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There is a lot to learn, and in some ways, Bradley doesn't know if she cares to learn it. She cares in the way she cares about access to abortion and addiction treatment—with her life directly affected, she stays informed and advocates where and when it makes sense. She's vocal in the newsroom and pushes for adequate coverage. LGBTQ+ issues are layered into her ethos, too. She empathizes and cares about the experiences of the community.
But if she is being honest, the minutiae of "awareness" is overwhelming. Gay is, well, gay. It makes sense to her. Bisexuality does too. She understands transness in the most basic sense—people's biological sex not aligning with their true identity. Even growing up in butt-fuck Virginia, these concepts were not lost on her. They fit into her framework and worldview with no questions. But becoming one of America's poster children for bisexuality had opened her up to an entirely new community, perspectives, and language. It's exhilarating, giving her access to a world that felt other and far away for so long. It is also, occasionally, exhausting.
After a UBA-hosted event, Bradley does her usual routine of posting a few photos featuring the wardrobe she borrowed for the evening and the hair and makeup done by extremely talented hires. She tags the appropriate people to credit them for their contributions and thinks nothing else of it—it's simply part of the agreement. Her notifications have been turned off for months, but when she lays down later that evening and opens the app, she notices one of three top comments — silvertounged: never giving up that battle with comphet, huh?
Bradley clicks on the profile of the commenter. They do not follow her. She clicks through a number of profiles that either like or engage in support of the comment. The vast majority also do not follow her and for some reason, that puts her at ease.
Between her, Alex, and Laura, she's had endless conversations about the soul-sucking vortex of social media and how little it truly means. Once, Alex posted a photo alongside a famous NYC chef, and immediately, her comments were flooded with PETA-loving vegans who couldn't believe her support for a chef who owned a number of high-end smokehouses. Had Alex actually done anything wrong? No. But she was a great conduit for the agendas of people looking for a platform. You could be Alex Levy or a 23-year-old influencer from Toronto—with a big enough following and far enough reach, you're simply an open canvas to be projected upon.
Bradley clicks the most recent contact in her call log and waits through a few rings for the call to connect.
"Hello?" She sounds groggy, like she may have been on the verge of sleep.
There is nearly a pang of guilt in Bradley as her words come tumbling out anyway, "What the hell is comphet?"
"What?"
"Comphet? Or com-p-het, or maybe—"
"No, I know what you're saying." Laura sounds awake now, a low, gravelly sound like a chuckle in the back of her throat, "Why are you asking, babe?"
"Well," Bradley bites her tongue and fights the urge to immediately label the commenter "some bitch," because she knows she doesn't really understand yet, "someone," she says gently, "left a comment on my Instagram post. Let me send you a screenshot."
They lapse into silence as Bradley takes a screenshot. She can hear Laura shifting, likely in bed, and then her nails tapping against the screen.
"Hmm, ok."
"Well?"
"Just a second."
More tapping.
"I see," Laura hums. Bradley is getting agitated, heat growing in her belly. Laura is clearly scrolling through the post. "Ok, well. Comphet, for starters, is compulsory heterosexuality. It—"
"What the hell does that mean!"
Their sentences overlap.
"Let me explain, Bradley." Laura's tone is gentle but firm, something that makes Bradley feel a bit childish but something she's had to accept as the outcome of her occasional fickleness. "It really just means the way we're conditioned to behave in a predominantly heterosexual society." She takes a breath, "And this person commented on this specifically because you're in a dress, and your hair and makeup are done femininely. You look, for all intents and purposes, like a straight woman."
Bradley can't help but scoff and scoff hard, "I thought we weren't supposed to label and assume?"
"You're right! We're not."
"But it's fine when you look like a straight woman?"
She can nearly hear Laura thinking. The silence between thoughts isn't abnormal. Laura is thoughtful and deliberate, particularly when it matters, but tonight, Bradley wants her thoughts quickly. She wants this resolved. She wants to feel absolved of whatever it is she feels she's being accused of.
