Chapter Seventeen

Maeve and I select the first Monday in November to go on our date. It gave us two weeks' buffer from the meeting with Ashlee, fewer crowds than Veterans Day or Halloween weekend, and another buffer before Maeve has to fly back to Ohio for Thanksgiving. Enough of a gap for us to not feel desperate, but not so long that we'd end up compelled to rip each other's clothes off in the USC parking lot. Still, I feel like it's been too much time.

She asked me to pick the place, laughing a little when she said, "Make it weird." So, naturally, I spent all of my therapy session that morning agonizing over a location with Rosalie before texting Maeve La Brea Tar Pits maybe two hours prior to the date itself. Which, in the School of Dating Etiquette, is at a Little Dickish when it comes to lead time to getting ready. Not Full-Blown Dick like if I'd given her less than an hour, but the faux pas still makes my stomach ache as I drive to Mid-Wilshire.

To pick up Maeve. Like a proper date.

Thinking about it is not helping the stomach pain.

But at least I get an endorphin release when Maeve steps into my car. With the weather in the low sixties, she's got on a dusty-rose sweater, light jeans, and white slip-on sneakers. The sweater flows perfectly around the curve of her neck, and a delicate gold locket rests on her chest. I'm already itching to know what's inside, if anything. And given the way she smiles at me with her rose-painted lips, I'm not totally sure I'm not dreaming.

"Sorry about leaving you in suspense," I say as she clicks her seat belt in.

She chuckles. "You're driving. You didn't even have to tell me where we were going if you didn't want to." She stares at me; it feels like I'm a slide under a heated microscope. The corner of her mouth turns up. "I like your hoodie."

I steal a glance down, and the hotness instantly rises to my ears. I'm wearing a white pullover with a fucking rainbow on it. What had seemed like a fun pop of color in a casual outfit now seems cheesy. "Pretend I'm wearing something else, please."

Maeve laughs. "No, I love your gay hoodie for our first gay date. You're cute."

I'm sure I'm bright red by now, but the joy I feel hearing those simple two words, Jesus. I'm so far gone. We haven't even gotten to the tar pits yet and I may be in—

No. Fuck. I have to calm down.

Parking is actually bearable, probably due to the fact that we're going to a kid-friendly museum on a Monday night during the school year. But there's a crisp LA winter breeze in the air, which is the perfect excuse for me to throw my black leather jacket over the hoodie, and I realize I missed this. The tar pits, being on a date. All of it. I open the door for Maeve, which is easy enough, but as we step from the parking lot to the entrance to the tar pits, my fingers tingle. I'm not sure if holding her hand is the right thing to do. Both on a date-appropriateness level and just on a being-in-public-and-acting-gay level. I've never had any bad experiences with PDA, but it's always a concern in the back of my head.

"So, what made you pick this spot?" Maeve asks as we get in the one-person line for tickets. Ahead of us is a dude with a big beard, artsy camera, and a fedora. He's not exactly an odd specimen for LA, but I wonder what brought him to the tar pits on a Monday.

I tug on my jacket sleeve, covering the hoodie. "I always loved it here as a kid. Dinosaurs are great and everything, but Ice Age animals are underappreciated."

She smiles. "Can't argue with that." She stuffs the hand closest to me into her pants pocket. It makes my heart sink. "What's your favorite Ice Age animal, and were you obsessed with the movie Ice Age? Because if so, we have to stop dating."

Oh, I caught that jab. "Okay, first off, fuck you, Ice Age the original was great, and dire wolf."

Maeve's eyes widen. "Wait, shit, that's not something Game of Thrones made up?"

I make a mock surprised expression. "You don't know about the majestic and very real dire wolf, may it rest in peace?"

She laughs as the hipster guy takes his ticket from the attendant. "Well"—her hand launches out of her pocket and squeezes my shoulder—"you'll have to show me one."

I've been touched before. But I'm sure Maeve thinks I haven't when I stiffen abruptly like her touch is an electric current. I would've never clocked Maeve for an affectionate person. But here she is, in her casual wear, freely throwing me smiles and touching me lightly, and it's like the floodgates open. I want to grab her hand, I want to squeeze her in a hug, I want to take her lips in mine and know what that sweater feels like under my grip.

Hipster Guy catches my gaze as he passes. He stares a hair too long, the familiar look of someone having a celebrity recognition light bulb moment. My gut twists until he turns his head back toward the inside of the museum and raises his camera to photograph something that isn't me.

