10. Elle

"We can't keep doingthis with you," Dad says, slamming his fist against the counter. "Every time we think you're growing up, you go and pull another stunt like this."

I stare at him for a moment, sure I can't be hearing this right. "I'm sorry, a stunt like what exactly?"

"Like … like …" He glances over at Mom, and I know what he's silently asking her. Help me be homophobic in a way that doesn't make me sound like a bigot. "The attention seeking has to stop."

"I didn't attention seek."

"So you want us to believe that you're suddenly a lesbian?" He pins me with a dry look.

"Maybe I'm bisexual."

He snorts. "That's not a real thing."

"Of course it is!" My heart starts pounding wildly, and I have a suspicion that I know exactly why that affects me so strongly.

Dad throws his hands up like I'm being impossible, and while part of me wants to give in like I usually do when it comes to him, there's another part, a deeper part, telling me this is too important to let go. "I've already?—"

"No." My eyes start to prickle. "How is it not a real thing?"

"You're either gay or you're straight. You can't be both. It doesn't work. They're completely different, well, parts."

"P-parts? Surely you're not telling me I should base my entire identity around what someone has in their pants."

"That's enough. I've been far too forgiving where you and your brother are concerned. He went and married that boy, and now it's making you think you can play up more than usual. It ends here, or you'll find yourself completely cut off."

Maybe his words are meant to shock me, but I'm honestly surprised they haven't come earlier. I understand why he's frustrated. I understand why he's at the end of his patience with me. I push them out of their comfort zone, and I do it on purpose. It's one of the few joys I have in life. Everything from shaving my head and getting piercings—leaning against their version of femininity—to refusing to date, and getting an education, and okay, maybe the rumors I spread about myself are a little too far. Telling people I ran a twenty-person train Thanksgiving weekend probably isn't something any parent wants to hear.

But I can't be who they want me to be. Even though subconsciously I've taken in their prejudices, I want to change that. I want to be better. To not see the world so black and white. Us and them. Rich and poor.

I want to be better.

And Margot helps me be better.

Pain slices through my chest at her name, and no matter how much I try to ignore the burn, it grows.

It creates thoughts and words in my mind I've never occupied there before.

I'm no idiot—the majority of my friends are queer, but I'd never stopped to consider that maybe I gravitated toward them because, well, I am too.

Even thinking that makes me feel like an imposter. All my life, I've had rich, white, straight privilege, but … I kissed Margot. And I can't stop thinking about doing it again.

"Cut me off, then," I say. I'm not even bluffing. It'll mean adjustments, but I have my own job, so it's not like I'll be completely screwed without them. I've been planning for this moment for most of my adult life.

"Excuse me?"

"I don't care."

He chuckles. "Giselle … you're so unbelievably naive. You've glided through life on my money?—"

"Pa's money."

Dad's stare sharpens. "And you have no idea how to conduct yourself. How to look after yourself. It's bad enough that trying to find an appropriate man for you is near impossible because of your reputation?—"

"Because I sleep around, you mean."

"No man wants a used-up wife."

My nails dig into my palms so deep. "You know what? I'm glad. I don't want a husband who ties my self-worth to how many people I've had sex with. I'm starting to think I don't want a husband at all. I want Margot, because maybe I am a lesbian or bisexual or whatever the fuck other label applies to me. I don't care. And I'm not going to let you sit there and try to make me feel like I'm confused or don't understand or whatever other gaslighting you want to throw my way. Don't worry about cutting me off—I'm not going to touch another cent of your money anyway." I push to my feet and leave, feeling untethered and almost light-headed.

Cutting myself off wasn't on my list of things to do today, but all I know is that if something starts between Margot and me, I'll do everything in my power to keep my family away from her.

The problem is that after a few days, will she even want to talk to me anyway?

Kissing her unlocked something in my mind that's made everything suddenly make sense. I love men—all of my friends are men, but it's the platonic sort of love. It's why sex has always been so transactional.

Women though?

It feels like the blinders have been lifted, and where I used to think that I was drawn toward pretty girls because I wanted to look like them, it's actually just that I was feeling some things I wasn't ready for. I can't make friends with women because I'm so fucking attracted to them.

It's why things were weird and awkward with Margot at first. And also why I was so relieved that she showed up instead of the boyfriend I'd requested.

Now it's time to make things weird and awkward again by convincing her to meet with me so I can explain that I might not know what to do or how to go about it, but I'd really like to try. Whether she'll want to deal with a baby bi on her training wheels is anyone's guess, but Margot already put herself out there once, and now it's my turn to do the same.

I head home to get changed into something more comfortable, and then I'll be pulling up my big-girl panties and calling her. Calling, not texting. Even though my stomach is swimming with nerves.

Dear god.

I cross the foyer and head to my elevator, riding it to the top floor of my apartment complex. My door is always left unlocked since I'm the only one on this floor, but when I reach it, it's wide open.

The thought of being robbed immediately passes over me, but that conclusion is ridiculous, considering we have a doorman downstairs. So what …

I step inside and round the corner to my living area when?—

"Oh."

Margot's standing there, hair tied up, paint splattered over her face as she paints red lines into my ceiling.

"You're here?"

She jumps, sending a smear of red into the white. "Fuck."

I laugh. "It can be fixed."

"Not easily."

I want to say it doesn't matter and to keep the conversation going about something that doesn't mean anything. But Margot deserves more than that.

"I'm sorry."

She cocks her head. "I'm the one who snuck into your apartment and ruined the ceiling?—"

I shake my head. "No, I'm … I'm sorry. About the other night and then all the moments since."

"Huh." She lowers the roller, setting it in the tray before shoving her hands in her pockets. "That's also something you shouldn't be apologizing for. I overstepped."

"No. Not at all. It was, well, something I was completely unprepared for, but also, I think it was well overdue."

"Overdue?"

"I've always had this question. This feeling that something wasn't right. I don't connect with people. Not romantically. And I'm not sure what that means for me or with labels or … I just know that you're the first person who's ever made me want to try."

Margot takes a small step closer. "You want to try?"

"Look, I don't know if I'll be any bloody good at it. And I'm not just talking about the sex stuff. Actually, I'm mostly talking about the relationship stuff—I play with myself more than enough to know what to do with the equipment you've got on offer."

Margot lets out a shocked laugh. "I mean, you might know what you're doing, but how do you know you'll like doing it with a woman? With me?"

"I don't until I try it."

Margot licks her lips, dark gaze darting away. "Thing is … I really like you. If we do things and you don't like it, I'll feel like shit."

"Then that immediately ranks you far higher than most of the people I sleep with."

"Elle … I hate when you say that stuff."

I shrug. "It's true. My self-worth has been extremely low in the past, but … I'm trying. I'm getting better. And I want to do that with you."

She exhales, happy and relieved as she crosses the distance between us and cups my face again. "How you think you'll be bad at a relationship is a mystery to me."

I smile, heart in my damn throat. "I don't know if you're aware of this, but I'm very snobby."

"I can work with that." Her thumb strokes my cheek, and I can't help myself. I lean forward, bringing our mouths together. It's just like the first time. The same high, the same rush, the same pure want exploding between my legs.

Her arse hits the back of my couch, and I press myself against her, tasting the paint on her lip with my tongue.

"Is this … is this too fast?" she asks, kissing her way along my jaw. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

I reach for her hand, fingers lacing with hers, and I press it to my breast. Margot's eyes flutter, hand squeezing, palming, setting off all the good feelings that take my reservations away.

"I've never felt more comfortable in my life."