11. Hunter

Playlist: Lady Killer | Maddie Zahm

“What. The fuck. Is that ?”

I scowl at Jo, who stands in the doorway, her hand on the doorknob after walking into the apartment. “Stop! You’re going to make her feel self-conscious.”

“Good. It’s hideous.”

“Her pronouns are she/her, asshole. And she’s beautiful.” I roll my eyes as Jo shudders. “What happened to the Giovanna who chased after me with a horseshoe crab?”

“That’s different,” she says simply, finally stepping all the way into the apartment and closing the door behind her. “I was in control of that situation. And that was the same day you let me go under your bikini for the first time. I felt confident and unruly.”

I stare at her.

“I mean, maybe it was the same day,” she stammers, cheeks flushing. “Could have been. I don’t remember.”

“Okay.” I duck my head so she doesn’t see how tickled pink I am from her accidental revelation.

She shuffles into the living room, stopping around five feet away from where I sit cross-legged on the floor. “What is it?”

“Don’t you mean who is she ?”

“No, I don’t.”

I sigh and open the front of the terrarium, gathering my new best friend in my arms. I turn to face Giovanna as I cradle her to my chest. “This is Dolly Parton. She’s a bearded dragon and I would die for her.”

“Gross.”

“Jo! She can hear you!” I glare at her.

“Good,” she retorts, but she shuffles six inches closer. “She’s terrifying. I can’t believe you did this.”

I ignore her. “She’s a gentle creature. She likes cuddling and being petted. Did you know bearded dragons are super social? I didn’t until I saw a TikTok and I knew I needed one.” I press a kiss to Dolly’s head, following it with a scratch that she happily leans into. “See!”

“I see a fucking monster.”

“You’re such a dick.”

She shrugs. “Just don’t expect me to take care of her.”

“I don’t. I wouldn’t. She’s my baby.” I meet her eyes. “I’m a single mom now. As Reba would say, I’m a survivor.”

She scoffs, turning and walking back into the kitchen. “Dramatic much?”

“Very, very much.”

“At least you’re self aware.” Jo pulls a can of soup out of the pantry and pours it into a bowl. “What does that thing even eat?”

“‘That thing’ has a name. How would you feel if I called you ‘that thing?’”

She laughs, and it’s so loud and jovial that I startle. My god. I haven’t heard her laugh like that in twelve years.

It’s my new favorite sound, the rough and raw cackle followed by a snort.

Her eyes widen and she slaps a hand over her mouth. “Oh my god, I’m sorry.”

I stare at her, confused. “Sorry for what?”

“Laughing like that. I know it’s ugly…”

Ugly? Try goddamn magical .

I shake my head. “No, I’d never think that about your laugh, Giovanna. You know, that laugh is one of my favorite memories from that summer? You laughed like that when you felt so happy you burst.”

“Still an ugly sound.”

I ignore that comment. “You feeling free and uninhibited could never be ugly.”

“Says the person who thinks that a bearded dragon is an ideal pet,” she mumbles, punching in some numbers on the microwave.

I sigh and stroke my index finger along Dolly’s spine. “Don’t listen to her, Dolly. I love you, even if mean ol’ Aunt Jo doesn’t.”

“There’s no way in hell I’m that thing’s aunt.”

“She can call you mommy if you’d rather.” Jo snickers and I narrow my eyes at her.

“Stop.”

“You started it.”

“Right, and now I’m asking you to stop it.”

Her laugh grows again, and hell. I’ll say things with slight sexual innuendos for the rest of my days if it allows me to earn her laughs. “You’re ridiculous, do you know that?”

I smile softly at her. “I do.”

“Enough deflecting. What do bearded dragons eat?” she asks, retrieving her soup from the microwave and leaning against the counter.

“Fruits, veggies…” I trail off, looking nervously at her.

She blows on a spoonful of soup before speaking. “It’s bugs, isn’t it?” She closes her mouth around the spoon, and I can’t look away.

“It’s bugs,” I confirm.

“Swell,” she mutters after swallowing. “As long as you’re going to be the one to take care of her.”

I try not to take any notice of the fact that she referred to Dolly as “her,” but it makes me unreasonably giddy.

“Of course. You’re her cool, fun, single, wine aunt. Not her other mom.”

Unless she wanted to be.

God, I want her to want to be.

“The lesbian dream.” She smirks while stirring her soup.

“Are you an aunt? Don’t you have like eighty billion siblings?”