I grab Maeve's hand for just a second. A guiding touch. "Let's check out the tar pits themselves first."

Maeve follows along, watching the entrance to the museum as we walk. "Did you know that guy?" she asks as we approach the tar.

"No, he just recognized me," I reply.

"Right." She clears her throat. "I forget you're famous sometimes."

I wince. I think about what Trish said, what's expected of me. What may be expected of her. Maybe it's good practice for both of us. "That makes one of us."

My heart flutters as we approach the pits. This was more exciting as a kid. Right now, the tar pits are just, well, tar pits. Still, there's a shiny new railing around them, they sparkle in the sunlight, and it looks like the museum recently refurbished the illustrations of mammoths and other animals in distress dying in the tar. It's a little more morbid (and tar-smelling) than I was going for, but there's something charming about the setup nonetheless.

Maeve doesn't seem to mind either way. She leans on the railing and stares at the bubbling tar. "Does it ever get overwhelming? The way the success of your career is so linked to fame?"

I run a hand through my hair. It's really getting too long. I should cut it. I wonder if Maeve prefers it this length, though. "I think I used to care more. But as I move into doing more indie work, and build an audience there, I think it starts to matter less. And I'm not getting any younger, any shinier, or any newer. I try to think of it as a relief."

"You don't seem to enjoy it. Fame."

I don't know what's put this in Maeve's head, but I'd love it if the universe would stop prompting her to ask questions about fame, thank you.

"I mean, I don't think anyone but the clinical narcissists do."

Maeve smiles. "Aren't most actors raging narcissists, though?"

I wonder if Maeve thought I was one.

I chuckle. "Half are. The other half are dysfunctionally anxious."

Somehow, it was the right thing to say. The move is subtle, soft. She slides her hand over to mine on the railing. Puts a couple of fingers over my knuckles. I intertwine our fingers. A conversation that would otherwise send my heart racing is actually slowing it down.

"Do you ever think about leaving it? Forever?"

The opportunity is suspended in the air: I could tell her the truth. That I've been really, actively trying to leave Hollywood behind as I pursue this teaching thing. I haven't overtly said the leaving Hollywood part, and I'm sure she thinks I'd never give up the life I have.

But the words that come out of my mouth are "I don't know."

When I do know. Right? I just turned down a career-changing acting-and-directing role because teaching—and Maeve—are all I've been thinking about for months. It's like a part of me still wants to hide the truth away, to freeze time and pretend this is just a possibility me, Charlie, Trish, and Luna are talking about hypothetically.

"Well, for what it's worth, I think you're a really good teacher. You inspire the kids."

"You inspire them. I put on a show."

"You do so much more than putting on a show, and I'll never forgive myself for not pointing that out to you in the second class."

I bump my hip against hers. "Hey, I thought you were an asshole too."

She blushes. "I was an asshole, though!"

"Look, I walked in in designer heels, I get it. Plus I used to comfort myself by thinking you were the type of pretentious dickwad who, like, watches 1800s film for fun and lights scented candles when they masturbate. I was just as unbearable as you."

As Maeve's mouth forms a perfect O, I kind of more or less really regret letting that one slip.

"Oh my god, my favorite movie is the Keira Knightley Pride and Prejudice," she says.

I smile. "So that's a yes on the candles…?"

She just gets redder. "You're horrible."

"And how dare your favorite movie not be Portrait of a Lady on Fire! I had you pegged."

Maeve shakes her head, a huge smile on her face. A smile that shows teeth, giving me a peek at a canine that's a little too sharp. "My favorite sapphic movie is Carol, although Portrait of a Lady on Fire's close. You?"

"That sequel to The Shining, but only because of that erotic scene where Ewan McGregor gets chased by the hot demon lady with an ax."

She laughs. "Okay, but for real."

"Y Tu Mamá También, the ultimate movie in favor of lesbianism—"

Maeve just keeps laughing. "Val, please."

"Okay." I pause for dramatic effect. Maeve wipes tears out of her eyes.

"Disobedience, because I can turn on that spit-in-mouth scene and give myself full body shudders on command."

She grabs my shoulders, laughing into my chest. Laughing so hard she's starting to wheeze. "Stop."

With the way my heart's hammering, no way. "It's Thelma and Louise. You can stop choking now."

