dashing
“You are,” Taissa laughs, “so drunk.”
“Am not. Could a drunk person do this?”
Van holds both arms out to her sides. A mostly-full glass of mostly-water (Taissa has this snide habit of shaking little packets of sugar into her glass when she thinks Van isn’t looking) is balanced precariously upon the curve of her forehead. If she moves a muscle, she’s going to look like she just went swimming.
Worth it, for the laugh that spills out of Tai across the table. “So drunk,” she doubles-down, “and an idiot.”
“A very talented idiot,” Van counters. Her head still tipped back, she fumbles around her plate for a spoon. Breathes loudly into its bowl. Sets it upon her nose. She’s never quite picked up the art of juggling (not for lack of trying), but this? This, she’s figured out.
Her body in general, she’s figured out lately—very much with Tai’s help, actually. Tai’s been kind of instrumental in the art of Van Palmer, the art of figuring out just how she actually wants to walk, hold her shoulders, articulate her hands. That shit should come naturally, and a lot of it does, but Van finds herself watching actors in movies and emulating certain elements. The particular jut of jaw. The very-specific spread of fingers.
The angle of a kiss.
Very, very much with Tai’s help on that front.
“Better not spill that shit,” drawls a voice from Van’s elbow, nearly making her jump. “I ain’t your maid.”
The waiter is about forty-five, a grumpy white dude with a deeply-questionable mustache situation that screams I should be in the world’s worst cover band, and basically the biggest dick in Jersey. He barely greeted them when she and Taissa tumbled through the door, barely seemed interested in taking their order, and gave absolutely zero fucks when Van’s was delivered sans fries. She tolerated it, because tolerating useless adults is pretty much the baseline for survival, and because Taissa wordlessly shoved her own fries across to her while glaring daggers at the dude’s back. It was worth it. Everything’s worth it, when it comes to Tai.
Now, Van shoots a grin at the lazily-whirling ceiling fan and says, “Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.”
He makes a disgusted noise. Taissa waits until he’s walked clear before grousing, “Man, fuck that guy.”
“No thank you.” Van is trying to figure out what else she can add to her stack. “You think I could rock fork earrings?”
“I think you should get that shit off your head,” Tai replies. “Talking to the underside of your chin is insane.”
“I happen to think I have a very conversationally-appropriate chin.”
“What does that even mean?” Taissa is laughing again. Taissa is always laughing these days, or kissing Van blind, and she can’t gauge her favorite of the two. Whichever is happening at this very moment usually wins the prize.
A hand is resting on her wrist, she realizes. The spoon wobbles, clatters to the table. She flails up, snatching the glass off her head before it, too, can collapse back into gravity’s embrace.
“Thank you,” Tai says almost primly, as if unaware of Van’s skin heating under her touch. It’s a bold move, reaching for her in public. Or it would be, if this meant anything. If girls didn’t touch each other all the time. If Tai didn’t touch her all the time, even before, always jostling her with elbows or socking her in the shoulder.
Always affectionate. Always with that low-buzz undercurrent of electricity Van couldn’t pin down for the longest time. Always something more than anyone else has ever…
She shakes her head. Now that she thinks on it, she is feeling a little foggy. That party was a lot. So much so, in fact, that they bailed early. Came here. It’s not exactly their spot, but Van always feels at home in shitty diners. The burgers are predictable, the coffee is motor oil, and nothing beats a chocolate shake too thick for a flimsy plastic straw.
Tai comes here because Van likes it, she knows. Tai’s been doing a lot of things lately because Van likes them. Movies, and stupid trivia trades, and this thing with her tongue in the back of the Turner family car—
“Drunk,” Taissa repeats pointedly. Van blinks.
“Like you are a pillar of sobriety?”
“I,” says Tai, sounding frustratingly-solid despite the keg stand Van cheered her into, “can hold my booze. Unlike some people.”
“Jackie,” Van replies sagely. “I know. So sad.”
Tai snorts. Her hand is still resting on Van’s wrist, her thumb stroking shapes around the knob of bone. She doesn’t seem to realize she’s doing it, and that, more than any slurring of speech or glazed eyes, tells Van how far down the rabbit hole she’s really fallen. Sober Tai would never. Not even here, in a dingy restaurant with chipped plastic tables and three whole patrons.
“Hey,” she says suddenly before she can do something regrettable, like lunge across to crush Taissa’s mouth beneath her own, “who’s paying tonight, anyway?”
Dark eyes narrow. “Um. You are.”
“I don’t remember agreeing to that.”
“You’re the one who dragged me here. Literally. You latched onto my sleeve and dragged. Wasn’t a short walk, Van.”
Van grins. It’s an easy grin, coming as naturally as breath. Far easier than the pulse beneath her skin in time with Taissa’s thumb strokes. Far easier than the thought she’d never entertain if she were sober:
If Taissa were her girlfriend for fucking real, she’d have to pay, wouldn’t she? It’d be only right. It’d be the chivalrous thing to do. Pick up the tab, hold her hand, walk her home no matter how many miles stand between here and Tai’s neighborhood.
