Page 29 of Best Woman

“And this is Aiden’s sister, Julia,” Kim says, her hand still warm at my back.

“Ohmygod, Julia, ” says Rachel 4, gripping my arms tight enough to hurt. “We’ve heard so much about you.”

“Your shoes are incredible, ” gushes Rachel 2.

“You’re so brave,” gasps Rachel 3, wide-eyed.

“I am?” I ask. Cis people love calling trans people brave, usually concerning our incredible journeys .

“Yes! I’d be so worried about getting clay on those amazing pants!”

Oh. Am I being an asshole assuming they’re going to be assholes?

Am I such a jaded New Yorker, so insulated in my bubble of coastal elites that I just assume anyone who’s chosen to live in Florida must be some well-meaning yet still subtly transphobic hick?

Maybe I should be a little kinder, less judgmental, and give these girls a chance to prove me wrong.

Rachel 6 looks me up and down as if assessing a threat. “We thought it would be just us…bridesmaids tonight,” she says, and the emphasis on bridesmaids feels loaded. “But it’s so… fun that you’re here.”

Or perhaps they’ll prove me right.

The tension is swiftly broken by the actual Rachel arriving with Rachel 7, a curvy childhood friend I’ve met before who was narrowly beat out by Kim for replacement maid of honor and still looks a bit salty about it.

She overcompensates by making it clear she was the one who organized the evening’s festivities, greeting the woman behind the counter by name.

Stephanie has dark-brown skin and an adorable gap between her two front teeth and is far too beautiful to be working at a tipsy pottery studio in South Florida, but she’s friendly and patient as she uncorks our first bottle of the night, an orangey skin contact wine.

We all sip and murmur appreciatively as she leads us to a large table toward the back of the warmly lit studio.

Mazzy Star’s “Fade Into You” is playing softly from well-hidden speakers, and the whole vibe is extremely cozy.

If this place were a coffee shop, I’d want to spend all day here reading…

or playing a game on my phone while my book sat untouched.

There are big lumps of clay waiting for each of us at the large farmhouse table, and Stephanie walks us through dividing them and measuring out balls that will become the base of our vases.

The idea is that each bridesmaid will save a single bud from their wedding bouquet and keep it in the vase as a treasured keepsake from the special day.

I have to admit, it’s a thoughtful little memento. Hopefully my mom enjoys it.

“Now you’ll be able to save your boutonniere, Julia.” Rachel6 looks wide-eyed and earnest, but I’m not buying that for a second.

“I’m wearing a corsage, actually.” I will not sink to her level.

“I haven’t had a facial in forever, maybe I can use this as a face mask.

” I turn to Stephanie, whose own clay ball is so perfectly spherical it looks 3D-printed, and raise my clay-covered hands to my face.

“Is this stuff good for your pores? Or am I going to wind up with lead poisoning?”

She laughs, somewhat generously considering the obvious tension and the fact that my joke wasn’t funny enough to break it. “You might want to stick with something from Sephora.”

Rachel Prime shoots her wily bridesmaid a cautioning look before giving me a little smile. “I’ll make sure to save you a bud from my bouquet, Jules.”

“You can have one from mine too,” Kim says from next to me.

I’ve been very emphatically not looking at the way her strong hands are working at the clay, and have to bite back a whimper as I sneak a glance and imagine how they might look flexed around something much more skin-like. My skin, to be precise.

“I’m so excited for Saturday, Rach. Your parents’ country club is gorgeous.” Rachel 3’s hat keeps slipping off and is already caked in clay from her repeated attempts to secure it. “Which ballroom is it in?”

“The main one,” Rachel answers, looking somewhat sheepish. If I remember correctly from the year I turned thirteen and attended a bar or bat mitzvah every single weekend, that ballroom is the kind reserved for New Year’s Eve parties and presidential visits.

Rachel 4 looks impressed. “That must have been expensive .”

“Only the best for his only daughter,” says Number 6, “and it’s not like he can’t afford it. What are they shelling out for this wedding, a hundred grand? A hundred fifty?”

“I don’t think that’s an appropriate question to ask.” Number5 seems scandalized that we’d do something so crass as to talk about the gross capitalism of the wedding industrial complex over wine and DIY crafts.

“Really, though, it’s so generous of your parents,” says Number6, steamrolling right through the awkwardness.

