Clandestine

chapter 1: i never needed anything more

August

I spent my summer in a haze- a beautiful, sunlit haze.

I was about to start my freshman year of college, so I thought what better way to dive into my freedom than to go on a solo trip to California? I rode the plane by myself, I rented an Airbnb using my own money earned from afternoons in a cramped coffee shop, and my parents helped me rent a car to use while I was there. They were nervous, but I'd assured them that this would be good for me and that I would be safe.

My father is a pastor. Cliché, I know. How many stories have you read about a pastor's daughter who rebels? I'm sure there are thousands upon thousands.

My childhood was spent in the front pew in an itchy lace dress, the scritch-scratchy feeling of tulle rubbing my legs as dad spoke of an afterlife as beautiful as the Garden of Eden. My adolescence was spent with my nose in a hymnal, church dinners on Wednesdays, and youth group on Sunday evenings.

When I think of that summer, I remember the sheets.

Her skin, soft as silk, sliding beneath them.

Laughing as we pulled each other into the bed, pulling the sheets over our heads as we lost ourselves beneath them.

Making a fort in the living room of the rented apartment, the sheet above us, out hands clasped and fingers interlocked as we sat on overstuffed pillows, watching old movies. Her kiss tasted like candy, and her touch felt like heaven.

Waking up early to sunlight streaming through the dusty window, resting on her bare, tanned shoulders, the blue sheet wrapped around her middle, her hair fanned against the pillow.

I never expected to fall in love so quickly, but I really never expected to fall in love with another woman.

We said our goodbyes on that last day, tearful hugs and kisses standing outside of her car parked on the wet pavement outside where I had been staying, steam rising from the pavement as the rain fell. It was sunny nearly all summer long, but it rained on the day we said goodbye.

We agreed to stay in touch, I promised her I would call her at least once a week.

But everything changed when I got back to Georgia.

When I saw her name on my screen, I panicked, especially if my family were around. It was accompanied by a photo of us, bikini-clad in the sand, her lips on my shoulder, freckles spattered across her face like someone had thrown paint at her.

She tried to contact me for weeks, sending me a few texts throughout the course of the day and trying to call me each evening. Eventually, it slowed to just "good morning" and "good night" texts, void of any emotion or details about how her day had been.

I wanted to reply, I really did. But I was scared. Replying to her meant solidifying what we had, that every moment was real. Calling her meant that I had really fallen in love with another woman that summer. Looking at the pictures we took meant that there was a chance that my family would completely condemn me.

I tried to forget her. As soon as I got back to Georgia, I threw myself into a summer course and made myself focus on my studies, pushing myself to think about poems and equations and not the girl with crystal blue eyes and ebony hair as soft as cashmere.

Every night when I tried to fall asleep, I could hear her laugh echoing in the corners of my mind. Just as I reached that precipice between being asleep and awake, I could feel her hands on my skin, her lips on my neck, the softness of the sheets the only barrier between us.

Just as I fell asleep, I'd be sucked into a dream. It was always the same dream: the same day on that same beach, the same sunset.

I stood at the edge of the sand, the cool waves rolling onto my feet. I had my hand cupped over my eyes to stare off into the horizon at sailboats skimming the water, my other hand shoved into the back pocket of my distressed jean shorts. The only sounds were the seagulls and the waves. Suddenly, a force crashed into me, nearly knocking me into the sand. I heard her musical laugh, her arms wrapped around me.