Short Term Relationships Read online

  With the lecture finished and assignments issued, students filed out of her room and chatter filled the air. Emily heard the Gatsby discussion continuing and sunk into the wooden banker’s chair that sat behind her metal desk. That chair was the bane of her existence, its fourth wheel wobbly, making the whole thing uneven. She taught in a wealthy district and still wanted for things like a level desk chair. As the last student left the room, she pulled out her phone and looked for any texts she’d missed—a habit that followed her through the quiet times in her day. There was a message from Angus saying he’d made it to work. Another from her ex-husband arranging his time with their son for the weekend. And a third from Kate, confirming Liza was in fact joining them for drinks later that evening. She smiled, thinking she was a bit of a Gatsby herself. The story was almost writing itself. Almost.

  l l l

  Rain City was packed that evening, its high ceilings creating a cacophony of noise that enveloped Emily from her first step inside the bar. Pushing down the nerves that were climbing into her throat, she leaned up against a corrugated metal wall, took a deep breath, and looked around for a familiar face amongst a sea of strangers holding beverages.

  Kate and Liza were tucked into a three-top in the back of the bar, laughing under a fluorescent Tito’s Vodka sign. In that moment, she realized her presence wouldn’t be missed that evening. She could just go home, have a glass of wine, work on her great American novel, and be in bed by ten. That was a reasonable thing to do. But Angus was out with friends, her novel could wait (hell, it’d been waiting for ten years), and it was summer, for God’s sake. The warm, long days were fleeting. She should make some attempt to have a social life. She’d made a point to call Kate and set this up. It was a prime opportunity to learn more about Liza.

  Doubt filled her body as the butterflies in her stomach took flight.

  She took one more deep breath and pressed on.

  “Hey,” she said as she slithered past the last human obstacles, muttering “sorry, sorry,” as she did, certain she’d caused at least one drink to spill along the way. “It’s crazy in here!”

  “Yeah, don’t get me started on my ‘this city is growing too fast’ rant,” Kate said. “Hi, by the way. This is Liza.”

  “Hello again,” Emily smiled, looking at Liza as she spoke, wondering if her face was as red as it felt, if the warmth on the back of her earlobes was also showing on her cheeks. “I don’t know if you remember, but we’ve met.”

  “Yep. Ask the Experts, English class edition, Bellevue High. Hi.” Liza raised her glass in acknowledgement, which was indeed full of soda water, her short crimson hair on point and smile dialed in, almost too-perfect teeth flashing for a moment.

  “You made a great expert, thanks for doing that. The kids really connected with you; I could tell.”

  “Oh, it was nothing. I could talk about blogging and triathlon all day. Pull up a seat,” Liza said, gesturing to the empty barstool beside her.

  “Thanks. So—” Emily started, willing herself to form complete sentences. “Sorry to interrupt your fun, what did I miss?”

  “Oh, nothing much, we were just predicting what could happen tonight,” Kate took a sip of her dirty martini—the olives long since consumed—and threw a hand signal for the bartender to come take Emily’s order. “With these parties, you never really know, but there are some givens.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. People who shouldn’t go home together will go home together; someone will end up in bed with someone who is someone else’s ex and that will start drama; someone will look at the wrong someone’s current girlfriend, and that will start drama. You know, your typical lesbian party.”

  “I should really write these stories as a blog,” Liza said, “I mean some of the stuff that happens is so crazy you could never make it up. I could call it, Sleeping Around in Seattle!”

  “Like a gossip blog?” Emily asked.

  “It could be,” Liza adjusted her black tank top at the straps to make sure her bra was covered. Her arms were toned from all that swimming, and she liked to show them off. “But I was thinking more of a lesbian lifestyle blog. Like Goop, with gossip. Everybody has some dating story that borders on the ridiculous. I’m not saying expose the secrets. I would fictionalize it and make it humor. Maybe let people guest post anonymously or under pseudonyms. Make it a destination and an outlet for sharing our stories and other queer topics.”

