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“Normally I like a girl moaning and groaning through the phone but this is getting a bit out of hand.”
To spite him, Leshawna groans for the umpteenth time, louder. “You try making a ‘bombastic’ design, according to Beth, while juggling four projects, two papers, and the entire theater crew giving you shit for a tiny mistake you pulled six months ago.”
On her desk, Duncan’s voice, tinny from the speakers, comes from the other end of her phone: “Don’t tell me she actually said bombastic.”
“Ugh, she did! And girlie knows I’ll have to pull some all-nighters to finish the costume designs. She’s doing this shit on purpose.”
“I mean, you did double-cross them.”
“Uh, double-cross? All I did was go on a study abroad trip.”
“After you gave a heartfelt speech about missing the crew the day before and said there’s no way you could bring them along. Knowing full well you can but you chose not to. And then Justin found out the truth and exposed you to everyone and the study abroad trip turned out to be one awkward clusterfuck.”
“Okay, so I wanted a teensy break. Can you blame me? I love the gang, don’t get me wrong, but they’re off the rails sometimes! I just wanted some me-time, is that so wrong?”
“Asking the wrong person, Hoops. My definition of right and wrong is…skewed.”
Leshawna touches her favorite hoop earrings from where the nickname originated. She considers herself lucky—Duncan’s nickname for her is tame compared to most others. It’s a bit annoying though because people expect that with a nickname like hers, she’s an instant hit on the basketball court.
“You have a definition?” she asks snippily.
“Haha. You’re a riot.”
“For real though,” Leshawna slouches forward in her desk chair, propping her chin on her steepled hands so that she’s eye-level with the phone lying on her desk. “So they found out I was kinda lying to them. I apologized! But they still act like I ate their kibbles or something.”
" Yeah Harold acts like you killed his pet hamster, it’s sickening. Makes me feel better about giving him that wedgie.”
Great. Next thing she knows, the theater crew will be on her case for sicing Duncan on Harold under some fucked-up retaliation plot, which is exactly what she needs.
Duncan’s still talking, “Since when is Beth out to get you though?”
“Oh she is, mark my words. Who knew Miss Nice Girl can be so harsh? She thinks that just because she’s head of the musical—“
"Pretty sure that’s Lindsay.”
“Same thing, those two are joined at the hip. Anyway, she’s talking mojo about me needing to ‘pull my weight’ or some shit just because I…”
“Flaked out on the whole group? Tried to go to Madrid without them?”
“Literally stop putting it like that, you’re gonna make me feel worse than I already am.”
"My bad. It’s wild and pretty fucking hilarious.”
“Thanks,” she mutters. Honestly, she doesn’t know what she was expecting with Duncan.
“I know Beth, she’s usually, well, nice.”
“Yeah, to you.” For some unfathomable reason, Duncan and Beth get along decently. “She’s been giving me cold shoulders since Madrid. In fact, the whole crew is. The designs are supposed to be this make-or-break occasion. If I fuck it up…”
She doesn’t know what will happen. Things are already rocky, and chances are she can get kicked out of the crew.
The thought makes her clench her pen tightly.
“What more does she want from me? Was an apology not enough? Like, girl, I don’t have a freaking time machine!” she bemoans, running a hand through her hair, removing it from its ponytail, and letting it settle. Part of it remains straight but the strands rebelling against her straightener poofed into her natural ‘do.
“Take her to Madrid,” suggests Duncan. “That’s what she wanted.”
“Boy, if I had that much money, I’d be going to Madrid myself, not with a study abroad. I’m a college kid living on financial aid, not Beyoncé.”
She can envision Duncan shrugging. “I got nothing. Beth’s alright though, I’ll say that. The stories she says about her boyfriend, Brady, are kinda weird, but she’s a harmless midget.”
Leshawna sighs. “She keeps saying I need to ‘prove myself’ whatever that means. How in god's name am I supposed to do that when no one’s giving me a damn chance?”