Maeve finally pulls away from me. She's still got this utterly beautiful smile on her face. The kind of smile that just radiates pure, unfiltered joy. Like I can feel that I'm making a positive impact on this person's life. My chest swells, and maybe it's time to move inside, because the pull to her is getting to be too much and—

And Maeve kisses me first.

She's kissing me and the metal railing is digging into my back, but I sigh into her mouth like she's given me oxygen. The kiss—it feels different from the other two we've had. It feels…tender, magnetic. Indulgent, even? The hunger's still there, it gnaws and tugs at my belly as we touch, but time seems to move slower. Like I can finally savor the slightly fruity taste of her lipstick and feel her long fingers gripping my neck. She holds just the slightest amount of her weight against me. Challenging me to keep her afloat, but not overburdening me. Our shared warmth is like holding hot coffee in the snow, just right—

But we're not alone anymore.

I know what I'm sensing. Someone has lifted a camera, and I'm in the frame.

I know I should be boiling with rage. My privacy has been violated. But the anger just doesn't come. All I feel is anxiety clawing at my insides, dragging the good feeling I just had into the abyss like those mammoths in the tar. Maeve's out, it's not like when I was with Luna and I worried about her being outed. But Maeve's reputation could be at risk, and this isn't even an Oscars publicity setup for Trish. This guy isn't going to do this to us on our first fucking date.

I wrap my arms around her and swoop her into a dip, covering her lips with mine. As she gasps into my mouth, I shove my middle finger into the air right where the photographer would be seeing the top of Maeve's head. He'll have to blur her out.

I pull away, just in time to see Hipster Guy lower his camera. He doesn't even make eye contact when he skitters away like a rat.

"Was that paparazzi?" Maeve asks, fiddling with her earring.

I shrug. "Probably, but I angled us so I'm the only recognizable one in the photo."

She takes my hand, jolting my heart. "Can we go find a dire wolf?" Her tone is…off.

I glance inside. It won't be any safer in there, but it somehow feels more inviting than the pits right now. "Are you okay?"

"Come on."

As we head inside, I can't help but notice she doesn't answer my question.

There are a few more people inside. Fewer than five. But when each person feels like an extra boot pushing down on your chest, it seems like fewer than five is still a hell of a lot of other humans. My phone is in my purse, which bounces against my hip, but I swear it burns through the thick material of my bag as Maeve and I stop in front of a model of a dire wolf (taxidermied? No? Not everything here has been frozen in ice, right?). Hipster Guy must have had the whole encounter planned out. I have no idea how someone could know I would be at the La Brea Tar Pits, but maybe he just has a general deal with a tabloid for whatever photos he gets. We're close enough to a celebrity hub for that not to be too outrageous of a theory. My stomach twists. I must've made his fucking day.

I squeeze my eyes shut as Maeve focuses hard on the wolf. Stress is mounting, and I feel bad right now. God knows how quickly my IBS could kick into gear, and we still have to eat at some point. I can't pass off having just broth as part of a required diet for a role, and, besides, Gwyn always says liquid diets are a terrible thing to do anyway. I need to calm the fuck down. That guy doesn't have a photo of Maeve.

But it was such a close one. We really shouldn't be hanging around here much longer.

"Have you thought about what movies we want to switch out next semester?" I ask.

She smiles. "I've yet to see your Cats lecture, so let's see."

"I have Dear Evan Hansen waiting in the wings."

"Don't remind me that movie exists."

We're not holding hands anymore. I dig mine into my jacket pockets. Finger a piece of lint I find inside. Take as inconspicuous of a deep breath as I can and focus on a model of a saber-toothed tiger. In my pockets, I tap my thumb against my fingertips. Count each tap.

"Val?" Maeve says. She sounds miles away.

She touches my shoulder. It breaks the film over me, at least.

"Sorry," I mutter. "I'm just— Do you wanna move the date somewhere else?"

Maeve goes still, but I can see the relief flash through her brown eyes. "I don't want to cut this short because of him, though. Maybe we do a quick look-through?"

"Okay."

We pass swiftly through the other exhibits, through prehistoric animal dioramas where I seem to genuinely impress Maeve with my obsessive elementary school–level knowledge. We then make our way through the gift shop, where I buy her a plushie of her favorite prehistoric animal so she has a fond memento from the date itself. But even though I've managed to turn our time in the museum around, into something positive, pressure releases from my organs the second I step out of the building. I take a deep breath once I'm back at the wheel and the car doors have shut Maeve and me away from the outside world.