  “That could work,” Kate jumped in, “Crap, I could tell you a half dozen of my own stories that people would never believe!”

  “You don’t need to tell me those stories. I already know them. You’re my Lesbian Character Standard,” Liza agreed.

  “So glad to be your muse,” Kate said, drawing out the word muse, her southern accent making its first appearance. Martinis did that to her—she couldn’t out drink her Tennessee upbringing. Her roots showed when the booze kicked in. Her actual roots, mind you, stayed blonde throughout the year thanks to a standing appointment with her colorist.

  “You always are, sweetie, you always are.” Liza patted Kate on her knee, knowing already her roommate was going to have a long night. “What do you think, Em, you have any crazy ex-girlfriend stories?”

  “I do,” Emily said, turning to order a glass of bubbles from bartender standing next to her, her presence fleeting as she was tending to at least 30 people all at once. “As you might imagine, I went a little wild after my divorce. I was finding myself and figuring out the rules of mid-life dating. It was a rough couple of years, but I learned a lot.”

  “Like what?” Liza asked.

  “Like, ghosting is a thing. That spending the night with someone doesn’t mean you’ll get a phone call in the morning. The opposite is also true—some people get attached way too quickly. I’ve had my fair share of insta-girlfriends to balance out the insta-exes. That some people make false assumptions about me because I was married to a man and have a kid. And sometimes having a kid becomes an overnight deal-breaker, even with people who say it’s not,” Emily leaned forward as she spoke, trying to be heard over the voices and music and clanging dishes. This wasn’t the place for a deep life conversation with Liza, but it was happening. Her story was complicated, but by this point, she’d told it a lot. And she owned it. She reminded herself she wanted to get to know Liza more, and part of that was being vulnerable on her part—sharing her past.

  “I can see how that would be hard—having a kid in the mix. So, what’s it like for you being with women now?”

  It wasn’t the first time she’d been asked this question in some form or another. Since she’d come out, it was one of the most common questions she received from her straight friends—how it was for her to be with women after such a long time with a man. As if they didn’t believe she was gay. Her feminine-presenting image threw people off, as did her interest in fashion and “girly things.” Many of her friends flat out didn’t believe her when she said she preferred women.

  “Well, I’m not presently sleeping with anyone, if that’s what you’re asking?” Emily immediately regretted her word choice, her almost snarky tone the opposite of what she wanted to convey to Liza.

  “No, not quite. I was just curious, you know, someone who was married for—how long?”

  “Eleven years.”

  “OK. You were married to a man for eleven years—I just wondered what that was like for you, the not being married to a man part. Sometimes, when you’ve been in the wrong situation for so long, being authentically yourself can create some strong feelings. I have had more than one situation escalate to borderline stalking with previously straight women.”

  “Are you serious?!”

  “Yep. The first-time syndrome is real. And not worth it.”

  “Noted,” Emily said, wondering if Liza thought she was stalker material. “I like to think I have more self-awareness than that, though, I had my heart broken early on by someone who turned out to be all charm and
no substance. I learned not to get too excited about anyone too fast—that’s probably the biggest thing I’ve learned since I came out.” Thankfully, her drink arrived, giving her something to hold and an opportunity to change the subject. “Cheers,” she said, “to new friends.”

  “To new friends,” came in unison as the three clinked glasses.

  THREE

  Somewhere between Pike and Pine, not far from Rain City, was a nondescript black door in the middle of a nondescript tan wall. Any given day, you’d miss it amongst the hustle and bustle of the city, people scurrying by, parked cars shoehorned everywhere. But this day was different. People sought it out based on specific instructions provided in the party invite. Guarded by a burly man with burly biceps dressed in all black, punctuated by a coiffed handlebar mustache, this door was all that stood between them and the Seattle lesbian scene for the evening. They’d walked there as the sun set, filtered light filling the streets between buildings, the long summer day playing out as expected. Warm air giving way to evening and becoming crisp, almost cool. Adorned in rainbow bracelets provided by the bouncer, Kate, Liza, and Emily marched up the narrow staircase and into the even louder, even darker bar than where they’d started. Beyond the doorless doorway held the rooms that were home to the annual Grrl Pride Party.

