The Love Letter (girlxgirl) (lesbian story) gxg

Chapter 17

"When telling stories is your life and in my case, my job, you get pretty good at guessing where it's going." Said Professor Lawrence. "The tropes, the archetypes, the common plot twists all start to organize themselves into a catalogue inside your brain."

"The husband is the killer. The nerd gets a makeover, and without her glasses, she's smoking hot. Someone explains a complicated scientific concept, and someone else says, "Um, in English, please?"

The classroom erupted in laughter. Charlie didn't think signing up for this course would be this fun but boy was she glad she did.

"The details may change from story to story, but there's nothing truly new under the sun," he elaborated, "now you might understand how difficult my situation is when I'm supposed to teach you creative writing. For this assignment I'll try to take it easy on all of you, but like I said, I'm good at guessing where it's going, so try not to make it too easy for me and you'll do just fine. Class dismissed."

On the other side of campus Alison's eyes flipped open at the buzz on the nightstand. She blinked the unfamiliar room into focus, once... twice. It had to be noon by now, maybe later. She missed class, again. But if she didn't want to miss her shift at the coffee shop she needed to get out of there. She fumbled for her phone, silky white sheets tangling around her naked thighs as she twisted to silence the vibrating, which seemed loud enough to wake up-

Oh shit.

She'd done it again. The name of the guy lying next to her slipped and slid in her memories from the previous night, the letters nearly impossible to grasp through the art show at the tiny gallery downtown. Professor Rinaldi had invited her, then she remembered photographs on the walls, a guy in his late twenties, probably the artist behind those photos talking to her and champagne which for some reason never seemed to stop flowing - followed by that florid bar up on Greenwich Avenue and a whole hell of a lot of bourbon.

Alison glanced over her shoulder at the sleeping man next to her. Dark blond hair, creamy skin. Nice mouth, good kisser.

Trevor?

Travis.

No. Trent. His name was definitely Trent. Maybe.

Alison bit her lip and grabbed the still gyrating phone, squinting at the name flashing on the bright display in the dark.

Olivia.

She hit ignore. She dropped her phone to her chest while Trent slept. She preferred guys her own age, always had, but for some reason this one snuck up on her. Troy didn't answer her texts and well... Trent was there. Worst part was feeling guilty about not feeling guilty. Troy was good sex and that was it. He could hook up with Olivia for all she cared. She relaxed as the room came into focus, felt the softness of expensive sheets under her fingers. The bedroom was filled with modern furniture, all straight lines and cream-colored wood. Sophisticated art dappled the walls, expertly hung. An open door led into a living area, which Alison now distinctly remembered as the scene where - Tanner? Thomas? - had pushed her onto a very posh white couch and slid Alison's underwear off, tossing it over his own bare shoulder.

Alison flopped back down onto the bed, boneless at the memory. Her eyes had just started to feel heavy enough to close when her phone buzzed again. She jolted fully awake, peering at the screen.

Charlie.

She felt a ping in her chest. Fuck. Tucker stirred next to her, turning over and squinting at Alison.

"Oh. Hey. Everything okay?"

"Yeah, sure-"

Her phone kept buzzing.

"Should you get that?" Tristan asked, tousled hair falling over one blue eye. No way his name was Tristan.

"Maybe."

"Then do it." Ted - sure, why not - tucked the sheet back up to his chin.

Alison slipped out of bed completely naked. She very nearly answered the phone like that, but it felt wrong so she grabbed a silk robe that hung over a gray upholstered chair in the corner.

Sliding the robe, she went into the small living room slash open kitchen and climbed onto a stool, resting her elbows on the cool marble counter. She breathed in... Out.

"Hey."

"Alison."

Charlie's velvety voice filtered through the phone and Alison's heart dropped to her toes. Was that what guilt felt like?

"Yeah," Alison said, then cleared her throat. Her own voice was somewhere between six-cocktails-parched and years-of-sleep-deprivation-raspy. "Yes."

"Took you long enough to answer."

"I-I'm busy."

Charlie didn't say anything for a few seconds. Long seconds that made Alison wonder if she was still there, but she wasn't going to be the one to crack. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Charlie was probably thinking the worst... And she was right to think the worst.

"Are you coming in today?"

Alison let a beat of silence pass. "Yeah, I'm just... running a little late."

"Whatever. Don't come for all I care."

"Char-" The line went dead.

She cursed under her breath and went back into the bedroom. Theo's robe hit the floor, and she found her bra in a rumpled pile next to the dresser. After slipping it on, she spent about ten seconds looking for her underwear, her favorite purple lacy cheekies, but they were nowhere to be found.

"Fuck it," she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder and pulling her hair into a messy bun. She located her pants and shirt by the huge black and white framed photograph leaning against the wall. The image showed a woman in a thin white dress, mascara running down her wet face as she stared at the viewer. She was in a bathtub, gown completely soaked and sheer, nipples barely visible above the milky waterline while her fingers curled around the rusty white tub.

"Hey," the guy said, lifting his head from the pile of pillows and squinting at Alison. "Wait, are you leaving?"

"Um, yeah," Alison said, popping on her shoes and double-checking that her wallet was in her bag, her keys, her phone in her pocket. "Thanks, this was fun."

Tim grinned. "It was. Can I get your number?"

"No, bye!" Alison said as she edged toward the door.