“How about designing a super cool set of costumes for the winter play?”
“Wow, you’re so funny. Keep off your high horse, people might get jealous of your big brain.”
“I know right? It’s all smarts in here.”
She snorts. “Sure, pal. I don’t know why I’m even talking to you about this. You’re no help. I should’ve ranted to DJ, at least he’s supportive.”
“Rude. I’m plenty of help. I’m the most supportive person I know. People come to me with their emotional shit.”
“Yeah, you’re right! That’s why you and Courtney publicly broke up in the amphitheater—emotional shit.”
This time, it’s Duncan’s turn to snort. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up. I’m gonna need you to not talk about our college's residential princess while I’m living with her current girlfriend's ex.”
Taking full advantage of the change in subject, Leshawna quickly asks, “How’s that working for you, by the way? Man, I still say you’re crazy for actually agreeing to room with Trent. Weren’t you dating Gwen at the time too?”
“Gwen and I had broken up by then. Something about epiphanies and ambitious brunettes being her type over punks.” A short pause. “Huh. I just realized it was around that time she and Court started dating. Did I kickstart a sexuality crisis on my own two exes?”
Leshawna stifles a snicker. If Duncan hears her laughing, he’ll definitely hang up and normally she wouldn’t give a damn, but she’s on the edge of a precipice today. If he hung up, she’s afraid she’ll have a nervous breakdown right there and then.
Though she can’t resist saying: “Glad you finally caught on.”
"Shut the hell up."
Normally Leshawna would have ribbed him back and the entire conversation would have divulged into bantering, but she's up to her head with it all. Just the thought of designing those costumes within this week has her mood dulling, she's horrible with costume designs, everyone knows that. Leshawna admits her shortcomings whenever they are, and this is definitely one of them.
Her eyes trail to the other bed next to hers in their dorm room—her roommate's. Who is quite good at designing...
No, no fucking way. Girl, you are not asking her, she chides herself sternly.
Even though she can definitely help...and her designs would probably be pretty cool...and it would be a load off Leshawna's back that she can even thank her for...
"Oi Leshawna, have you passed out from the stress or something? You've been way too quiet."
"Just thinking thoughts that should not be thought," she grumbles, turning back to her desk.
"Oh?" Duncan's voice layers with intrigue, but before Leshawna can reply with some sort of excuse, the bane of her thoughts materializes in person.
“Knock knock,” says Heather, head sticking in the room as she speaks, which basically defeats the purpose of the so-called common courtesy.
Speak of the devil, Leshawna thinks huffily.
Without waiting for a ‘come in’ Heather saunters into the room as though she lives in it—which, well, she does, given they’re roommates, but that’s technicalities. And an already-ticked Leshawna doesn’t deal in those.
“Yeah, come in, girl. Why don’t you stick your lovely legs with those Prada shoes on my fucking desk and we’ll call it a day?”
“Ah, there you are. For a second, I was worried a doppelgänger had kidnapped you. Not that I’d care.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“You didn’t even give me proper shit for the ‘knock knock’ thing like you always do,” Heather crosses her arms, reclining on her bed, kicking off her wedges and wriggling her toes. She’s going casual this time; maroon halter top and camo booty shorts. Her legs flash as she crosses them at the ankles. Is she trying to get under Leshawn’s skin here?
“What?”
Leshawna stirs. “What do you want?”
Heather raises one hand in mock surrender. “Touchy, are we? Did Harold write another steamy love poem about you again?”
“And that was something I wish I never had to hear.” Duncan’s voice from Leshawna’s phone nearly makes her jump. She’d forgotten she was still talking to him. That’s the thing with Heather; she reels her in with her barbed words and glinting eyes, and everything else around her falls away.
Leshawna hates it. Heather probably isn’t as affected by their stupid frenemy-rivalry.
Heather pulls out a nail file. “Is that Duncan?”
“Is that Tall, Hot, and Bitchy?”
