Page 50 of Glass Spinner

“You’ve always known your own pace,” her mother said gently. “Promise me one thing?”

Kathleen looked up.

“Don’t close yourself off because something doesn’t fit someone else’s idea of ‘proper.’”

Kathleen blinked back a sting of tears. “Even if she’s... not what you expected?”

Her mother squeezed her hand. “Sweetheart, I’ve learned not to expect anything. You surprise me. Often.”

They sat in silence for a moment, tea cooling between them. Outside, a pair of birds flitted across the lawn.

Kathleen glanced down at her lap, then smiled faintly. “I think I really like her,” she said softly.

Her mother smiled back. “Then I already do.”

Kathleen stood in front of her wardrobe, barefoot, staring blankly at the hangers. Half her clothes were too formal, the other half too juvenile. Nothing seemed right for a quiet night at someone else’s place—not someone, butVeronica.

It wasn’t a date, not technically. It wasn’t anything simple either.

She finally settled on a soft-knit green top and her favourite jeans, worn but neat. Casual, not careless. She left her hair down and brushed it until it lay in soft waves, remembering the wayVeronica had touched it. She paused at the mirror. She looked like herself—but a better version.

Her phone buzzed before six. A text.

Veronica:Lobby’s clear. Come up when you’re ready. Door’s unlocked.

Kathleen stared at the message. It wasn’t flirtatious, wasn’t even suggestive, but it made her heart skip all the same.

She tucked her phone in her pocket, grabbed a bottle of wine she’d picked up from a boutique shop near campus, and made her way down to her car.

The elevator ride to the thirty-third floor felt slower than usual. When the doors opened, the softly-lit hallway was quiet. She hesitated outside the door, then knocked once. Veronica opened it almost immediately. She was barefoot, wearing loose linen trousers and a black camisole. Her hair was pulled back in a low twist, a few strands escaping near her neck. She looked relaxed, natural and utterly breathtaking.

“You came,” Veronica said softly.

Kathleen nodded, holding out the wine like a peace offering. “I thought... we could try this.”

Veronica smiled, stepping back to let her in. “Perfect.”

The apartment smelled faintly of rosemary and something savoury. Music played low from a speaker in the corner—a mellow, instrumental tune. The curtains were half-drawn, the lights dim. It felt a warm, cocooned sanctuary.

“I hope you’re hungry,” Veronica said, padding toward the kitchen. “I made pasta. Nothing fancy but edible.”

Kathleen stepped out of her shoes and followed her. “You cook?”

“I survive. There’s a difference.” Veronica handed her a glass of wine and gestured to the couch. “Make yourself comfortable.”

They ate together at the small kitchen bench, perched side by side, elbows brushing now and then. The food was simple—garlic, olive oil, a hint of chili—but good. Somehow, that made it more intimate than anything lavish.

Afterward, they settled on the couch. Kathleen curled one leg under her, facing Veronica. “So, lesson two?”

Veronica took a sip of wine. “You still want to go ahead with it?”

“I do,” Kathleen said. “I need to stop being afraid of someone touching me.”

Veronica nodded slowly, setting her glass down. “Okay. Then let’s start somewhere easy. Take off your top and I’ll take off mine.”

Kathleen fumbled with the buttons, feeling the walls closing in on her. She wet her lips and said, “I’m not used to this.”

When Veronica’s response was the raise of an eyebrow, she pulled off the soft-knit top, exposing her flesh-coloured bra. She stared at the wall, thinking she should have worn a lace one instead of opting for the more functional cotton.