Nothing but a Fling: A Carlsbad Village Lesbian Romance

“Out with it,” Vanessa said.

“It’s so stupid, though,” Chloë whined, sounding like the teenager she was when Vanessa first met her.

“Come on.”

Another sigh, and then Chloë said, “Look, I was just a little bent out of shape because of that chick Megan. When I met her on Saturday, I thought she was hot. Then I find out Megan is into you and I’m like, ‘Of course Megan is into Vanessa because Vanessa can have whoever she wants, so why wouldn’t a cool chick like Megan not be into Vanessa? Why would a cool chick like Megan even think about being into me?’ And it just fucked with me.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Vanessa said. She had no idea Chloë thought that way about her, especially that she could have anyone she wanted. And in all of the various social settings that she and Chloë had been in together over the years, from backyard parties like Saturday’s to pride parades to lesbian bars, Vanessa had never had any inkling that Chloë considered her to be competition. Chloë’s tastes and Vanessa’s tastes in women seemed, up until this point, totally different. Megan didn’t seem even close to what Chloë usually went for.

“Anyway, I’m over it,” Chloë said off-handedly. “Sorry if I was a bitch the other day.”

“No worries, really. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. And, look, Chloë…I can’t just have anyone I want…”

“Oh, please, Vanessa, you’re a goddess. Everyone thinks so. If I could have sex with just half the women who come into La Vida Mocha and practically throw themselves at you, I wouldn’t have time for job.”

Vanessa’s mouth dropped open. Is that really what her friends thought of her?

“Um…well, it’s not like you’re a slouch in the looks department, Chloë,” she said, trying to gather her mind back together.

“Yeah, fine, I’m really pretty, I know that,” Chloë said. “But I’m not your level of pretty. When you’re in the room anytime there’s a Megan-level lesbian around, I may as well be a dude.”

“C’mon, Chloë…”

“Vanessa, I’m fine. Anyway, do you want me there to help you open on Saturday?” Chloë asked.

Vanessa thought a moment, still not happy with ending the previous topic of conversation.

“No, I can handle opening. Can you show up at eight, maybe?”

“Perfect! I’m so excited to be back at the shop! Amazon pays well, but, ugh! The work is dull!”

“I’m excited to have you back! Let’s just hope now it’s forever.”

***

The drive to William’s apartment building in Oceanside took only a few minutes and Vanessa found a spot on the street not far from the entrance. He lived in a six-story, mid-century structure called, optimistically, The Luxe, though its luxe days were far behind. Waiting for the elevator, Vanessa’s phone dinged.

Lovelovelovelove, the dress! Promise you’ll wear it over one night just so I can take it off you!

I promise. I just arrived at William’s building. I’ll text you later.

***

Vanessa honestly, for the life of her, could not understand—at all—how William’s parents did not know he was gay.

She just didn’t get it. They didn’t seem like particularly stupid people, so she just couldn’t understand it.

William answered the door wearing a tan blazer over a black fishnet shirt, artfully torn jeans and actual penny loafers, which Vanessa didn’t think anyone still made. As usual, he looked very handsome, a day’s growth of stubble on his square jaw, ocean blue eyes behind frameless glasses, his brown curly hair gelled just so.

“Um…nice shirt, sweetie?” Vanessa said, pointedly. She may be a lesbian, but even she knew fishnet shirts were not in most straight men’s wardrobes.

“Isn’t it? I lost five pounds this week and thought I’d celebrate by pulling one of my favorites out of the closet. But forget about me…I love this dress, honey! Where did you get this?” He then started circling her, examining her dress by touching it, running the fabric through his fingers, appraising the stitching and hems, evaluating the fit. He was like Zac Posen on an episode of Project Runway, checking out the creation of one of the contestants.

Meanwhile, Vanessa could see William’s parents a mere few yards away in the living room, wine glasses in hand. They waved at her when she caught their eyes.

“Twirl,” he finally ordered, circling the air with his index finger.

“I am not twirling!” Vanessa hissed, just loud enough for William—and only William—to hear. “Straight men do not ask their girlfriends to twirl, you idiot! Even I know that!”