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“You’re sure your parents are okay with me coming over for the holidays?” I ask for what must be the dozenth time - and probably the final time, since our tiny budget rental car is pulling up to the French chateau that Meroe’s parents have rented to host the entire extended Gevora Nimara clan for Christmas. The feelings of inadequacy starting to lurch and knot in my intestines aren’t helped by the disconnect between how many euros we spent on the dinged Citroen and how many euros this place must be worth.
“I’m sure,” Meroe promises for the dozenth time (and hopefully the final time). “Mom even said we could share a room!”
“Hey, I guess she doesn’t have to worry about me getting you pregnant,” I joke, and I breathe a sigh of relief when the weak jest makes Meroe giggle. She even gives my thigh a quick, reassuring squeeze as we pull up to hand the car over to the valet. I flash her a grin, and follow Meroe inside to meet her family
***
“Well, your mom wasn’t lying,” I mutter. Our bags have been brought to a single room. It’s just been set up with two tiny cots. We’ve packed into some fairly small dorm beds thanks to both being fairly lean and very friendly but there’s no way we could both squeeze into one of those. (I’d doubted we’d be offered a queen-size, but I’d figured we’d at least have been given a pair of twins.) I sigh. “Looks like this drafty chateau is going to feel even colder.”
“Colder than the looks some of my aunts and uncles gave us,” Meroe mutters. I nod my agreement. Usually winter break flies by, but this one is going to feel agonizingly long. “They don’t actually think you’re just my ‘friend-who-is-a-girl’, do they?”
“Nobody who’s spent more than ten minutes with us thinks that,” then, a little bashfully, I add, “especially not after your Uncle Stanislaus saw us kissing in the pantry.” A thought occurs to me. “There aren’t any spare rooms, are there?”
Meroe snorts. “Not likely. You’ve seen how many cousins I have.” I shudder. Names and faces have never been my strong suit, and cold or not, just thinking about the seemingly endless array of Gevoras and Nimaras with perfect teeth and glossy dark hair gives me the sweats.
Meroe, meanwhile, continues to stare at the pair of cots as if she can force them into becoming a full bed by strength of will. I can see the equations she is doing written in the lines of her furrowed brow. “...that will go there, and we can fasten those there, and if everything else slides to this side…” Her face resolves into a cherubic smile. “I’m not losing my big spoon that easily,” she announces, digging through her bag. “Luckily, I over-accessorize, and you are very strong.” She produces a handful of belts and sets them aside. “Come on, Isoka, we’ve got some rearranging to do.”
Almost an hour later, we’re the sweatiest we’ve ever been from an activity that involved me, Meroe, and a bed that wasn’t sex. But the wardrobe, nightstand, desk, and chair have all been moved to one side of the room, and the two cots have been shoved to the other, legs lashed together with designer belts. “Quite impressive, really.”
“And to think I just took that art course on interior decorating to boost my GPA,” Meroe says with a pleased smile. (Somehow the sheen of sweat only makes her look more radiant. It would be infuriating if it wasn’t so damned attractive.) The smile turns dangerous as she turns to me. “Isoka, how loudly do you think we’d have to fuck before they give up on turning a blind eye to our relationship?”
I grin, all sharp teeth and chapped lips. “I don’t know,” I begin, shucking off my ‘Property of Soliton University Athletics’ hoodie, “but I’m willing to find out.”