Oh, that’s a good one. Leshawna files it away to use for later.
“Get bent,” Heather snaps, not looking up from filing her nails.
There are muffled noises that sound like snickering from Duncan’s end.
“Aren’t you supposed to be on a date right now? With that smoldering Hispanic guy with a tongue like honey?” Leshawna asks Heather.
“Smoldering hot?”
“Don’t deny the obvious truth. I swear I saw that guy move his pecs when I walked past the gym last week.”
“Oggling guys at the gym now? Are you that desperate?”
“Don’t act like you’re not the bane of every healthy relationship on campus. Besides, you’re evading the point. What’s up with him?”
One immaculate eyebrow rises. “Him? You mean Alejandro?”
“Who else?” And Leshawna really has to stop forgetting that Duncan’s still a part of the conversation. “That guy’s words give the chills. I think he made Tyler bi.”
Heather scoffs. “No one can make someone bi, dumbass. Least of all, Alejandro. And especially about Tyler—that guy keeps saying he likes girls and mentioning Lindsay every other sentence—you know, his girlfriend.”
“Whatever. Isn’t Alejandro your boyfriend?”
That gets a solid reaction out of Heather. She looks up. “Excuse me?”
“Well isn’t he?” says Leshawna. “You two are all over each other.”
Heather’s lips press together. For a split second, Leshawna expects her to throw a fit, maybe stab her nail file into Leshawna’s phone.
Instead, she does something even more boggling: she laughs.
Leshawna blinks. On the other end, Duncan is quiet, the silence as confused as she is.
Meanwhile, Heather’s still laughing, bent over, clasping her drawn-up legs as she shakes her head. In a moment of reprieve, she looks up, meets Leshawna’s eyes, and loses it again.
On the phone, Duncan clears his throat irritably. Leshawna wants to tell him to shut the hell up. Something about seeing Heather laugh genuinely for the first time, even if it’s likely making fun of them, doesn’t set her off like she expected it to. Rather, she feels…satisfied. Warm. It’s a feeling she doesn’t associate with Heather.
In an effort to rid herself of these suddenly more intimate thoughts, she pulls a Duncan and clears her throat, snapping her fingers as well.
“Pretty sure we didn’t say anything that funny,” she says.
Heather sighs, wiping a tear from her eye. “You both are total fools,” is her version of a proper answer.
Leshawna is not amused. “Yeah, and you’re a godsend brought down to annoy us all to death. Is there a point?”
“Alejandro isn’t my boyfriend.”
Leshawna’s mouth drops open.
" Say what?” wheezes Duncan.
Heather rolls her eyes. “God, you two—even if I liked that sneaky bastard, which I sure as hell don’t, he’s got his eyes fixed on someone else. Someone quite unlike me.”
There’s a long silence as Leshawna and Duncan wrap their heads around this new piece of information. For her part, Leshawna has no idea who this mysterious love interest of Alejandro’s could be. Initially, she’d have said Heather, but considering Heather, herself, said it isn’t her…well, Leshawna isn’t going to deny it, she feels a little lighter about that. As though a load is lifted.
Shut up, you don’t know what you’re talking about, she scolds herself.
Duncan, meanwhile, appears to actually be the observant one. “Damn now I know why Alejandro’s been spending so much time with that nerd—what’s his name—“
“Noah?” says Heather. “Honestly resorting to general stereotypes is old news. You’re literally such a fake.”
“The mohawk says no.”
“So you put green dye on part of your hair, big deal.”
“You gotta admit though, that guy’s a nerd through and through. Try and deny it. Alejandro being with him?”
“Apparently they’re ‘academic rivals’,” Heather puts the last two words in air quotes. “And if you like stereotype insults so much, how’d you like it if I called you a wannabe punk?”
A snort escapes Leshawna before she can stop it. She doesn’t dare look at Heather, but she can feel her surprised gaze burning holes in her skin. (Thank the Lord for dark skin being able to hide the heat all over her face.)
