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Britta’s parents are great.
At least that's what everyone thinks.
They go to church on Sundays and they donate enough money to be called out during the service and the priest knows exactly who they are.
They cover Britta’s living expenses and have dinner with all of her friends and tell her they can’t wait until the day she graduates and meets a very nice man and gets married and has three kids.
The whole shebang.
Except it’s more like he-bang. He-bang for life.
The idea bores her. Makes her want to he-bang her head on the table until she starts bleeding. Until she stops feeling so fucking trapped.
Britta is only fourteen the first time she kisses a girl. It’s her best friend, a girl named Kerry, who has blonde hair and brown eyes and is always applying strawberry Chapstick she got for free at the dentist.
Britta’s not allowed to wear lipstick yet, so Kerry gets Britta the blue raspberry flavor the next time she goes. Britta spends way too much time thinking about what it would taste like, if they fused the flavors together, lips on lips.
Britta doesn’t know what that means. She knows as a straight prepubescent teenager, it’s totally normal to want to kiss your girl friends sometimes.
Right?
It’s totally normal to get jealous when they have other best girl friends and get angry that their boyfriends never treat them how they deserve, and think to yourself that you'd never treat them half as bad as they do if only–
If only.
So Britta’s at Kerry’s house for a sleepover and they’re watching a movie that Britta’s parents don’t approve of, but Britta’s parents will never know about because they’re not at Britta’s house.
It’s a kissing movie.
Pouring rain, a chase through the streets, before the man corners the woman at the end of the road, grabs her arm and pulls her into a searing kiss.
It’s raining outside when the movie ends.
“Have you ever been kissed in the rain?” Kerry asks Britta, strawberry lips twisted in a sugary smile, and Britta hasn’t, but she wants to be. God, does she want to be.
So they go outside, giggling like they’re pulling some kind of prank, standing under the flickering yellow halo of the patio lights above and the drip drip of the rain off the edge of the rooftop in a quiet, secluded, very white, very suburban neighborhood and Kerry cradles Britta’s face gently with soft hands and presses her strawberry mouth against Britta’s like a stamp.
Like a stamp on the outside of an envelope.
Britta stays unmoving, frozen, stomach fluttering, hands glued to her sides.
She wants to put them in Kerry’s hair.
“There,” Kerry says, pulling away like she's sealing an envelope, her saliva slick on Britta’s lips.
A seal on an envelope Britta won’t open again.
Britta finds out one of her professors in her first year at Greendale has a wife. That’s so cool, she thinks. That’s so flipping cool.
She doesn’t stop to ask herself why.
Britta’s fascination with lesbians, for a straight woman, is probably not normal. She meets Page, blonde hair, blue eyes, not that unlike Kerry all those years ago.
She sees her walking down the hall, tucking her hair back in a neat ponytail and Britta can’t help but stare when she walks past. Jeff is beside her completely oblivious. He always notices the women, but he hadn’t even turned his head for Page.
“Did you see her?” Britta asks him, and he’s not even looking at his phone, but he acts like she’s trying to communicate to him from another planet. “She’s so pretty,” she says, and surprises herself by how breathy her voice sounds. “Her hair. I want it.”
“Who?” Jeff asks, searching the hallway for the woman in question.
Britta gestures towards Page, opening her locker, pulling out a fedora that matches her outfit, and placing it on top of her head.
“Her?” Jeff asks. He shrugs. “Yeah, she’s okay.”
Page looks up at them, as if she can feel the heat of Britta’s gaze on her, and she smiles, just enough to make Britta freeze, caught out.
She clears her throat and looks away.
By the second year, Britta befriends Page. And she’s not sure what it is, but their friendship is a little different. Because when they lean back into the crummy, thirty-year-old couch cushions in front of the vending machines, Page puts her arm around the back of the couch and Britta doesn’t move away.
Their eyes hold for way too long and Britta’s never gotten this much attention from a man before, never felt so much electricity fizzling in the air, filling up all the empty space between their bodies.
Page must be a lesbian, Britta thinks, because that’s how her brain works. Maybe she’s been spending too much time with Pierce, associating certain behaviors and certain articles of clothing with certain labels but.
Page must be a lesbian. That’s the only reasonable explanation for why Britta feels so goddamn nervous when their arms brush, why her stomach drops with every touch and she wants to run away.
She’s not going to be homophobic and run away. She refuses to be a homophobe (because of the way her parents flinch when she talks about that professor with a wife), and so she stays perched on the couch or the chair at Page’s place when they get too drunk on Britta’s favorite drink, straight vodka and four olives.