But Taissa is not her girlfriend. Not for fucking real, not for anything. And so, for her own sanity, she shakes off Tai’s hand and plonks her elbow onto the table.
“Let’s go.”
Tai groans, arm already levering into position. “This is so stupid. It’s, what, twenty bucks? Cheap-ass.”
Van makes a low clucking sound under her breath. Taissa swears.
“Okay, dickhead, give it to me.”
Her hand clenched around Van’s is too tight. She’s leaning precariously, the edge of the table holding her up, and despite her protestations, her eyes are glittering with the love of uncomplicated rivalry. It’s the same look she gets during shooting drills. The same look she gets in the showers, playing a silent game of chicken via eye contact.
Nothing on Tai is as beautiful as that draw toward a worthy adversary and a well-fought-for win. Van tightens her own grip and slaps the table with her free hand.
“Go!”
Taissa is already pushing before the word is entirely out of her mouth. She is relentless, her whole body behind the lever of her arm. On a normal day, Van knows she’d be fucked. Knows Tai is weirdly strong—that insane wiry strength that also lives in Natalie and Shauna, the kind that doesn’t care how big or muscular a person is; only how driven. She doesn’t win arm-wrestling competitions against any of them on a normal day. Doesn’t bother even trying.
Tonight, she wants it. Maybe because she did drag Tai here tonight, and paying for the meal would mean something. Maybe it’s just the blur of drink. Lord knows stupid choices drawn out of a bottle run in her blood.
Either way, whatever the cause, she puts her all into her right arm now. Every beat of determination, every moment she’s wanted to reach for Tai this week and not quite been able to bring herself to complete the act. All of it in the straining muscle of shoulder and bicep and forearm, and—
For a wonder: Taissa’s hand slams into the tabletop. The glass tips, sugar water sluicing over a pile of napkins. Van hoists both arms skyward, crowing triumph.
“How the fuck?” Tai wonders. If Van’s not much mistaken, there’s a new gleam in her eye now—the one that says they need to find a lockable door fast.
“I am the strongest bitch alive, baby! Nothin’ taking me down!”
“Yell a little louder, and that waiter’s gonna do his best.” Taissa crosses her arms over her chest, faking a scowl. Van jabs both index fingers at her in a little dance.
“Pony up, Turner, you lost fair and square.”
Grumbling, Taissa pats her hip pocket. Then her back pocket. Then, frowning more sincerely, she twists and looks underneath the table.
“Oh, come on. It’s twenty bucks. You can staunch that bleed.”
“No,” Tai says, perplexed. “I’m not fucking around. I really don’t have my wallet.”
Van rolls her eyes. “Uh huh. Leave it to me to save the day, huh?”
She ratchets her hips off the booth, scrounging in the pocket of her cargo shorts. When she withdraws, her hand is home to exactly three dollars in quarters and her Blockbuster Rewards card.
“Ah,” she says idly. “Oops?”
Taissa makes an undignified cross-breed sound, half a laugh, half horror. “Oh,” she says. “Great. You take a girl out, show her a good time, and don’t even make sure you have the cash?”
“I take a girl out, kick her ass at arm-wrestling, and find she’s left her wallet in some loser’s living room,” Van corrects. “Naturally.”
“Naturally.” Tai’s eyes slide over her shoulder. She bites her lip. Glances back over her half of the booth. “Hm.”
A small thrill climbs Van’s spine. This won’t be good, she recognizes. Isn’t the right thing to do. Taissa would never—
“Last one out pays next time,” Tai blurts, and then she’s up, up and running, nothing subtle about her churning limbs. Van curses under her breath and leaps to follow.
She expects a bellow to chase them out into the dark, expects someone to catch the back of her t-shirt and haul her around to face consequences. To her surprise, they’re in the parking lot, around the corner, barreling toward home without even a whisper at their heels.
“Jesus,” she wheezes, “are you fucking nuts?”
“What?” Tai isn’t even winded. Fucking naturally. “Did you see an alternative?”
“I dunno, dish-washing?” She doubles over, hands on her knees. Behind her, Taissa reaches around, gathering her hair and expertly weaving it into a sloppy ponytail without Van asking.
“Really? Dish-washing? You think they actually do that?”
Van shrugs. The world skids a little under her sneakers, and she reaches for Taissa’s shoulder on instinct. Tai doesn’t flinch, doesn’t bat her away. It’s dark, remote enough, and she’s still drunk. Too drunk to care. Drunk enough to walk all the way down Route 9 with Van to this damn diner in the first place.
Drunk enough to grin proudly at her now under a streetlight.
Drunk enough to lean in when Van does, like they didn’t just dash out on a meal, like Taissa would have been caught dead doing that shit most days.
“Be honest,” Van murmurs against her lips even as Tai slips an arm over her shoulders and reels her close. “Would you have paid if your wallet wasn’t somewhere in Amber’s house?”
“Yes,” says Tai without missing a beat. Then, considering: “Probably.”
“Probably?” Van tries to say, but Taissa is kissing her soundly, and laughing at the same time, and yeah, cool: sometimes, there really is no need to pick favorites at all.