“Meh.” It sounds like Duncan’s shrugging. “I wouldn’t care. You’re not a punk, you don’t know how punks work.”
“Oh really?” There’s a light in Heather's eyes that Leshawna is most accustomed to; it’s a fire lit up behind her brown irises, a spark of competition. It simultaneously makes Leshawna pity Duncan who’s going to get a nice verbal hit within the next second, and her heart race like never before.
What is even happening right now? Is it the stress straining her emotional barriers?
“How about if I call Trent a bland guitar boy?” says Heather in a tone that says ‘I got you, buddy’.
A slight pause. “Okay, listen, Trent is more than just a guitar guy, he’s got loads of other stuff if you just—“
“No need to get all defensive over your boyfriend, Duncan,” interrupts Leshawna, hiding a grin behind her hand while Heather scoffs loudly.
“What?”
Heather rolls her eyes. Leshawn’s about to say that if she rolled them any harder, she might find an actual brain in her head, but at that moment, a notification pops up on her phone.
It’s from the theater group chat. Leshawna hardly texts there anymore; whenever she does, she usually receives thinly veiled snarky replies, Beth being overly simpering, or Harold being a kicked puppy.
Seriously? All this because of one stupid study abroad trip.
She groans aloud, her mood dimming as the gravity of her current situation hits her once again.
Heather cocks an eyebrow. “What’s up with you? You sound like a dying humpback whale.”
And it shows clearly how distressed she is that Leshawna can’t even think of a suitable retort for that. All she does is bury her face in her arms.
“What is it now? You’ve moaned and groaned enough.”
“It’s the group chat,” Leshawna grumbles.
“Well, shit. Can’t you mute that thing?”
“Yeah, and they’ll find a new reason to blame me if I miss anything important being said.”
“See, this is why theater is for wusses. I mean Harold is in it so that just says everything—”
“For god's sake, Duncan!” Leshawna sighs, her voice muffled as she says, “give it a rest, I’ve had it up to my neck already.”
Heather chooses that moment to cut in. “Yeah, okay, not that your complaining and whining aren’t music to my ears.” (That’s total sarcasm, Leshawna can feel it oozing from her voice. She tries to muster up some anger, but all she feels is drained.) “What the fuck is going on though? And why is Duncan being the man-child therapist here?”
“You wish you can be as therapeutic as I am right now. Wait a minute…” Duncan’s voice pitches higher, the kind of tone of someone who’s on the verge of a stellar idea. Instantly, Leshawna’s wary. Duncan’s ‘stellar ideas’ are like stellar hells.
“What’re you cooking up in that noggin, Duncan?”
“Heather’s a fashion expert of sorts, right?”
The woman in question scoffs so loudly that Leshawna won’t be surprised if the people next door hear her. “Of sorts?! I’m a self-proclaimed fashion specialist. Even Lindsay doesn’t hold a candle to me, although she tries.”
In Leshawna’s opinion, Lindsay’s accessorizing is a far better shot than Heather’s tiny shorts, tight jeans, and halter tops—at least Lindsay has a diverse sense of style and she’s not a bitch. On a good day, Leshawna would’ve said exactly that to Heather’s face and watched in satisfaction as her face got all red and splotchy. But today isn’t a good day, so she stays silent with her head in her arms.
“Hey, Hoops, maybe Hot and Bitchy Fashionista can help you out with your designs—”
“No way!” Leshawna yelps, her head shooting straight up, glaring at the phone though she knows Duncan can’t see her. (She still hopes her glare is powerful enough to have a virtual effect on him.) “I’m not asking for help—especially from her.”
Between that second and the next, Heather stood and crossed the room, leaning down so that her face is mere inches from Leshawna’s. Her eyes are glaring and Leshawna glares back just as heavily. Glaring isn’t hard to do, not as draining, even as her track to the little freckles dotting the bridge of Heather’s nose.