Page wraps her lips around the toothpick. Pulls each olive from the wood with a quick flash of teeth and a swipe of her pretty pink tongue. She wraps her arm around Britta’s shoulders.
But Britta doesn't think about all that.
Britta brags to the study group about her friendship with Page. How everything is great and she’s totally comfortable with it, and she’s so comfortable with Page that they’re going to the Valentine’s Day dance together.
Britta often lies to prove a point.
Britta often takes things too far to prove a point.
Britta often learns something when she fails at proving said point.
But this time, Britta isn’t ready for what she learns.
Page’s hand slides into hers, skin smooth and slightly damp, and when Britta rubs her fingers against Page’s knuckles, they’re hairless. When she runs a thumb over Page’s thumb, her nails are smooth. Shiny. Blue.
It’s different.
It’s a good different.
But Britta only feels that way because she’s sooo open-minded, and really, she’s such a great friend for being able to do this without it being weird . She’s making a real statement here.
They make their way out onto the dance floor, hand in hand.
Britta’s never danced with a girl before, doesn't know how to dance with anyone without putting her hands around their shoulders or their waist, and she's not even sure if Page would want that.
Britta squeezes her hands into fists and swallows, she feels dizzy from all the eyes on the two of them.
She turns her back to Page, turns so their backs are pressed together, so their bodies can writhe to the music without looking at each other in the eyes.
It's easier without the intimacy.
And then Pierce yells “Lesbians!” and Britta’s stomach swoops and she and Page yell “Screw you!” at the exact same time and Britta’s eyes go wide because she knows she fucked up.
“I don't care what they say,” Britta says, and she's trying to prove she's open minded but she's also proving something else too.
“Oh I don't either,” Page says. “I just wish it wasn't such an issue for them.”
“Yeah, but that starts with us,” Britta says. Licks her lips. “That starts with us.”
And Britta’s squaring her shoulders like she's about to punch Page, not kiss her, but really, what is the difference between a kiss and a punch, if the force of it is the same.
Britta leans in. Page meets her halfway.
And the air rushes from Britta’s lungs like a turbulent wind.
Someone's whimpering against the other person’s lips and Britta can't tell if it's her or Page, because the blood that rushes through her ears is so fierce and terrifying it feels like ice was injected directly into her veins.
Britta keeps her eyes open to see everyone else's reaction.
The horror, the wonder, the curiosity.
Is this what her parents would look like? If she told them about this? If she told them that maybe she wanted this?
Page starts talking against her lips, and Britta’s now noticing her eyes are also open, and Page says she's never done this before.
She .
She's never done this before?
Britta doesn't know if Page is referring to the kiss or the whole situation, so she says me neither (because she's never kissed a lesbian before, never even gone on a date with a one, even if she has kissed a girl.)
Page isn’t a lesbian.
Britta accuses Page of only hanging out with her because she thought Britta was gay.
Page doesn't deny it. She turns it back on Britta, saying, “So what were you doing with me?”
Britta’s heart stutters in her chest, and she wants to say I was loving you, in the only way I know how.
Which is to say loudly. Too strong, too much, so enormously ridiculous that it doesn't even seem real.
It's painful to think Britta wanted it to be real.
“You're the worst,” Page says. “And for the record, I never thought you were cool, I only thought you were a lesbian.”
Britta can’t speak. She can only try to sputter out a response, watch with a sinking feeling in her stomach as Page flips her hair over her shoulder and walks away.
So they both have that in common then. Thinking lesbians are cool.
Too bad Britta isn't one of them.
Britta dates a long string of unattainable emotionally unavailable men.
Watches everyone around her find their people and their place. Their men, their women. Graduate.
She watches Jeff watch Annie like he'd follow her to the ends of the Earth.
And he does. Chasing her to DC, then New York, then London for a quick stint before they return back to Colorado again.
They visit her sometimes, at the same bar she's been working at for three years, Annie leaning into Jeff’s shoulder, smiling at each other across the table like they're sharing a secret, Jeff’s hand on Annie’s knee, squeezing.
Britta wants to know what that secret is. She hasn't found it with anyone yet.
When Britta goes home one Thanksgiving and her parents ask her about her future, she uses the word partner instead of husband.
They don't quite understand.
It’s five years after the Valentine’s Day dance, when a familiar face with blonde hair and blue eyes enters the bar.
With a woman. On a date.
“Hey,” Page says, and she looks so shy when Britta greets her, staring at the drink menu like it’ll shield her from the awkwardness of this situation.