“Yes. That’s correct. I have ten times the amount of humans on this planet as my siblings,” she says dryly, taking another spoonful of soup.

I laugh loudly, delighted by her sarcastic sense of humor. And maybe I imagine it, but I swear her smile grows a little. Maybe she likes making me laugh, too.

Or maybe I’m centering myself in something I certainly shouldn’t be. Maybe she’s like everyone else and likes making people laugh. Maybe she feels validated by it.

I hear Jo moving out of the kitchen and towards the living room. I try to keep my breathing even. Why the hell do I have this reaction to her? It must be because we had sex. We were each other’s first everything, after all. Maybe all that nonsense my grandma told me about giving away a piece of you by having sex is true. Maybe Jo’s kept a piece of me in her pocket for twelve years, and maybe I’ve kept a piece of her. Maybe they’re just trying to get back to their rightful owners.

Or perhaps those little pieces of us loved the sex so much that they’re fighting to get back to one another so they can have more sex.

That must be it. Cuz damn. Fifteen year old me had her mind and back blown out by Giovanna Quinn’s fingers and tongue.

That’s all this is. A sexual, magnetic attraction. That’s why I can’t look away, why I tally every smile and hate that she feels like she lost herself.

I can admit she’s attractive. Her hair, the color of dark chocolate, falls in soft waves over her shoulders. Her eyes, which she claims are brown, actually have specks of gold and green that shimmer when she smiles. Then there’s her body. When Jo and I were together that summer, she’d been curvy—all luscious breasts and thighs I could never get enough of. I’d spent twelve years imagining what Giovanna would look like if I ever was lucky enough to see her again. Countless versions of her existed in my imagination, and none of them measured up to reality. She’s tall, around four inches taller than my five foot three, and all ass and tits and hips and belly.

I was raised doing cotillions, and taught to groom my body in traditionally feminine ways. To keep my body at a size deemed acceptable by my mother and grandmother, which, considering I started wearing a bra at age ten, was an impossible standard to meet. I was taught how to apply makeup in a way that was “classy, not trampy,” and how to behave in a way that brought honor to my family.

Despite trying and trying, I could never be just right. I was too big, too loud, too boisterous. I always showed ADHD traits, which, even after my diagnosis, my family didn’t understand why I couldn’t control.

In college, I met Tyler, and realized that maybe the idea of femininity and gender expression I was raised with wasn’t fact. Like maybe thinness and being a stay-at-home wife and mom weren't the only good choices I could make. I had to figure out who I was, what I liked, not who I should be, or who I should be attracted to, because my family decided based on the genitals I was born with.

And honestly? Thank God I did because right now Jo’s body has me feeling a certain type of way. Not that I’ve seen much of her, but what I have seen drives me crazy. She has stretch marks visible on her upper thighs when she sits on the couch in sleep shorts, and on her cleavage when she bends over in a lower-cut shirt.

I want to feel all of her, to become an expert in her body and know where every mark, roll, and dip is. I want to—

“Hun, did you hear me?”

“Yes,” I lie, peering up at Jo. When did she get this close?

She raises a full eyebrow.

I sigh. “No.”

“I was saying, Dolly Parton isn’t as horrifying up close.”

I gasp in offense. “I know I fudged a few stitches but—”

Jo laughs, another one of those hearty laughs and I have no idea why she’s laughing, but I need to find out so I can make sure it happens again.

“I’m so sorry.” Her laugh bubbles down to a sweet giggle. Why the heck am I keeping a collection of the times I’ve made her smile when I should be bottling these laughs? Lining the pantry with little mason jars filled with the sound, labeled with the date and cause for laughter.

“I’m sorry,” Jo repeats. “I literally just said this was going to be a problem, and came up with a solution for it. That’s on me. I’m talking about the little monster.”

I beam up at her. “You called her by her real name!”

“Right, and look what happened when I did.” She gestures toward the cross-stitched Dolly Parton pillow on the couch. “You thought I was mocking your artistry.”

“Right. Because you’d never do that,” I tease, uncrossing my legs and getting to my feet as I carefully balance my child in my arms.

Jo furrows her brow. “I wouldn’t. I’d never make fun of something you worked hard on.”

Well. Now I wish she would , because goddamn, that sentence has my stomach aflutter.

“Oh,” I say softly, moving to put Dolly Parton back into her terrarium and kissing her one last time on her little head.

“Are you busy tonight?” Giovanna asks, her long fingernails tapping on the side of the bowl.