“Um, excuse me, I’ll be the judge of that—”
“Um, no you won’t since it’s my project. So you can take those manicured nails and remove them from the back of my chair.”
Heather bares her teeth, pristine whites flashing down at Leshawna. “Why, you upstarting, loud-mouthed, bit—”
“Okay jeez take it easy, you two. Can you guys have your homoerotic sexual tension when I’m not around to hear it?”
Before Leshawna can decode that, Heather’s fiery irritation switches to Leshawna’s phone and Duncan’s voice in it. “Listen, Mohawk Man, you better tell me what the hell is going on. What help are you harping about?”
“Okay, chill, when I said take it easy, I didn’t mean slam it all on me—”
“Give me the details, wannabe punk.”
“Jeez okay, cool it. Leshawna’s just in hot shit.”
“Thanks,” Leshawna grumbles, slamming her forehead against her desk. By the Lord, this day is turning out to be more and more worse.
She feels Heather’s inquisitive gaze flicking between her phone and her. “What do you mean by that?”
Don’t do it, Duncan, Leshawna mentally wills Duncan to shut his trap for once in his goddamn life.
Unfortunately, Duncan does not get the memo—and even if he does, she’s sure he won’t have listened anyway. “Something about needing to make “the best coolest costume designs for the winter play” according to what the theater group told her.”
Leshawna’s consequent groan sounds more like: “Beth!”
As she turns her head to the side, she watches Heather’s face twist. “Beth? You’re moaning a storm because of that girl? She doesn’t know proper fashion even if it bit her in the butt!”
Leshawna is about to say that she’s ‘moaning a storm’ because she values her friendships and would rather not have her entire theater gang hate her guts for the rest of the year because she’s a nice person and not a cold bitch like Heather, when Duncan’s voice pipes up.
“But you are. You’re the Tall Bitchy Fashionista.”
“You say that one more time and I’ll shave your dumb mohawk off,” Heather snaps. But
one foot is tapping on the floor, her lips are pursed, her eyes thoughtful as she surveys Leshawna who only scowls tiredly in response.
She waits for Heather to make fun of her, to say something nasty or rude before sauntering out like she owns the damn place. She stares into Heather’s piercing brown eyes, and she waits.
“Fine,” says Heather.
“What?” Both Leshawna and Duncan chorus. Apparently, Duncan hadn’t expected his idea to actually work.
Rolling her eyes, Heather inspects one set of nails. “Obviously you need my help or else you’ll get kicked out of your dumb group, and you’ll gripe about it for months. So I’ll help, it’s not like I have anything to do tonight anyway.” Her eyes narrow when they land back on Leshawna who’s still gaping at her. “If I ask for a favor in return, you so owe me though.”
That gets Leshawna to shut her mouth. Of course. She shouldn’t expect anything less from Heather.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever girl,” she waves a hand airily. She can hardly think of what kind of situation they’d be in for Heather to possibly ask in return; not when her life is saved by the one person she least expects. “And hey?”
Heather raises one thin eyebrow. “What?”
“Thanks. Honestly. You’re saving my ass right now, hate to say it, but I give credit where credit is due.”
For a second, Heather looks stunned, unable to form a response in the face of Leshawna’s sincerity. Her gaze softens a bit before she scoffs, crossing her arms close to her chest.
“Pfft, you better be grateful. Anyway, send me what your dumb play is about. I’m going to go to the store to get supplies.”
The fact that this is actually happening, that Heather is actually going to the store to get stuff for Leshawna’s costume has Leshawna nodding mutely.
Heather tosses her shoulder-length hair over her shoulder and strides out of the room without looking back.
Silence reigns once more until Leshawna’s phone crackles, making her jump.
“Is all the shit done? Can I hang the fuck up now or should I be subjected to more of this unique torture?”
“What the hell is that?”
