling happily, “but the company is excellent too. What else could I ask for?”
Abigail is blushing in earnest now, unable to stop it: she’s always been someone to blush easily, and she’s on her first date outside her hometown – her first proper, adult date, where she never even had to explain her gender once – and the person she’s seeing is looking at her in a way that makes her feel tingly from her head to her toes.
Idelle laughs again, the sound warm and gentle, her eyes still fixed on Abigail’s face. Abigail watches back, nervous and eager, and her heart almost comes out through her throat when Idelle looks down at the table, at where Abigail has one of her hands, and slowly puts her own on top of hers. Abigail feels her breath stick in her throat as Idelle’s touch sink into her sense: her hand is soft, warm from where it was holding the mug, her fingers gentle and long as she prompts Abigail to turn her hand in hers so they can lace their fingers.
Abigail is talking before she even realizes, “I’ve never done this before,” she blurts out. The embarrassment she feels at the admission is immediate, but it is accompanying by a weird sort of relief, like a weight lifting off her chest from not having to hide it anymore.
Idelle tilts their head. “What do you mean?” they ask, smiling still. Their hand is still in Abigail’s; Abigail tries to focus on it, tries to remember how Idelle was saying just two minutes ago that they’re enjoying the night; tries to tell herself that, if this is a deal-breaker for Idelle, it’s just as well she knows now, before it got too far.
“This,” Abigail says uselessly, gesturing around with her free hand. “All of this,” she remedies and, understanding from Idelle’s gaze that she’s still not getting it, she continues, “I’ve never… gone on a proper date before. And, I’ve never…” Abigail’s face feels so warm, but she tries to keep going, even as she dies of embarrassment. “I don’t want to assume anything, but I’ve never had sex before either, and- I felt like you should know,” she finishes.
Idelle is looking at her again, their eyes squinted as they try to find something in Abigail’s face. Abigail, somehow, feels herself flustering further. “Why do you feel like this is something I should know?” they ask, in a soft, curious tone.
Abigail shrugs, unarmed and unprepared by the question. Still, she tries, “It… If we did do something, it wouldn’t feel right if you didn’t know,” she tries to explain. Will Idelle understand it, she wonders? Everyone in her hometown knew her from before she started transitioning, and the thought of being naked in front of any of them was mortifying. It seems logical enough in her mind that she’d wait until college to have sex, but is that something she was supposed to keep to herself? “I wouldn’t want to feel like I was keeping this a secret. And then-” Abigail stops, afraid she’ll be misunderstood or that she’ll say the wrong thing, but pretending the thought hadn’t popped into her mind wouldn’t be right either. “I wouldn’t want you to be disappointed. What with your job, and your experience, and…” Abigail deflates. “I’m being silly,” she says, realizing suddenly that she’s taking things further than the situation requires and creating a storm in a teacup for no reason at all. She unlaces her hand from Idelle’s fingers as she does so, the touch suddenly unpleasant.
Abigail looks down, trying to escape Idelle’s gaze, and takes a deep breath. She knows Idelle hasn’t left, not with the way her leg is still pressed into Abigail’s, and it continues on being there even as Abigail takes longer than she should getting her breath back under control and looking up at last. Idelle, she finds, is already looking at her.
“You’re not being silly,” Idelle says when their eyes meet, their words so soft Abigail feels a shiver running down her spine. “And I want to thank you for sharing that with me, truly,” Idelle says, a slight smile playing with their lips. “I don’t know where this is going either, but I’m glad you felt comfortable to share this with me,” they continues. “Though, I do want to be clear,” she says, her tone light and serious at once, “Whatever I do for my job… I won’t be bringing that into the room if we ever end up having sex, okay?”
Abigail somehow feels herself melting under Idelle’s gaze, even though her heart is still pounding from her antics; it’s a weird combo, but her body doesn’t seem to care. “Thank you for saying that,” Abigail says, touched beyond words.
Idelle smiles. “Don’t be so afraid of a little danger, hon,” she says, and Abigail can feel herself melt under the compliment. Idelle glances down. “Can I hold your hand?” they ask, eyeing the place in Abigail’s lap where her hands have retreated.
Abigail follows her gaze and nods. “Yes,” she says, bringing her hand up, offering it to Idelle, who takes it in hers with just as much gentleness as before. Abigail eyes their hands for a long moment, feeling her heart swell with the sight. It does feel a little dangerous, to be here holding a beautiful person’s hand, but it’s thrilling that Idelle is the one who is there with her. She looks up again, wanting to say something, but she gets caught up by Idelle’s face: their full lips, their long eyelashes, the way the tips of their fringe tickle their cheek.
“You’re so pretty,” Abigail breathes out. She’s starting to think she has to accept that having control of her mouth is impossible in presence of Idelle. Still, as she realizes what she’s said, she corrects, “Oh, sorry. Is it- Is that okay? I didn’t mean-”
But Idelle is smiling, her eyes crinkling in the corners from the force of it. “Pretty is perfectly fine,” she says.
Abigail relaxes. She lets herself hold tighter to Idelle’s hand for a moment, feeling the way the fit into each other. She’s starting to think she understands what everyone means when they talk about butterflies.
“I want to kiss you,” Idelle says then. Abigail looks up, stunned, her heart racing, filling her throat. “Would that be alright with you?”
Abigail nods so vehemently she feels her hair shake. At the moment, though, she’s too keyed up to worry about it. “It would,” she says shallowly.
Idelle puts down their mug and brings their free hand to Abigail’s face, cupping it gently. Abigail leans into it, her eyes closing for a brief moment. She likes being in Idelle’s touch. Idelle leans closer and Abigail decides to mimic her, until their lips meet in the middle, their kiss gentle and light and tasting of chocolate, their hands still together on the tabletop. Abigail squeezes their hands as she dares to kiss Idelle a little deeper, bringing them a little closer.
When they part, she feels breathless, overwhelmed in the best way. Idelle doesn’t let go even as they pull away, and Abigail opens her eyes to find Idelle’s still closed, so she gets to watch as she opens them, gets to see her mouth widen as her eyes meet Abigail’s.
“I’d like to see you again sometime,” Idelle says, before Abigail can.
Abigail smiles and nods, feeling the hand Idelle still has on her face jostle with the movement. “Me too,” she says, and hopes.