“I should be editing, but I’m also almost done with the last Spindle Cove book, so I’m definitely reading instead. Why?”

She’s never asked what I’m doing before. We’re friendly, but we’re not friends. I wish we were, but she’s so guarded, and I don’t blame her. She’s experienced hurt from people she’d trusted

“I was thinking maybe you could teach me to cross-stitch?” she asks, continuing to tap her nails on the bowl. “Or maybe we could kind of get our story straight for Becky and Kelsey? In case they ask something we haven’t discussed, we should…”

“...be on the same page,” I finish. “You really want me to teach you to cross stitch?”

She shrugs. “Yeah. The stuff you make is pretty and…I don’t know. I need hobbies. I feel like I have no personality anymore, like I have no idea what I like. Everything I liked and did was because Kelsey liked and did it first and now…”

“Now you need to figure out how to get back to yourself,” I say softly.

She meets my eyes. “Now I need to figure out how to get back to me,” she agrees.

I smile at her as I get to my feet. “So let’s get you there. Starting with learning to cross stitch.”

We should not have started with learning to cross-stitch. While Jo’s quest to rediscover herself is noble, I don’t think cross-stitching is part of it.

“Fuck!” she yells, forcefully throwing her embroidery hoop onto the coffee table. She grabs her glass of merlot and slumps against the back of the sofa, taking a generous sip. “This isn’t as easy as I thought it would be.”

I eye her over my own embroidery hoop. Dolly Parton—the bearded dragon—is sleeping in my lap. “You saw my human Dolly Parton pillow and assumed it was easy to make? That took me a year.”

The guilty look in her eyes tells me it’s a good thing when she doesn’t answer. “I like to be good at things.”

“That’s a unique thing that only you feel,” I say dryly as I reach to place my own project, a crossed-stitched bearded dragon wearing a pink cowboy hat, on the table and pick up my glass of moscato. I’ve begun to keep the fridge well-stocked with “juice wines,” as Jo calls them.

“Hey!” she says, scowling as she playfully pushes against my thigh with her foot. I glare at her and put my fingers in my wine glass, flicking the liquid at her. She gasps. “Did you flick wine at me?”

“And if I did?” I ask, sticking my tongue out at her and biting down on it. I savor the way her eyes are immediately on my mouth.

Though, to be fair, there are several of Giovanna Quinn’s body parts I’d rather have on my mouth.

“If Dolly Parton weren’t sleeping on your lap, you’d so be paying for that.” Her voice has dropped to a dramatic whisper, like she doesn’t want to wake up the creature she once called a little monster. While she has yet to touch said little monster, I know it’s just a matter of time.

“How would I pay for it?” I ask innocently, fluttering my eyelashes at her. “You’d be making me wet too?”

Jo’s face contorts, and a pained gargling noise like a car with a dead engine comes from her mouth.

It takes me a few seconds too long to understand it’s because of what I said.

“Oh, gosh. Not like…horny wet,” I stammer, cheeks heating in a way that puts Savannah in mid-July to shame.

“Don’t say horny,” she groans, cheeks so pink I’m sure they give my own complexion a run for its money.

“Sorry. Aroused.”

“That’s worse! How is that worse?” She sounds tortured by this.

“I don’t know! What am I supposed to say?” I hiss.

“Just…stop talking, Hunter.”

Shame flows through me like molasses in summer: fast and thick. Childhood memories of grown-ups telling me I talked too much, too fast. That what I had to say didn’t matter. That I was meant to be seen, not heard. That I was embarrassing them in front of their friends.

You talk too much, Hunter Lillian. You are too much.

“Wait…Hunter. Come back to me.” Jo’s voice is distant and distorted, like we’re on opposite ends of a tunnel. Her hand tightens on my forearm. “You’re pulling away, I can tell. Tell me what I said wrong so I don’t say it again.”

It feels like my brain and my body slowly reconnect, like the wiring had come loose. I turn my head and make eye contact with Jo.

“It’s not important,” I mumble, desperately wanting to look away, but not being able to.

“Yes, it is,” Jo argues, her thumb rubbing patterns on my forearm. “I said something that made you feel like you needed to pull away. Was it when I told you to stop talking?”

I nod. “Yeah. That’s something I heard a lot growing up.”

Her eyes search mine. “And it brought you back to that?”