Leshawna’s chair is turned to where Heather sits back on her heels, a smugly triumphant look on her face that, in Leshawna’s opinion, is at odds with what she’s created. The sky outside the window with its shades still open indicates that it must be well into the night, though between homework and the stress of the winter play, Leshawna hasn’t stepped out since Heather agreed to design the costumes.
As for Heather, herself, since she came back from the store, she’s stayed holed up in their dorm room, muttering and tapping pencils on her chin before sticking them behind her ear (and no, that image does not look endearing at all to Leshawna, Heather is still a major bitch), with random sketches Leshawna can’t make heads or tails of spread out around her, taking up most of the floor. No seriously, Leshawna’s kept her feet up on her chair the whole time because she knows Heather would go feral if she so much as brushed the informal layout she created.
Then are the fabrics—so many versions of them, so many colors, Heather clearly takes her role as fashionista seriously, she is not messing around. From the way the bright red of her lipstick shone vividly amidst the determined set of her mouth, Leshawna was expecting something grand, something magnificent, and so she was mentally bracing herself to throw herself at Heather’s feet and thank her profusely (just the thought of it was grating, but Leshawna will make sacrifices where they’re needed).
But this? This?
“What the hell is that?” she repeats, pointing at the neckline of, holy fuck is that a dress?
Worse is that her dress?
(Don't get her wrong it does look stunning, but there's just one problem.)
Heather rolls her eyes. “Ruffles, of course. I have the rest of the costume designs planned out but this is the one I managed to finish. You're welcome. They’ll fit with the theme you told me about the play.”
Right, the theme. Something about the Nutcracker, but Leshawna has other matters to focus on—like the dress Heather is presenting to her like it’s something worth applauding. “And whose dress is that supposed to be for?”
“Yours, duh.”
“Oh hell no.” Now Leshawna loves to splurge in fashion every once in a while but she knows from a young age that she and ruffles have never worked well together. She hates ruffles with a passion.
Of course, Heather thinks it’s a great idea to design a dress with a ruffled neckline and waistline for her. Is this her idea of a joke?
Well ha fucking ha, Leshawna really isn’t impressed, and her lack of stress control today isn’t privy to holding it back.
“Listen, girl, if you think this is some sort of joke to play on me—”
Heather has the nerve to look surprised. “What the hell are you going on about? Ruffles are in , but I won’t expect a fashion neanderthal like you to understand that.”
“I should have gone to Lindsay for this,” Leshawna growls. Heather’s brown eyes and the fake sincerity in them are unnerving her—it’s fake, it has to be, obviously.
Heather scoffs. “Have fun with that, she would have gone straight to her bestie Beth and told her everything.”
“At least Lindsay has way less of an ego,” Leshawna retorts. “Lord, I should have gone to Gwen, even! She has some cool designs that could’ve helped me out. Or Dakota, even, damn that would have been so much better—”
“I get it!” snaps Heather, and she tosses the dress made with flowing blue colors that looks like falling snow as it falls atop Leshawna’s bed, and its shine mirrors the angry glimmer in Heather’s eyes, overshadowing the strange emotion in them when she’d been talking about the ruffles—the sincerity that Leshawna still doesn’t believe. “I’m the last person you want to go for, and okay fine, no need to rub it in my face after I worked my ass off to make great costume designs and an actual finished product for you because I cared.”
Leshawns reels back, eyes flying wide open. “You what?”
“Nothing!” Heather’s cheeks are flushed dark red. Leshawna has no idea what is transpiring right now but something tells her to keep pressing, that she’s on the edge of something insane but amazing.
“I’ll take my damn designs back if you hate them so much,” Heather is saying when Leshawna interrupts.
“Are ruffles really in?” She raises her eyebrows. “This isn’t just some giant joke for you to laugh at later?”
Heather pulls herself upright, looking very much like an affronted cat that it almost makes Leshawna smile. Almost.
“Ruffles are very in, and I think they’ll look good on you!”
