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6:57pm.
Heather’s meant to be here in three minutes.
For your date.
You’re sweating.
You rub your hands against your skirt, hoping that Heather won’t notice how nervous you are, she was so intent on being in charge of the whole thing. You argued about who got to decide where the date was, but in the end Heather won, when she’s determined about something, she’ll get it. She had this look in her eyes when she argued, she was not going to back down, not one bit, so you gave in.
What if it doesn’t work? What if, even after everything they’ve been through, they’re not hard-wired for dating each other?
6:59pm.
Your parents were happy you were out for dinner, instead of studying through it and heating it up at almost midnight, on the verge of falling asleep into whatever your Mom made. The Summer months are closing in, the days have become longer, you’re nervous about exams and your future and everyone else’s future but mostly, at this moment, you’re nervous about your date.
The doorbell rings. You have to stop yourself from running to grab it.
Heather looks good. Well, she always looks good, especially when she wakes up with the sun in her eyes and her long, long, hair is mused from your hands and she smiles sleepily before remembering that she’s meant to kick you out; but she looks especially good in the almost setting sun, a slightly hesitant look in her eyes.
“You ready?”
“Yeah. I’ll be home before midnight!” You shout to your parents.
“Just get home safe! Leave your shoes in the hall!” Dad shouts back.
“Okay.”
With that you close the door, they’re alone. The air is different, before it would be easy or wrought with tension, but instead you’re both trying to be nice with each other, you’re both too afraid to say something in case it’s the wrong thing.
Heather looks slightly confused at the specification of leaving shoes in the hall. Good, that’s something you can work with, a nice banal topic away from their date.
“My Mom, uh, wakes up a lot in the night, if she sees my shoes in the hall, she knows I’m back safe so, she can sleep a little easier.”
“That’s sweet. You’re sweet.” She compliments slightly awkwardly, she’s trying so hard, she hasn’t even looked at you directly yet, her eyes darting across your face and body. She’s scared, and letting you see it for once, your heart swells slightly at the vulnerability. You push your worries aside to tend to hers.
“Thanks. What have you got planned?”
“You know that place I told you about? Where no one else drives to?”
You nod, you’re still standing on your doorstep, Heather is looking at her hands. You take one of them and squeeze it. Her eyes finally meet yours, she smiles slightly and you can see her chill out a bit.
“We’re going there.”
“Then let’s go.”
You’ve just noticed her car, the red wonder, parked in front of your house at an angle, she opens your door for you and you laugh slightly as she does. You see some bags in the backseat and turn to look at them but she stops you. Somehow it’s more natural in the car, on your doorstep it felt too serious, too real. You already know what each other looks like naked, you can do this.
“Don’t look! It’ll give it away.” She pulls you to the front of the car.
“What’s for dinner?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
She starts the car and drives slightly recklessly toward the small hills around Sherwood, the radio is low, some local new station talking about the weather, but you’re focused on her. Her eyes flicker around the windscreen, as she drives, one hand lies on the gearstick, the other on the wheel. She’s so assured in her awful driving. The silence you find yourself in isn’t full of question like it was before, instead it’s clear and serene. Allowing each other to breathe and live without the burden of what the other might think.
She drives past where other teens go to make-out, through the woods to a little lip that overlooks Walmart.
“So.” She undoes her seatbelt and grabs the bags in the back. “A Cherry big gulp, 7/11 hot dog with mustard, no ketchup and Twizzlers.”
She knows your order. The thought repeats in your head, over and over and over again.
“Can you say something? Or I’ll-“ She begins to threaten, her tone teasing and good natured and slightly worried.
“Heather, this is great.” You take a bit of the hot dog. “Oh my god, I forgot how much I love 7/11 food.”
“If we get food poisoning, we are blaming you for your awful eating habits.” You have a look at what she’s got, a slice of pizza, BQ Corn-nuts and a bottle of Sprite. She takes a bite.
“You’re eating 7/11 food?”
She never eats it unless it’s pre-made, like the Corn-nuts, or whatever chips that Mac chooses. She once said that hell would freeze over before she would eat anything from 7/11. You suppose hell’s mouth would drop open at the idea that Veronica Sawyer and Heather Chandler sleeping together then going on a date, so it freezing wouldn’t be too much of a stretch of the imagination.
“Yes.” She says, like it’s obvious.
“The one they keep in the little heater by the Slurpee station?”
“Yes, what’s the big deal?”
“You like me.” You say, a smile widening on your face, she blushes slightly.
“That’s the point of the date isn’t it.”
“No, I mean you like me enough to eat 7/11 food with me.” You tease her. She opens her mouth, then closes it, then opens it again.