Page’s date is beautiful, composed, sleek black hair, sharp brown eyes, and a red smile.
Britta bets she graduated from Harvard or she’s a lawyer with a shit load of money, based on her designer bag and Louboutin heels, and the way her perfume smells vaguely of Chanel No. 5.
Britta realizes she's staring.
“What can I get you?” Britta asks.
Page wants vodka with four olives and her date wants a glass of red wine.
“Four olives?” she asks, raising her eyebrows.
“Yeah,” Page answers. “Four.”
Britta’s surprised she remembers.
Britta watches them from the bar, Ms. Harvard dabbing at her wine-stained, red-stained lips with a napkin. Page’s eyelashes sweeping downwards, her laugh soft like tinkling bells.
Britta hates her because she's still beautiful. Shouldn’t someone so mean on the inside look a little rougher around the edges?
Just a crack somewhere, anywhere, a peek of horribleness shining through her skin.
But no. Page is perfect. With her smooth, unblemished face and her glossed lips and her perfectly tailored, perfectly ironed plaid suit.
And Britta? She barely brushed her hair this morning.
Britta clenches her fists at the bar. Slams the next drink order down. You’re the worst. She thinks.
She thanks the God she doesn't believe in that it's Friday. It's easier to distract herself when there's several other customers to deal with.
When Page settles her tab, it's not a moment too soon, and Britta wipes the table with a soapy cloth. The cloth seeps purple from the wine stains, the olive toothpicks fall easily into Britta’s palm as she sweeps them off the table.
Page tips generously. There's a note on the receipt that reads:
My date sucked. Call me.
With a number.
Britta’s heart pounds. She feels fourteen again.
She doesn't call the number though.
Page comes again on a Sunday, when the bar’s just opened for the night.
It's raining outside, the announcement of each customer’s arrival a squeaky, squelching of shoes on the disgusting concrete floor.
Britta sees her hair first. It's beautiful.
And then it's Page.
“Hey,” Page says, sitting herself at the bar. “You never called.”
Britta scoffs. Picks up a glass and shovels ice into it, the clinking sound of the metal and ice loud enough to fill the silence. “Why would I?”
Page sits back in the chair and studies her. “I just wanted to apologize.”
“Over the phone?” Britta asks. “Because I'm pretty sure an apology shouldn't start with asking the other person to call you.”
Page presses her lips together. “I'm sorry,” she says. “I shouldn't have said all that stuff back then.”
Britta wonders if Page even remembers any of it. If she knows how much it had hurt Britta, to be shunned by a person you care about, with you’re the worst and I never thought you were cool.
Britta already thinks those things. She just doesn't want to hear them out loud.
“I liked you,” Page admits. “And it scared me. I wasn't ready back then.”
Britta says nothing. She gets it. But she didn't tell Page she was the worst and leave her alone on Valentine's Day.
“I’m going to make it up to you,” Page tries again. She retrieves a small napkin in her purse. Unfolds it, revealing four tiny olives on a toothpick. “Consider this a peace offering,” she says. “An olive branch, if you will.”
Britta wrinkles her nose at the ridiculous pun, but finds herself smiling. “For what?” she asks. “For friendship?”
“Let's keep things unlabeled,” Page tells her. She lifts an eyebrow. “I've found life is better that way.”
Britta laughs and shakes her head, but she takes the olive branch and the cocktail napkin and places it with her stuff at the end of the bar.
Page stays with her until closing time and Britta’s back hurts from leaning so close to her across the bar, making fun of the bald guy in the corner and exchanging stories where they've both gone a little too far trying to prove a point.
And then the bar is empty.
“Hey,” Britta says suddenly. “Have you ever been kissed in the rain?”
“No,” Page says. Flashes a smile. “Are you offering?”
Britta nods. She holds out her hand over the bar, and Page takes it, her palm cool from nursing her last drink, and it molds so nicely against Britta’s own that she wonders why she'd waited this long in the night to get Page to touch her.
She leads Page outside.
And it's different this time, the night sky a shade of silver, from the clouds, the pitter-patter of heavy raindrops like punches on the sidewalk, and it soaks Britta’s hair and her all-black uniform, and it drips off Page’s eyelashes when she blinks, and Britta can't hold it back anymore, she has to kiss her.
When she seals their lips together, it feels like déjà vu.
A stamp, an opening, the slide of saliva, rainwater.
But this time, Britta’s hands go in Page’s hair.
This time, Britta closes her eyes.
And this time, Britta thinks she might've found it.
The whole shebang.