Another metaphorical slap to Leshawna’s face. She can’t believe it. “What did you just say?” She needs to hear it one more time, to cement it to reality. That Heather actually—
“I think you’ll look good in them,” Heather scowls ferociously, and Leshawna’s stomach is doing flip flops. Heather's eyes are really brown and bright as they glare down at her, and her lips are a slash of red that draws Leshawna’s eyes to them. “I saw you try out that ruffled top at the mall and you might not think it because you’re such a doofus but as a proclaimed fashion expert I think you look good in ruffles and you will look great in this dress I made, the color and style will compliment you and Beth’s jaw will drop so low it’ll be fucking hilarious and we’ll all get a laugh. Now are you going to let my hard work and kind generosity go to waste or—“
She can’t help it. Heather is so close, she can count the little moles on her cheek. And Heather is staring—glaring—at her too, and just for a split second her eyes dart down to Leshawna's lips too. That’s when it happens.
Between one second and the next, the rest of Heather’s rant is swallowed up by Leshawna kissing her.
It’s messy, it’s fumbling and gripping each other's shirts, it’s nearly falling down on Leshawna’s bed and crumpling the dress, it’s Heather kissing back just as hard instantly as though waiting for this moment.
Leshawns immediately knows this is what she has been on the edge of. The precipice of insanity yet amazingness.
When they break apart, they’re flushed and panting, Heather’s complexion showing just how dazed she is which Leshawna feels a rush of satisfaction at.
Two years. Two years of dealing with Heather and this is what it’s accumulated to. Leshawna feels way less worried than she thinks she needs to be. Her arms settle more comfortably around Heather’s waist.
“I love the designs by the way, and I can't wait to see what you come up with for the final products,” she says, her voice hoarse. “You’re wrong, you were never a last resort.” She clears her throat. “I thought you were taking a jab at me about the dress and the ruffles.”
At the first part, Heather’s eyes retained some of that old arrogance that Leshawna previously wanted to smack off but now just wants to kiss away. However, after hearing the rest, she does something that throws Leshawna off-course: her eyes soften by degrees.
“I wasn’t lying,” she promises, her slim fingers fiddling with the back of Leshawna’s neck. Her red lips (lipstick now smudged) quirk up in a partial smirk. “If you must know, I was trying a new trick, a new design. Something that will catch your attention.”
“Oh really?” Consider Leshawna intrigued, Heather was trying to get her attention? “And did it work?”
The smirk grows. “I don’t know. Maybe we should make out again and find out.”
Leshawna is totally okay with that.
A week later, when Leshawna presents the finished costumes to the rest of the theater group, it’s to the reception of various reactions.
Harold goes on and on about the colors and sheer realness of it. He’s all but praising the designer’s skills.
Justin places a gallant form-fitting shirt over his own upper body, testing it out. His blinding smile inches higher.
(Duncan, before splitting to go to the local rock concert, whistled lowly at the sight of them. “Someone clearly put in a hell lot of time and effort into giving you the best,” he said and she just knew that he knew.)
“Ruffles?” Beth asks, one eyebrow arched skeptically. “Since when are you a ruffles person?” Despite the question, she looks impressed as she inspects the outfits. Leshawna has a feeling she's forgiven at this point and it just makes her more happy.
She smiles widely, recalling a night full of tussling and alternate cuddling; her trying on the dress and Heather actually cheering (she said it was because she was glad the dress fit just right, but honestly who was she trying to fool, the girl was sitting propped up against Leshawna’s damn pillows!) when she struck a pose at her; a night where things weren’t actually so stressful, despite her spending it with someone she thought she hated (and who she thought hated her).
“Actually no, I think I misjudged it all this time,” she says cheerfully. “My girlfriend helped me see the error of my ways."
Amidst the gasps and insistent pestering for her to spill more about this girlfriend, Leshawna adds, "Guess you can say it’s a new design for me.”
(The dress and the girl.)