"Have you ever heard of 'the male gaze'?"
"No, but I can take an educated guess."
"Right. It's exactly how it sounds. It's a theory, and one I believe in, that women are made to perform for the male gaze. The way we dress, talk, flaunt, and flirt is, at its core, a way to attract men."
"I mean," Bradley swallows, "that makes sense. But that's not what I was doing."
"Oh," Laura chuckles, "honey, I know."
"I wouldn't give a shit if a man never looked at me again."
Laura's voice is low and heavy when she replies, "I know."
Bradley notices the time. It's late. They both ought to be asleep.
"Thank you for answering, baby." Her voice drips sweetness because, truthfully, she doesn't really want Laura to go. Despite spending most nights together, they've decided that keeping their own places for a while is the healthiest and wisest choice. She's grateful for the space most of the time—needs it to feel her feelings. But she misses Laura, always, when she's not there.
"Of course. Are you ok?"
"Yeah," Bradley sighs, "I'm fine. It's all just—" She's not sure there's a right word.
"A lot?"
"A lot."
"I know. I've had years to learn these things," Laura's voice is soft and sleepy, "sure, because I wanted to. But also through osmosis. Eventually, you'll get there."
Bradley is tired, and her agitation is waning, but something about the whole thing pokes at her like a kernel in her gums.
Laura and Bradley had not been afforded a calm courtship and easy beginnings—no. Things had been hurried, rocky, and, fine, difficult. Bradley had been difficult. When the dust had settled and she was met with clarity, only then was she able to meet Laura with a calm and steady commitment.
Now, their relationship is the easiest thing she has. Work, Hal, industry politics, hell, politics themselves, all of it is grand and pressing and consuming. Ending most of her days with Laura Peterson is like drinking a glass of Sauvignon Blanc—smooth, simple, and delicious. Complicating it with all these ideas of who she is or is not supposed to be because she's in love with her is… yes, a lot.
She can hear the sleep creeping into Laura's voice and is half-tempted to ask her to sleep on FaceTime, but she knows neither of them will truly get a restful sleep. So instead, she gets cozier under her blankets and drags their "goodnight" out an extra six minutes.
Four days later, they arrive in Montana for a long weekend getaway.
As they unpack their toiletries at the double-sink vanity, Bradley thinks about how much space Laura takes up.
Her presence, her voice, her essence and being are, frankly, consuming. Bradley knows that's not particular to her. In every room they've ever been in, people notice Laura. She commands attention. But the way she takes up space in their shared spaces often seems faint.
Bradley thinks of a guy she dated who left globs of toothpaste in the sink and watermarks on the silver tap. There was that one dude who was actually a pretty phenomenal cook, but she'd be finding bits of food stuck to every surface and poorly washed dishes for days. There was this lovely nerd, Mark, who taught her a lot, but he left half-opened books all over her apartment. He never remembered to bring his DVDs back home with him and left the lingering scent of too-strong cologne. She'd never been with someone who knew how to put their goddamn shoes away.
When Laura spent the night, aside from the hand-written note she'd often leave on the nightstand and the clinging of Malin+Goetz's "Dark Rum" on her pillow, it was almost like she was never there at all. When she cooked, she cleaned as she went, and any leftovers were stacked in simple glassware. The few pieces of clothes she kept at Bradley's were neatly tucked into a drawer, and at home, they were neatly pressed in her closet.
As Bradley clutters her products, skincare, and fragrances around the sink, she notices Laura stashing a perfectly clean cream bag of her own in a drawer. She'll pick out what she needs every morning and Bradley will likely never see it. She has to wonder how much effort it takes to be so subtle?
The kitchen is thick with the smell of pepper and curry. Bradley didn't even think she liked Indian food until Laura introduced her with simple dishes, increasing intensity and spice as the months went on. She is distractingly stunning as she stirs and chops, hums to music, sips her cognac and laughs at the quips Bradley shares in lieu of actually helping.