  “Okay, so the rule is, we don’t leave the party without letting each other know,” Kate said over her shoulder as she stepped into what was normally a quiet speakeasy that had been transformed into a dance party, Don’t Stop Believing coursing through the sound system. “You check in before you leave and use the code word if you’re going home with someone. AND, you text when you get where you’re going and when you think you’ll be home. You can’t be too safe.”

  “What’s the code word?” Emily asked, curious about Kate’s wing person protocol. She’d insisted she’d help her that night and was a woman of her word. “How will I know if you want me to help or disappear?”

  “If . . .ask . . . work . . .” Kate said, the volume of the music overpowering her now fully formed southern accent. The strong martinis at Rain City had done their job, and Kate would be a Tennessean for the rest of the evening. She couldn’t help it. You can take the girl out of Tennessee, she always said, but not when there’s booze involved.

  “What?” Emily asked, missing more than half the words she’d been told.

  Kate leaned in closer. “If I’m gonna go home with someone and they’re standing there, I’ll ask you when your next missionary work is or something like that. It’s your cue to leave.”

  Liza laughed to herself as she walked away; she knew the drill.

  “I’m not a missionary.”

  “Of course you’re not!” Kate laughed. “You’ll get it later. If I want your help, I’ll point out someone and have you introduce us, okay?”

  “Okay, so like, just go up to someone and say, ‘have you met Kate’?”

  “Exactly. And the same applies to you. Just let me know who you like, and I’ll help you out. Liza bored of this game years ago, so she just talks to people she already knows—see—she’s over there with Nathan.” Kate tilted her head toward her roommate, who was indeed already talking to someone she knew, hands moving as fast as her lips as she told a story.

  As Emily looked for Liza, she couldn’t help but note that Nathan was a man. And that Liza looked adorable and strong in her little black tank top. “I thought this was a lesbian party?”

  “Huh?”

  Understanding each other in these circumstances was going to be a challenge, it was clear.

  “The guy Liza’s talking to. I thought this was a lesbian party,” Emily repeated, louder, feeling instantly judgmental. She often used literature to invite discussions of diversity and inclusion with her students, and now she was judging a man attending a woman’s party.

  “Oh yeah, he transitioned. Doesn’t date much, but he’s super social. You’ll see him around in the community. He and Liza have been friends for as long as I can remember.”

  “That’s great,” Emily said, relieved her judgment didn’t seem to faze Kate. She scanned the room for anyone she might know—namely former students. It wasn’t outside of the realm of possibility to run into a student in the wild, and it was on her mind when she was out and about. She was always Ms. Hall, no matter if it was school hours or not, and no matter if the person had graduated the year before or ten years prior. People remembered their teachers. When she came back to earth from her mental vacation, safe from former student sightings, she was alone. Kate had disappeared, leaving her standing in the middle of an emerging line dance which appeared to be The Hustle. “This is how people meet?” She said aloud to no one in particular. She hadn’t been big in the bar scene when she was younger and still wasn’t in what she called Life 2.0.

  “It can be,” a voice answered from beside her, its owner yet to emerge.

  “Really?”

  “Really,” it answered, this time, with a hand thrust into her stomach. “Oh, sorry, I was just going to shake your hand. I didn’t mean to impale you!”

  “It’s okay, don’t worry about it.”

  “I’m Monroe,” the voice continued, its petite, somewhat stocky owner facing Emily.

  “Emily.”

  “Nice to meet you. See, there you go—you met someone.”

