Page 11 of A Gold Medal in Love

“Charlie may be the love of my life, but she’s my best friend. Absolutely no romantic feelings there,” I explain, wondering if the extra info is what she’s going for, or if I’m reading more into her line of questioning because I want to press her into this bed for all I’m worth.

She hums in—maybe it’s approval? I hope—and then Imani focuses attention on her hands, which are wringing my poor hand in their grasp. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” she apologizes and drops it from her hold.

“No need, no need. Stay here for a minute, okay?” I get up and pat her on the shoulder, walking into the bathroom and running a coarse white washcloth under warm water. When I walk back to her, she’s staring off into the distance, presumably dissociating. If she were mine, I would feed her, water her, and cuddle her. However, she’s not. So I’ll do what I can and try my best not to overstep, something that is always hard for me with people who tug at my heartstrings.

I gently take her chin and tilt it up so she’s looking at me standing over her. “Close your eyes, Cupcake,” I direct her with my softest voice.

She eyes the washcloth in my hand and opens her mouth to object, but then her demeanor visibly shifts. Instead of complaining, she shuts her eyes for me to clean the mascara off her cheeks.

I hum “Alchemical” by Rachel Bochner while I work, ensuring that Imani is calming down and being soothed instead of being further upset. I make sure not to interfere with all the other makeup she’s stacked on her face, just targeting the mascara tracks. When I finish wiping her clean, I can’t help but run my thumbs over her cheeks. I step back from her before I get myself into trouble. “Hey, when’s the last time you ate?”

Her eyes snap open. “I don’t need you to keep track of my eating habits just because you comforted me.”

Oh, my. Imani’s a tough nut to crack, this one. I need to be very careful about how I work on opening her shell. “Of course not. I just know that I personally need to eat. Why don’t you come with me?”

“Um. In the dining hall?” She looks visibly panicked, so I take a stab in the dark.

“Let’s be bad and try a local restaurant. Get some local flavor, ya know?” I say as I unzip my USA jacket, throwing it onto the bed with my track pants following. I reach into the closet and grab some jeans, but when I turn around to put them on, I find Imani cataloging my every movement in great detail. Well, well, well. I might purposely draw out this moment where I’m standing only in boxers and a sports bra if she’s so interested in watching me. If I commented on it, I bet she’d try to say that she’s admiring the tattoos that cover my entire body, but I know the difference between a tattoo admirer and a sapphic eye-fucking.

I stifle my laughter as her eyes trace the entirety of my body. Remember what I said about some of us wearing our queerness like a mantle? The veil on Imani has officially come off. No girllooks at another pair of tits unless she’s a little gay. She’s bi or pan at a minimum.

After I’ve been dragged to the edge of my constraints, I interrupt her show by putting my jeans on. “Imani? You coming with me? Come on, we’ll talk about how you’re going to outsmart these idiots with microphones,” I coax her as I pull on a dinosaur print button-down.

“Fine. But just to talk. I’m having water,” she agrees.

I’ve dated enough fems to know those famous last words well enough. I guess I’ll just get enough food to share.

CHAPTER

FIVE

IMANI

Blake dragsme to an Italian restaurant that’s close to the village but seems overly touristy. They up-nod the hostess and make the finger sign for two while I trail behind them, scowling the entire way. This whole place smells like so much butter. As I walk behind Blake on the way to our table, I deconstruct every meal we pass, internally tabulating the calories these people are ingesting oh-so-casually. It’s enough to make me grimace.

Blake settles into a chair and gestures with a wide wave to the seat across from them.

I sit daintily and unfold the napkin, placing it carefully in my lap.

They open their menu and start bopping their head along to whatever song they’re humming as their eyes trace the food options. “Ooh, yes!” They say aloud to whatever conversation they’ve been having in their head.

“Oh, good. What diet-ruining dish will you be having this evening?” I question them.

“This food is a good source of nutrition. I’m having Ossobuco. Which, I’ll have you know, is an excellent source of protein and carbohydrates. The beer I might let you sneer at, butyour bad attitude isn’t going to get to me, Cupcake,” they inform me.

“Hmph,” is the only sound I utter in response.

“What are you getting?” They question.

“I told you that I’m not getting anything,” I remind them.

“Yeah, you need to eat. Come on. Be a good Cupcake and open up that menu before I order you something you don’t want,” they threaten.

I glare at them, but I grab the menu and immediately zero in on the salads. I close the menu. “I’ll have a salad.”

“We’re in Milan. That doesn’t count as a meal here; that counts as a precursor to a meal. Try again,” they tell me.

“If they can make it to accompany a meal, they can certainly make me one to eat without anything else. That’s what I’m having,” I assert.