By the time dinner is served, the kitchen is somehow already clean and they segue effortlessly from their last bite into a nightcap on the porch.
Laura's mouth tastes like a perfect mix of subtle spice and the burn of alcohol, and Bradley refuses to feel shame for the way her tongue takes long, languid licks across her tongue and teeth. For a moment, it's lazy kissing with no real direction or intent, but Bradley finds herself straddling Laura's hips and the other woman's hands gripping her waist, back, and ribs. When she presses her lips to Laura's neck, down to her collar, the brunette breathes a simple, "I love you."
She loves it here. In Montana with Laura, her lips on her skin. And she shows her just how much when they collapse into bed together.
The morning sun doesn't reach the bedroom well, so when Bradley pops her eyes open and doesn't feel Laura next to her, she figures it's later than it feels. But the clock tells her it's just after 6 am—on a Saturday. They only went to bed five hours ago. Knowing her partner isn't the best sleeper, she's half-tempted to close her eyes and curl back into herself. But even when she can't sleep, on days they don't need to be up for work, Laura makes an attempt to stay in bed with her, reading on her phone and watching videos with headphones on until they're both awake for the day.
The kitchen is empty and the espresso machine hasn't been touched. The doors are still locked, so she's not out for a morning walk. Everything seems eerily quiet, actually. When Bradley pads back into the bedroom, she catches a sliver of light under the bathroom door. The door is not actually closed, so she figures privacy isn't of the essence and barely pushes it.
At the sink, Laura is running a white facecloth over her skin. On the counter is one of those thin dermaplane razors the makeup team sometimes uses to clean Bradley's hairline.
"Hey," Bradley calls softly, and Laura only slightly startles before settling soft eyes on her.
"Good morning." With her bare face and voice still thick with sleep, Bradley thinks she's the most stunning woman she's ever seen. "Get back into bed, baby, it's early."
"You coming?"
"Mhm, I'll be right there."
She's on the verge of falling back asleep when suddenly she's sliding back on her hip, and her body is flush against Laura. She feels her partner's pelvis against her lower back and a hand covering her breast. Fingers begin rubbing small circles over her nipple, and she hums with the feeling.
"Couldn't sleep?" Bradley asks, her hand coming up to still Laura's. She wants her, she also wants to relish in the soft sheets and strong arms a little longer.
"Better things to do," Laura mumbles into her hair.
"Like what?"
"Like you."
"Yeah? Or shaving your face?" Bradley is joking, genuinely. And Laura stiffens, genuinely.
That Laura is saying nothing makes Bradley's stomach fall. She turns on her hip and faces her, Laura's arm limply hanging over her.
"You weren't supposed to see that," Laura is sort of smiling and certainly trying to infuse some humour into her words, but mostly she looks embarrassed.
Bradley laughs. Laura has watched her shave her legs, between her legs, wax the strip under her belly button, slather her face in oils and creams, cry streaks of makeup down her face. This is, as far as she's concerned, a non-issue.
"Is that why you were up at the ass crack of dawn?"
"No, really, I couldn't sleep."
"Ok," Bradley drawls, "but why would it matter if I saw you… shave your face?" It feels ridiculous to say out loud.
Laura closes her eyes and sighs. "We're on television, Bradley. I think it goes without saying that we do these things, but I don't need you to see it."
Subtle, Bradley thinks again. How much effort does it take to be so subtle?
Laura is perpetually waxed and shaven, her roots never grow out, her skin is naturally soft and moisturized, she has a genetic disposition to smelling and tasting good, she's seemingly grown a thin layer of complimentary makeup and chemically perfected her hair. Except, none of this is true, is it? Because Laura is simply a human, one who is privately taking care of all of these things.
Bradley isn't sure what Laura means and can't think of much to say, so she runs a hand along her girlfriend's smooth face and through her hair to lay a kiss against her mouth. The kiss carries them into another, and another, until an hour has passed, and they're ready to begin their day with a strong espresso and a walk in the brisk morning air.