  “Touché,” Emily smiled, trying to avoid further engagement. She had no designs on meeting anyone herself—she already had someone in mind for that evening—a feisty redhead. But she played along. “Indeed, I have. Nice to meet you as well.”

  “I haven’t seen you around before,” Monroe continued, her crystal blue eyes sparkling as she spoke. “New in town?”

  “No, I grew up here, as a matter of fact. I just—”

  “Newly out?” Monroe interjected.

  “Not really. I’ve been out about five years.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  “Not at the moment,” Emily answered. She felt like she was playing a game of twenty questions with this stranger, whose eyes were cutting through hers like a knife. She wouldn’t have noticed Monroe on the street—not her type—but the eyes. The eyes were stunning. “Why?”

  “Oh! I do that sometimes. I forget not everyone knows who I am. I’m a matchmaker. I like to know a bit about who’s out and about, in case I can make a connection, that’s all.”

  “Ah, I see. I didn’t know ‘matchmaker’ was still a thing. Oh, sorry,” Emily backtracked. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “It’s okay, you didn’t offend me. And yes, people still use matchmakers. Even with all the technology we have today, there’s something irreplaceable about human connections—about emotions, and gut instincts, and frankly, judgment.”

  “So, do you like it? Matchmaking?”

  “Oh, yeah. I love seeing it work out for people. My track record isn’t perfect, but I’m proud of my results. I don’t take everyone. And I don’t set people up if I don’t think they are a potential match. I just get these feelings about people and I know if could work or not.”

  “Well, I take it back—that’s great. I wish I had that kind of luck for myself.” Emily said, leaning closer as she spoke, looking down to maintain eye contact. She had a good six inches on Monroe.

  “Girl problems?” Monroe asked, rolling up the sleeves on her fitted light blue shirt, as if she were getting down to business, and revealing a full tat sleeve on her left arm.

  “I mean—”

  “Emily, here’s a hard fact. It’s not easy to find someone you’re both attracted to and compatible with. It’s really not easy, and it shouldn’t be. You deserve someone who sees you and appreciates you and shows up for you. We all do. Your bar should be high. So, when you’re ready for some help, give me a call.”

  Monroe handed Emily her card, sales pitch complete. A quick pat on Emily’s back, and Monroe was gone as fast as she’d appeared. Once again alone, Emily wandered towards the bar, Monroe’s words playing on
repeat in her head. What an odd encounter that had been.

  And yet, it had her thinking.

  She’d married her college boyfriend when they were twenty-three. She’d had Angus at twenty-four. She hadn’t taken the time to get to know herself before making multiple huge decisions at such a young age. Then she threw it all away in mid-life for what? The potential to be happy? To maybe meet someone who was her true soul mate?

  That hadn’t been her experience. Dating was a frustrating exercise in the unknown. Of trying to find someone who checked your boxes and hoping you checked theirs. Hook-ups and break-ups and instability. She didn’t regret leaving Kevin—it was the right decision—she just figured she’d have met her match more easily. She had no idea she’d still be single five years after the divorce. What started as optimism for her future had faded to hope for a miracle. At forty, she wanted a real relationship. The comfort of knowing someone was there for her, that she was there for them. She wanted morning cuddles and dinner together and a safe place for her heart. Wanted to talk about art and literature and go to the theatre and the mountains and the ocean. Surely there was someone out there that wanted the same things.

  Watching couples dance, she told herself stories about who was together, who was using each other, who was just out because of habit. She reckoned this Pride party was a bit like the Nordstrom annual sale. Many people went shopping, even if they didn’t want to buy anything. And many would regret their purchases in the morning.

  Thinking about her past and what that meant for her future was getting her down. She promised herself she’d stop the pity party that was beginning and get back in the moment. Engaging with Liza might take longer than she’d hoped based on how the evening was unfolding. And if she was being honest with herself, Monroe’s truth bomb had shaken her. She knew Monroe was right; making a real connection with another person could be hard sometimes. She just wished it weren’t.