They Say She Tastes Like Honey by Sawyer Michelle

Author:Sawyer, Michelle [Sawyer, Michelle]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Tags: Gay
ISBN: 9781555838119
Google: GCUdT9AGMr8C
Amazon: 1555838111
Goodreads: 1436045
Publisher: Alyson Books
Published: 2003-10-02T00:00:00+00:00

14

I SHOULD HAVE WAITED, you know? I should have found my own perfect timing, my own perfect moment to utter the inevitable three little words. Instead, I frowned and fretted, worried that she might not feel the weight of my reply, that it had seemed more of a natural response to her declaration than an expression of my own true feelings. And what if it was only a response? What if it was all a fraud? What if I’d talked myself into loving her to avoid being alone? Surely she would see through my ruse, and I’d be unmasked as the consummate liar and colossal fuck-up that I was. Everyone else would see it too, would witness whole the soap opera and tsk-tsk-tsk their way through lunch hours and smoke breaks and conversations on the telephone about how I’d blown my big chance, how I’d missed it by a nose, how I could never escape the shallow restraint of my own vanity or insecurity or some emotion as yet unnamed by those best-selling shrinks.

I’d grow old—well, older—and lose my looks, and wander the city: a self-proclaimed superdyke whose only endearing power was her ability to accessorize in the blink of an eye. Muttering to myself. Muttering something about maracas that looked like oranges.

The phone rang and I didn’t know which territory to brave: the unyielding gaze of a girl I was bound to disappoint or the sickening sink in my stomach I was bound to experience with any late-night phone call.

“Macy…” Faith reached for me with one hand, then two. “Come to bed.”

“But the phone…”

“Let it ring,” she said, still reaching.

I turned, shuffled over to the sofa, and found the cordless.

“Mace?”

Trish. Crying. Which made me relax a tad, since it meant that she was still alive, that this call wasn’t “the call.”

“Yeah, hon, it’s me.” I leaned back into the cushions, observing Faith’s silhouette through the crack I’d left in the bedroom doorway. She was giving up, lying back down, and settling herself beneath the covers. Good girl.

“I know it’s late…or early…or…” Her voice quaked. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.” I took a cigarette from the lead crystal box on the end table and stuck a wooden match against my thumbnail with a pop. “So what’s up, Chuck?”

“Is it OK to talk?” She hesitated. “I know you have company.”

Since when did she ask permission to talk? “If you mean Faith, she’s asleep.” I spied the liquor cabinet and considered a martini. God, maybe I was Joan Collins.

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