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Seriously? Cool? What the hell did I just say ‘cool’ for?

“And you do too,” she says, more a statement than a question.

I nod anyway. “I do, yeah.”

When my voice doesn’t come out sounding as much like a parched chipmunk as I expect it to, I risk going on.

“I’m pretty sure I’m a lesbian. I’m still sort of trying to find the right label for me, but I’m pretty sure that’s it.”

She slides her hands into the pockets of her grey pea coat. “That’s cool.”

Some of my panic subsides when I realize she too is awkward enough to use the word ‘cool’ in this conversation.

“That you’re letting yourself take time to figure it out,” she adds, staring straight up the street now. “I’m a lesbian, but there’s definitely a lot of pressure to just, like, know that right away if you want to seem...legit? Or something?”

I bob my head. “Oh, I totally get that. Sometimes I’m scared to tell girls I’m still figuring it out. I’m pretty sure I can’t see myself ending up with a man anymore, but it’s just...It’s like you said. I want to take some time with it.”

The words make their way out of me before I can contemplate them, and when I fall silent, I realize I’ve said way more than I meant to. I don’t regret it, though. As alternate reality-like as it feels to be walking up my street with Kenzie, chatting about our sapphic awakenings, it also just feels kind of nice, like putting on the perfect pair of new shoes in a store and realizing they already feel familiar on your feet, even though you’ve never worn them before.

“This one’s us,” I say, pointing to my driveway as we pass by our neighbour’s front yard.

Our own front yard has seen better days, but we’ve all been so caught up in the return to fall scheduling no one’s had time to take care of it. The shrivelled, yellow grass is mostly covered by a layer of decomposing leaves. I spot a stray rugby ball and a pair of gardening gloves all but buried out of sight and remind myself to go pick them up later.

The tire swing secured to a branch of our big oak tree by a few lengths of coarse yellow rope is swaying in the slight breeze. I lead Kenzie up the path beside it to our covered front porch.

“Welcome to the Murray household,” I say, sweeping my arm out for her to take the two steps up to the porch ahead of me.

The dark blue paint is flaking off the floorboards, and the porch itself is crammed with empty planters my mum spent all summer saying she was going to turn into window boxes but never did.

“Excuse the mess,” I say as I hunt around for my key in my pocket and then get the front door open. My hand shakes a little as I turn the handle, and I realize how tense I’ve gotten.

Kenzie is about to enter my house, the one I’ve lived in all my life. Maybe I’m being dramatic, but it feels like the threshold is a line we can’t uncross.

I’m just not sure what we’re stepping into on the other side.

I enter the house first, and I don’t turn around until I’ve dumped my purse on the cluttered, dark wood console table and hear Kenzie swing the door shut behind her. The entryway sits at the end of a short and narrow hallway, and when I turn around to tell her to take her shoes off, I find Kenzie way closer than I expected.

“Uh, so...” I trail off, blinking as her brown eyes stare into mine.

She has eyes like black tea without any milk—dark and strong, with a hint of amber to balance out all the bitterness.

They hide so much, but if you catch them in the right light, it’s almost like reading tea leaves, like learning a whole new language just to figure her out.

“So you can put your coat there,” I finish, pulling my gaze away to gesture at the row of brass hooks screwed into the panelled wall, which are already overflowing with jackets and scarves.

I leave Kenzie to figure that out for herself and head into the living room to make sure there’s nothing I feel the need to tidy before she sees it.

Truth be told, there’s a lot I’d like to tidy. Our style is kind of the opposite of the ‘pristine white minimalist decor’ you see on magazine covers. I like to think of our clutter as the cozy and comforting kind, but looking at the red L-shaped sofa covered in books and blankets, the shelving units stacked with knick knacks, and the endless framed dance photos set up on every spare surface available, I can see how it might come across as A Lot.

I figure I might have enough time to at least fluff the couch up a little, but Kenzie steps up beside me before I can move.

“Wow,” she says before I can give any kind of caveat. “It’s...”

I brace for whatever word is going to come next.

“Cozy,” she finishes.

I squint in surprise and turn my head to watch her keep surveying the room.