They never quite make it back inside. They spend the rest of the day lazily enjoying the land, horses, views, and just a smidge of yard upkeep. By the time they're sipping wine and making dinner, they've lapsed into a comfortable and contented sort of silence.
Chicken and asparagus is shared over a half-baked documentary on the future of capitalism that neither one of them particularly care for. Eventually, Bradley coaxes Laura into turning it off so they can slip into bed. As she slips into the bathroom, she notices something—Laura, instead, goes into the closet to peel her clothes away and change into her silk pyjama pants and tank top. It takes her a moment as Bradley washes her face and applies a few serums. She's just grabbing her toothbrush when Laura comes in behind her, wraps an arm around her waist and drops a kiss on top of her head. She reaches, first, for the bamboo brush between the sinks and begins brushing out her thick, dark hair.
Bradley is finished and turning the sheets down when she sees Laura through the now-barely-open bathroom door, grabbing her cream bag from the drawer. Hair up, serums, lotions, toothbrushing—the completely standard process, Bradley thinks as she glances from her phone to the bathroom over and over.
After wandering out of the bedroom to double check lights and locks, Laura is sliding into bed next to her. There's still the soft glow of the lamp, Bradley upright, leaning her back against two pillows, when Laura rests her head against her stomach and wraps her arms over her thighs.
"Tired?" Bradley asks, placing her phone on the nightstand so she can run her hands through Laura's hair.
"Mhmm," she hums.
Her girlfriend looks serene and that's the highest compliment Bradley thinks she's ever received. To be safety to someone else. She wants to live only in this moment, let Laura fall asleep here even if it means she'll have back and neck pain until she can get back to New York for a proper massage.
But there's that feeling again, like a kernel in her teeth.
"Laura?"
"Yes, baby?"
"Why don't you get," Bradley suddenly can't think of a word, "…unready with me?"
She can feel Laura's temple scrunch against her in confusion, "What do you mean?"
"I just noticed that you don't really, I don't know, groom in front of me?"
Laura shifts and turns so her head rests against Bradley's thigh, looking up at her.
"Is this about the shaving?"
"Well, that. But like, tonight. You go into the bathroom after me?"
"Hmm," Laura seems to think, honestly, "I guess I like my space when I'm taking care of myself."
"But, why?"
"I guess my question is, why does it matter to you?"
Bradley almost has to laugh at Laura's expert way of turning questions and conversations back on her. It's so transparent to her now.
But she indulges her anyway, "I guess it feels like," she considers for a moment, "there's a part of you that I'm not seeing."
"Ok."
"Like, maybe your therapist might say your 'disallowing intimacy' or something," Bradley tries to slide a pair of invisible glasses up her nose to soften the implication, one she knows Laura has discussed with her therapist, and one she has tried to work on.
"Interesting," Laura says earnestly.
"Yeah." It's the only word Bradley can muster. She nearly exhales it, waiting.
Laura is looking somewhere else in the room, her mind turning for a few moments until she asks, "Have you ever used the bathroom in front of your boyfriends?"
"What?" Bradley laughs.
"Have you ever pulled your pants down and squatted in front of a lover?"
"Of course not."
"Some people do, though."
"I guess?"
"So why don't you?"
Bradley thinks for a moment. "Because it's not sexy, like, at all. That's not how I want my partner to see me."
"Exactly."
This doesn't really resonate with Bradley. "But don't you think that's different?" She asks.
"How?"
"Your hair, your makeup, having to shave or wax or dye your roots or, I don't know, fish a tampon out that got stuck at a weird angle… those are just things women have to do? I've watched almost every woman in my life use the bathroom, wash their face, shave their unibrow or whatever, a thousand times. I've seen Alex Levy tweeze a chin hair, for God's sake."
"Right. But I'm not your friend, Bradley."
Oh.
