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Yvonne Marley does not have a type .
They’re adamant about it. Even when Salem smirks and teases that Yvonne, babe, Marisol and I are both camp counsellors , she refuses, insisting that her type, if any, would only be those who happen to catch her eye. Only those who so serendipitously fall into her path in life, that twist of time and place and situations that can so coincidentally become the subject of their affections.
It’s just convenient that out of the three people to catch her eye, they all so happen to be working with her. Ah, well. Denial is a powerful thing.
‘Christ, Marie, how can you lift that?’ Marie Ann grins weakly as her arms strain against the crate of logs. She drops it with a sharpened exhale, the weight of the wood thudding into the dusty ground, and stands up, stretching luxuriously as she turns towards Yvonne.
‘Well. I guess 9 years of fencing can help.’ She smiles, stretching her arms as Yvonne pointedly stares anywhere but her biceps.
‘9 years?’ Yvonne says, her voice shaky and incredulous.
‘M-hm! I decided I wanted to learn when I was 15, gave up a couple of years later, then picked it back up again a while back because fuck it, why not?’ Her smile, the little raise of her eyebrow; she’s devastating .
To reiterate, Yvonne Marley does not have a type .
Never mind the way that Marisol and Salem glanced at each other knowingly when Yvonne practically leapt up to help Marie Ann (because God, they knew, didn’t they, and they wanted to wingman their girlfriend because of course they would). Never mind the way that Yvonne could watch Marisol knit for hours, the deft movement of her hands so calming, so repetitive and smooth and beautiful in its dexterity. Never mind the way that Yvonne never failed to notice when Salem’s sleeves rode up and exposed the curved muscle in her forearm and- ah. Right.
‘Fencing, huh? You must be pretty good at it.’ Marie Ann chuckles, the sunlight catching the copper in her box-dyed hair.
‘Depends who you’re asking. I guess you could say I look pretty good with a sword. Well, not a sword, but what’s in a name?’ She winked. Actually winked, because it was cheesy and silly and she knew , because Yvonne didn’t even know if it was possible for her face to turn redder.
Perhaps, in some sense of the word, Yvonne Marley just maybe had a type.