We’re all two glasses in at this point, but I don’t think this is a girl who needs alcohol in her system to say things she shouldn’t.

“Especially considering Aiden’s family and their…

limitations.” She eyes me with faux sympathy plastered over obvious scorn, as if those limitations encompass everything from my family’s lack of staggering wealth to, you know, me .

“Aiden’s family has been very involved and very supportive,” Rachel says through gritted teeth, hands squeezing her clay a little tighter than they probably need to be.

“Oh, of course,” Number 6 says with wide, innocent eyes. “But still, I know it must be difficult, considering how many more resources your parents have.” That’s a very diplomatic way of saying You’re rich and he’s solidly middle class at best, but we all hear her real meaning nonetheless.

Aiden and I grew up with basically everything we wanted, all of our needs met, clothes, books, and vacations.

But the recession hit my mom’s real estate business hard, meaning the big house and its constant renovations are more about the appearance of affluence.

Dad taught middle school English for exactly as long as it took to retire and live off his 401(k).

By the standards of most of the world, Aiden and I are extremely lucky.

By Boca standards, we’re approaching Oliver Twist territory.

“I’m sure Aiden is excited about marrying into a family with…

well, a more elevated lifestyle,” Rachel 6 barrels on.

Her gaze alights on me again, and she really can’t hide the condescension this time.

I can feel myself shrinking under her gaze, twisting inward in an attempt to disappear. “You must be so proud of him, Julia.”

The table has gone very quiet, and everyone is very focused on their clay. “I am,” I tell her.

“Although I’m sure all this is a bit uncomfortable for you, considering the circumstances.” Her smile is feline, predatory. I suppose that makes me the mouse. “It’s so sad that Jenna couldn’t be here.”

I feel very small.

“That’s enough, Danielle,” says Rachel. So that’s her name. Rachel doesn’t look at me, just gazes into her wineglass and picks at the clay stuck to her nails, wiping them furiously on a rag like some kind of Etsy Lady Macbeth.

“I’ll be right back,” I say, standing up. “Just gonna run to the bathroom.”

“The ladies’ room is just behind the kiln, on the right,” Stephanie says. Rachel 6 huffs. Loudly.

In the bathroom I run my hands under the cold tap, press them to my flushed cheeks, and lift my hair to fan the back of my neck.

I haven’t met this kind of open hostility in a while.

I’m used to the occasional knowing look back in New York—I can’t help but recall Lorraine at Born to Bride eyeing me in the dressing room—and an incorrect pronoun from a waiter or salesperson.

But the antagonism simmering in Rachel 6’s eyes is more obvious and downright nastier than anything I’ve experienced in ages.

On the one hand, it’s refreshing to know where I stand with her.

On the other hand, it makes me want to get out of here as fast as I can.

And there’s also the dark rabbit hole looming, that just because she is the only one being so forthright with her nastiness doesn’t mean the rest of them aren’t thinking it.

“It’s fine,” I tell my reflection in the mirror. She’s upset her sorority sister got axed and wants to make sure I know it. “It’s fine,” I repeat, wishing it didn’t sound like a lie.

When I’m done, Kim is waiting outside the ladies’ room. She holds up a joint, wiggles her eyebrows at me, and points to the back door, through which I can see an employee parking lot behind the shop. I almost sag with relief.

Outside, Kim lights her joint for us and takes a long drag. “Danielle is a cunt,” she says on an exhale, smoke curling around her face. She passes the joint.

“I honestly can’t remember any of their names, but I assume you’re talking about the one who made it very clear she was ready to fight me on Jenna’s behalf?” She nods, but there’s no patronizing look of empathy or outrage on my behalf, which is honestly a relief.

“If it makes you feel better, she went to school with Rachel and me, and I have it on good authority that she once did so much coke she shit her pants at a Halloween party while wearing an extremely culturally insensitive costume and spent three semesters known as Diaper Genie.”

I snort so hard I start choking on the hit I’ve just taken, and Kim starts laughing too, and soon we’re both doubled over next to a dumpster full of vases, mugs, and ashtrays that were never picked up by their creators.

We pass the joint back and forth in comfortable silence for a few minutes, inching closer and closer together against the concrete wall every time our hands brush.

Soon we’re shoulder to shoulder, and it feels like I can taste every breath Kim takes.