"Better?" I ask.

"Yeah. That was so bizarre. Does that happen to you often?" Maeve glances out the window.

"Depends on the week."

Luckily, she purses her lips and changes the subject. "Is there an Urth on the way back to your place?"

She just invited herself back to my house. People only do that when the date, despite a paparazzi face-off, goes well. A twinkle of light flickers inside me.

"Yeah, there is," I say.

She smiles like this was what she wanted all along as well. "Good. I wanted you all to myself."

Mile by mile, the tension I've been feeling slips away. Slips away as Maeve digs for every opinion I have as to which items at Urth are the best and tosses out every option before we order over the phone. Slips away when Maeve's eyes light up at the little piece of foam art on her to-go chai latte. By the time Charlie texts to say he's gonna be away for the evening on a networking happy hour, I feel almost as good as I did during that kiss at the tar pits.

"Do you want to check?" Maeve asks as we set up our food in my backyard. The sky's as clear as it gets in LA, and it reminds me of the first morning Maeve spent here. I hope she'll get that look of awe again.

"Check what?" I ask as I drop into a seat.

Eustace jumps into one of the other three chairs. He's shaking, and I mentally try to locate where the sweaters I bought him are.

"The photo. I wanna see what you did."

The thought of finding the photo makes my chest tighten again, but I need to just rip off the bandage. "Are you worried?"

"I just want to see."

Maeve's phone chimes as I boot up my Safari. God, I hate googling myself. I've never gotten to the last page of search results, but I know it's weird male gaze porn. Like the kind where they photoshop your head onto pregnant or huge-titty anime girl bodies.

But I don't have to go further than the first page of results. I type in my name and click "News" and there it is.

Goodbye, Richard!Actress locks lips with mystery girl at La Brea Tar Pits

I hold my breath and click on the first article. Scroll down to see the picture.

It's me. Very clearly me in my gay outfit, my still gay haircut falling in my eyes, making out with someone. Someone. Because Maeve's shot from the back, and you can barely see more than her brown hair and her pink sweater and jeans. No distinguishing features, especially with my middle finger forcing a pixelated square over her head.

No one but Maeve and me would know it's Maeve.

Smugness washing over me.

Let people gossip and call me trashy for making out with someone at a dead animal museum. Maeve's free from the fire.

Still, I hope she's feeling what I'm feeling about this.

When I look up, Maeve's looking at me expectantly. "It's just me."

I hand her my phone, and our fingers brush, leaving my skin tingling. "Mystery Girl. They're not very creative, are they?" she says.

Whew.

I smile. "Not in the least. I'd at least call you Pink-Sweater Girl."

Then, in a move that shocks me, Maeve straight up removes her pink sweater. Guess she really trusts my giant hedges.

"Are you trying to prove me wrong?" I ask.

She doesn't answer, just smiles and wiggles out of her shoes, socks, and jeans. She turns fully toward me, her smile growing into a little smirk. "Like what you see?"

I…I mean, yeah, of course I do. Maeve isn't even in matching underwear—she's wearing a flesh-tone bra and red-and-white polka-dot panties—yet she looks more glamorous than a Victoria's Secret model. Seeing how the waves of her hair just barely brush her collarbone and knowing her exact curves is really, really nice.

And then, with a jolt, it occurs to me that I'm supposed to be stripping too.

"It's not gonna be warm," I say.

"Good, there's a little adversity for you to overcome."

I laugh as I remove my jacket and pullover. Her gaze burns on my skin as she watches me undress. Undress for the first time. I haven't seen Maeve like this before. She has—well, I guess she has seen me like this before. My chest pangs a little wondering if this is as special for her as it is for me.

I tug off my shoes/socks/jeans. She undoes her necklace and places it on the patio table.

If I can't make it a novel experience to see me like this, maybe I can at least make that first touch special.

I approach her more tentatively than I normally would. When I cross the last few feet separating us, I feel like I'm stepping into a different ecosystem. Heat seems to swirl around us, but the fine hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stand on end. My insides tighten, but there's no pain. Just the wind-up of anticipation. I brush her hair behind her shoulder.

"You're unreal," Maeve says, her voice vibrating in a low timbre.

I shiver.

Fuck. I'm hers. I'm all hers.

I grab her shoulders.

I'm hers, but I'm also terrible in intense moments.

I plunge us both into the pool.