Laura sits up and settles next to her in the bed before continuing, "There's a distinction. I'm your girlfriend, not your girl friend. We don't drink cosmopolitans and gossip—"
"Yes, we do!"
"Ok," Laura laughs, "yes, you're right, we do. But afterward, I don't give you a makeover and paint your nails or tweeze chin hairs. I make love to you and make sure the water glass on your nightstand is full, and lock the doors so we're safe together."
"Isn't there beauty in sort of having it all, though?"
"For some people, of course. I have plenty of lesbian couple friends who'd be more than happy to wax each other, and probably do! Or braid each other's hair at night, or whatever it is you're thinking of. That's just not me, honey. I want there to be the things I do with my female friends and the things I do with my woman."
Bradley is having tens of thoughts at once. One, that this makes sense to her. Two, that she thinks maybe this is why she was always attracted to Laura—there was always something different about the way Bradley saw her as a woman. Thirdly, that this might have something to do with, what was the word again? Comphet.
"I can understand that." She says simply.
"Does that bother you?"
"No, it's not that," Bradley says. She's not sure what it is, exactly. "I guess I feel silly, somehow, for not piecing this altogether. For not noticing it sooner and asking about it."
"Why would you?"
"I don't know. It seems like something I should've noticed."
"It's just how we are or how I am, honey. It doesn't need to be psychoanalyzed."
"Well, now I can't stop. Now I feel like maybe I've been doing this wrong?"
"Wait," Laura laughs, "what?"
"I haven't been protecting you from these things."
"Protecting? Bradley, we're talking about razors and serums, not home intruders."
"No, no. I know. I just—" she breathes, "have I been treating you like a friend?"
Laura narrows her eyes at her for a long moment, takes her face in her hands, and levels her with a stare. "Are you going down on all your friends at happy hour?"
Bradley laughs and rolls her eyes as Laura drops her hands, "Of course not."
"You don't treat me like a friend," Laura says seriously, "you treat me like a lover. Just because we have different levels of comfort or different ideas of what we'd like to show each other doesn't make you any less or more my intimate partner."
"Is this that thing the person was talking about?"
Laura shakes her head in confusion, "Who?"
"The commenter on Instagram."
It takes Laura a moment, but eventually, the memory dawns on her, "I—" Laura's eyes move up as she thinks, "I don't think so, no. I do think there are times when compulsory heterosexuality does affect how we show up in our relationships, ok? I think it would make sense if you didn't always know where the lines are between things you share with your friends and things you share with me because your whole life, your relationships with women have been platonic. But I don't think we need to unpack your comfort putting moisturizer on while I brush my hair, baby."
"I just want to get this right."
Laura smiles, big and certain, "You are getting things absolutely right every day."
Bradley leans in, the exhaustion of the day fading as she decides the dozens of ways she'd like to show Laura, right now, how much more she is than just a friend.
They wake lazily the next morning, spending a few hours drifting from the bathroom to the kitchen for espresso and back to bed again. The clouds are grey and rolling outside, and they take the rare opportunity to turn their phones off and find a series they're both interested in devouring from bed. As the morning fades into the afternoon, Bradley excuses herself to the bathroom.
She runs cold water over her face and pours a calendula and chamomile moisturizer into her palms. She's just rubbing in her under eye serum when the door softly opens and Laura pads in to grab a hair clip. For a moment, Bradley nearly hesitates, but they catch each others eyes in the mirror.
Laura laughs as she rummages around the drawer, "Bradley Jackson, if you don't rub that serum in right now, I will take your Instagram away—"
"I'm doing it, I'm doing it!"
"Good," Laura retorts as she twists her hair up. "You do know that if you needed it, I would be the first person volunteering to shave your legs, and I wouldn't want to fuck you any less because of it."
"You sure about that?" Bradley asks as Laura moves to squeeze past her and back out the door.
"Certain!" She says, "Or I'd just hire someone to do it," she throws over her shoulder.