“Maybe.” She admits, taking a drink of her Sprite.
“It’s good, you can’t deny it.”
“It’s greasy, fatty and I’m going to feel bloated tomorrow.”
“Yeah, but it’s totally worth it.”
“Not really.”
“Sh, I’m right.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Let me have this.”
“Fine, but you are wrong.”
“Boo.”
She laughs, busting from her chest and you know that the beginning awkwardness that you bot felt at the beginning has been completely lifted. You talk and eat until you throw your rubbish in your back seat and she follows suit, your drink seems never-ending as you place in in the front cupholders and talk about how Bio is kicking you and Mac’s asses. When you get especially het up about it, her hand slips to the back of your neck and rubs gently, calming you down immediately.
“Where did you apply to for College?” You ask, resting your hand on hers on your thigh.
“You know, Chicago, NYU, Penn State, they all have pretty good lawyer programmes.”
“You’re going to be a lawyer?”
“Hopefully.” For once, you see her looks slightly bashful, her thumb rubbing against your hand, she always does those little patterns across your body. They light a small, loving fire in your stomach, instead of the one that you’re used to, the raging heat of desire that is there – it always is around her – but it’s quelled by her softening around you, by the small touches; your neck, your hand, everything.
“You’ll be a great lawyer. I can already see you strutting into the courtroom with far too big heels and the thought of you in a skirt suit? Oh my God.”
“You horndog.” She almost chastises you, but you know she’s joking, you know that she’s the same as you in that regard.
“Heather Chandler is my girlfriend, I can’t help it.” You take a sip of your Big Gulp.
“Girlfriend?” She asks, voice soft, but afraid in its edge.
You choke on your drink.
Oh, crap, oh fuck, dear Lord, this is how you die.
In Heather’s car, with her asking a question with one word, one that you’re terrified and excited for.
“I- I mean, if you want, if you’re down for that, that is-“
“I’d like that, Veronica.”
“Thank God.”
“Where did you apply?” You’re grateful for the change in conversation, it’s too early for the rest of that conversation. Dating is already one hell of a plunge, getting into all of that could tip the scales and this could end and you really do not want this to end.
“Penn State is my number one, so hopefully, I’d like to go there, but also UCLA and Virginia. Not really sticking to a coast.”
“Wow, got some bit hitters there, but I believe in you, Ronnie.” The nickname spreads warmth throughout your body, you’d forgotten how much you love hearing her lips wrap around that word.
“Hopefully.”
She steals your Big Gulp from your hand and takes a drink, you gasp melodramatically at her.
“I’ll need a tax if you do that again.”
“I wonder what on earth you’ll think of.”
“A kiss, anywhere of your choosing.”
She takes another drink and kisses your forehead. Then a drink and your cheek, she carries on the process until she’s kisses all along your jaw. Her lips make you shiver as they flutter across your face, filling you with warmth with every kiss, you just want her to kiss your mouth already goddamn it.
And she does, dear Lord does she. She takes a drink and drops the cup into the holder before grabbing your face and kissing you. Her tongue is cold against yours, her mouth is sweet and sugary and her lips are waxy from the lipstick and this, this you love.
You end up with Heather in your lap, windows steaming, the sunset unwatched and you feel like a normal teenager, making out in a car in the woods. It doesn’t matter that you’re both girls, that one of you is Heather Chandler, nothing matters except the feel of her body against yours, her lips dragging across your neck, leaving red marks in their wake.
Your palms pull her skirt up slightly, god, thighs are a truly underrated part of female anatomy, guys always go on about ass and tits, but thighs are where it’s at. Especially when Heather sighs in your mouth when you squeeze slightly, your nails only just digging into muscle.
A hand on your chest makes your head fall back against the seat, Heather pulling away, both of you panting slightly.
“I’ve gotta get you home.”
“They don’t really care about my curfew.”
“I mean, I’ve gotta drop you home before we end up doing things then falling asleep in my car.”
“I hate it when you make good points.”
“Thank you.” She says, somehow looking graceful as she gets back into the drivers seat. You’re suddenly very cold from a lack of her and you wish you could just drag her back and stay like that forever, but she’s right, and you agree, sleeping in her car would probably be a new low for them. And that includes the many times they’ve almost been walked in on dry humping at various parties, it was always sobering when a knock would come, or someone would barge in, and they both hid how scared they were through vicious words.
“I mean, they happen so rarely that you should savor them.”
“Ugh, you’re lucky I like you, or I’d make you cry.” She opens her pocket mirror to assess the damage done.
“I am.”
“You are what?” She says, fixing her hair.
“Lucky that you like me.”
She turns to you and smiles.
“So am I.”