I duck my head, trying not to cry. “Yeah. I’m in therapy and it shouldn’t bother me…but it still does sometimes. It’s so silly, I—”

“When Nic told me she was moving in with Josh, it reminded me of when Kelsey left me.” She says it quietly. So quietly that part of me wonders if it’s in my imagination.

She continues when I don’t respond. “I felt like…she was leaving like Kelsey did. Even though it’s not the same situation at all, right? Like the only similarity is someone moving out of the shared space. The reasons are completely different and Nic is still my sister and friend. She wasn’t leaving me. She was moving in with her amazing boyfriend and I knew that…”

“But it’s like your heart doesn’t.”

“Yes!” Our eyes meet. “But it’s like my heart doesn’t. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make it about me…”

“Stop that. You didn’t.” I place my hand over hers on my arm. “You were just telling me you could relate. And it was helpful.”

She smiles softly. “Because you could empathize with my situation, it forced you to be kinder to yourself?”

“I mean, I guess. Like when you were talking, it made so much sense. I’d never judge you the way I was judging myself.”

“I know. It’s a trick Nic taught me. It’s helpful, when I remember to do it, that is.” Her eyes drift downward. “Can I hold her?”

“Dolly Parton?”

She nods.

I narrow my eyes. “I thought you said she’s a little monster.”

“She can be a little monster and I can want to hold her,” she argues. “Think about babies. They’re the definition of little monsters. And I want to hold and snuggle them all the time.”

“Yeah. You can hold her.” I gently place Dolly Parton into Jo’s arms, fighting a smile.

“Oh, goddammit,” Jo says miserably, stroking Dolly’s spine with her index finger.

“What?” I ask, scooching closer to her. “Do you hate this? Do you want me to—”

“I think I like her, Hun. This is a disaster.”

I laugh, loud and boisterous, and Jo laughs too, not stopping until she lets out a snort. Her eyes widen and I squeal with joy, pointing at her in glee and bouncing up and down.

“Giovanna fuckin’ Quinn, you snorted! You snorted and—” In all my excitement, I fall off the couch, my head narrowly avoiding my glass of moscato and the corner of the coffee table. Jo’s laugh is immediate, as are her snorts, meaning my laugh returns, too.

I don’t know how long our laughter lasts, but when we finally have a handle on ourselves and our laughter, I’m wiping away tears, and Dolly is side-eying me.

“You’re an awful influence.” Jo chuckles, shaking her head.

I climb back onto the couch, stretch out my legs, and place my feet in her lap. “Just for you” I say, remembering the time during mass I put my tongue between two of my fingers and she snort-laughed during Father Gilligan’s homily. “Your laugh is fucking awesome.”

Jo scoffs. “It’s obnoxious is what it is.”

“So? I’m obnoxious. What’s wrong with being obnoxious? Use that trick Nic taught you!”

She bites on her lip. “Kelsey got annoyed by my laugh on our third date when we watched Miss Congeniality. But my god, that movie is so fucking funny.”

I narrow my eyes. “Isn’t Sandra Bullock literally shamed out of laugh-snorting in that movie to conform to traditional femininity? And isn’t that supposed to be a bad thing? Jo…you know how you said you wanted to get back to being you again?”

“Cross-stitching isn’t helping.”

“Right. But you laughed the way you used to,” I say gently, knowing how easily this could scare her off. “You snort-laughed and it was fucking fantastic.”

She peers at me timidly. “You’re not just saying that?”

“I’m not. That obnoxious noise that came from your mouth and/or nose was incredible.”

She rolls her eyes. “Thanks so much.”

We fall into a comfortable silence, with human Dolly Parton’s Here You Come Again album playing quietly in the background. Jo petting bearded dragon Dolly Parton, occasionally cooing at her like the baby she is, me with my feet in Jo’s lap, leaning back on my elbows and enjoying the comfortable calm.

I never really had friends until college. Tyler was one of the first people I met at Yale, though we both dropped out of pre-law after a semester, them to pursue culinary arts and me to change my major to business management. It was the only way I could think of to have my parents not cut me off and still move forward towards my actual goal of being a photographer. I took photography electives, was in the photography club, and when I graduated, I took a soulless job at an office in my hometown, shooting weddings on the side.

I always knew I wanted to move to New York, so I lived with my parents and put up with them until I’d saved up enough money to leave. I came out at dinner with my grandparents, where they swore to never talk to me again. And yet, they still call me from a burner phone once a month to leave a scathing voicemail about how another one of their church friends heard about my “affliction.”

If wanting to kiss pretty girls is an affliction, I hope I’m never cured.