She turns to look at me and her face is so close our eyelashes almost brush.

She has really long eyelashes. Or perhaps I’m just really stoned. Her gaze flickers down to my mouth.

She’s looking at me like that again, and at least this time I didn’t have to lie to make it happen.

“This is really good weed,” I tell her, and then she leans forward and bites my lip .

Kim bites my lip between her teeth and sucks it into her mouth, which is a little dry from the weed and a little sour from the wine, but it still feels so good.

It takes a moment for me to realize this is really happening but then I do and I kiss her back, moving my lips against hers until between us there is only slick wet heat.

For a moment we’re just standing there, close together but not as close as I’d like, kissing lazily with an inch of space between our bodies.

But then I let my tongue drift lazily into her mouth and she sucks on it, and whoever was holding the joint drops it and we grab for each other, my hands around her waist and hers tangled in my hair.

We kiss and kiss and kiss, pressing our bodies into each other.

Kim turns so she’s against the wall and works her hands down to grab at my ass, and something embarrassingly like a whimper steals out of my mouth when she lifts me up by my ass so that I’m straddling one of her long, lean legs.

I feel feverish, manic, and out of control.

Kim kisses like it’s last call and she’s convincing me to take her home, and I kiss back like someone who does not need to be convinced.

I run my hands up and down her arms, rejoicing in every new inch of skin and wishing desperately there was more to touch.

Our teeth clash and she pulls my hair back, angling my neck so that she can move her lips to my ear, tug the lobe between her teeth, and bite .

Another embarrassing, humiliating whimper. “Fuck,” I gasp out.

“God,” she whispers in my ear, tongue following the breath of her words, “you taste even better than you look.”

Whimper. “You too, shit.” More kissing, more groping. Another turn so my back is against the wall. Her hand reaches inside the waistband of my leather pants to squeeze my ass.

“And you feel so fucking good,” she groans against my neck.

Is this real ? How is this happening ? Getting stoned and making out with Kim Cameron behind a strip mall is one of my most tried-and-true teenage fantasies.

A younger, more acne-ridden me used to masturbate to the very thought of this exact scenario not five miles from where we’re standing.

Leaning. My legs are not working very well at the moment, to be honest.

“All I want to do,” she whispers in my ear, tongue flicking out to tease it on every syllable, “is take you back to my hotel room and peel these insane pants off of you.”

“It’ll probably be, uh, pretty hard to get them off,” I huff out. “It’s kinda humid and they’re like, stuck on really tight.” What the fuck am I saying? Shut up! Shut up, you idiot. “I’d be all, like, sweaty.”

“Just how I want you,” she says and kisses me again. There’s no more talking for quite some time.

Eventually—and regretfully—I pull away. “We have to go back inside,” I tell her, ducking my head at the sight of her dark eyes, and her swollen lips. “Rachel is probably wondering where we are.”

She laughs, nuzzling her nose into my throat. “I’m sure Rachel knows exactly where we are and what we’re getting up to. We used to live together, remember? She knows what I like to do with girls like you.”

“Girls like me?”

She makes an affirmative noise against my collarbone.

“Hot, long legs, easy .” It’s said with a curving smile against my skin but still comes out a little mean, just the way I like it.

“Quiet, but in that way where you know you can make them scream if you try hard enough.” She raises her eyes to look into mine. “I can try very hard.”

That is…information. Information I am not equipped to process.

“Our clay is probably dry by now,” I say dumbly.

She leans back, looking for the first time uncertain.

“It’s not that I don’t want to keep doing…

this.” I’m pretty sure it’s obvious from how close we are just how much I want to keep doing this, every part of my body feels like it’s vibrating, straining toward her.

“But we are at a bachelorette party for which you are the maid of honor.”

She pouts. “But I don’t wanna .” A hand traces up my side and lingers against one of my breasts. “I’d much rather have my hands on you than some overpriced organic clay.”

And I’d like to agree, and let her mold me into whatever she wants, something or someone new, indelibly marked by her.

I’d like her to carve her initials into me and get me hot enough that they’d fix and never fade.

But she knows I’m right, so she pulls away and helps me fix the hair she’d put so much effort into mussing.

She opens the door for me, and just before we walk back inside she kisses the corner of my jaw.

“Later,” she promises. And I let myself believe her.