Chapter Forty-One: Exposure

The music at the club was still blaring, loud, incomprehensible, and far too much bass for a woman who preferred her thoughts quiet.

Marissa sat at the bar, swirling her drink without drinking it, her elbow propped against the counter. Leah was off dancing somewhere, tangled in laughter and flirtation with a pretty woman who’d bought her a margarita.

And Marissa?

She was still here.

Still at the bar.

Still flicking her gaze over every few minutes to where Samantha sat, silver dress catching the occasional strobe light, a shimmer in the noise.

She felt a lot of things when she looked at Samantha.

Samantha, the woman who had slept with Olivia.

Samantha, who had come into her home, smiled at her across the dinner table, kissed her cheek in greeting, all while lying to her.

And Samantha, whose husband Marissa had slept with.

That part still unsettled her.

Not because she hated it.

No, Daniel had been a revelation. And a confusion.

She’d posted on Reddit, telling the story, and trying to seek advice on what that meant for her. For what she labeled herself. And apart from becoming a meme on certain subreddits, she’d mostly come out empty.

She still thought she was a lesbian, she hadn’t been attracted to a man, ever. But she had also slept with Daniel, and she had liked it. And not just the sex, though the sex had been good, bruising, clarifying, but the way Daniel looked. As if they shared the same broken language. The same understanding of two people of color in white spaces. Of betrayal of spouses who’d chosen someone who looked more like them.

And now, here was Samantha. Sitting alone. Looking just as out of place and emotionally unmoored as Marissa felt. Maybe more.

Marissa took a sip of her drink, finally. The tequila hit warm, grounding.

She hated Samantha. She really did.

Except she didn’t.

Not really.

She was angry at her, sure.

And some of it was righteous. Samantha had crossed lines. Betrayed her and betrayed a good man like Daniel. But most of it was just anger at Olivia, rerouted, refocused, like light through a cracked lens.

Olivia had always known how to make Marissa feel like an afterthought in her own life. That was the real betrayal. That, and how easily she’d slipped into someone else’s bed. Into Samantha’s bed.

And yet… Samantha was here. In her space.

And to be honest that pissed her off.

Because Samantha looked genuinely good.

That silver slip dress clung in all the right places, her blonde hair tousled just enough to look accidental, like she’d just emerged from something, heartbreak or sex or both. And that red lipstick? Fuck her for pulling it off.

She looked like she didn’t belong here, but not in the awkward, flailing way. She looked like a straight woman in her first space full of women. Where she didn’t have to perform for men.

And that, God, that was the worst part.

Marissa had spent years building a sense of self in queer spaces. Understanding her boundaries. Her truth. Her fucking orientation. And here was Samantha, gliding through the air like she belonged, like she wasn’t the hurricane that had ripped through Marissa’s life without even knowing it.

And maybe that wasn’t fair.

But fairness felt like a lie tonight.

She returned to her drink. She had to stop thinking about Samantha. This wasn’t a night about her. She should be trying to have some fun.

She lifted her glass. Ice clinking gently in the glass, and took another slow sip. Her throat burned, but it was a good burn. Honest. The kind that let you know you were still alive.

And then her eyes flickered up. To see Samantha talking with someone else. A woman who looked much to eager to speak with her. For a moment she was angry, angry that someone like her could get the attention of another.

Samantha was talking to someone now. A tall woman with glitter on her cheekbones and a too-confident smile. She leaned in close, said something, maybe flirtatious, maybe just loud enough to be heard over the bass.

And Samantha? She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Marissa watched, not out of jealousy now, but something else. Something colder.

Because she saw it. The subtle signs. The micro-expressions you only catch if you’ve lived through them.

Discomfort.

Fear.

The way Samantha’s shoulders tensed. The way her eyes flicked around the room, scanning not for someone but for escape. The way she tucked a curl behind her ear, not with vanity but habit. Nervous habit.

She recognized the posture.

She’d worn it herself, once. In the wrong shoes, with the wrong girl, in a club too loud to breathe. Back when she was still trying to figure out who she was.

And now, watching Samantha, something stirred inside her. Something she didn’t ask for. Didn’t want.

She felt protective.

Before she could talk herself out of it, Marissa slid off her stool and crossed the short distance. She timed it so she stepped in just as the Glitter-Cheekbone Woman leaned closer to Samantha, voice low and hand hovering at her waist.

Marissa put on her brightest, fakest smile.

“Samantha!” she said, high and breezy, like they were best friends reunited.

Samantha’s head snapped up, relief and shock flashing across her face in equal measure. “M-Marissa?”

“Been ages, right?” Marissa looped an arm—light, polite—around Samantha’s bare shoulders. To anyone watching, it read as affectionate. To Samantha, it was a lifeline.

Glitter-Cheeks frowned a little. “Oh, you two know each other?”

Marissa’s smile sharpened just a hair. “Old friends.” Complicated friends, but now wasn’t story time. “Thanks for keeping her company while I grabbed our drinks.”

A small lie, told smoothly.

Samantha caught on fast. She tilted her glass. “Yeah, thanks. I was just about to rejoin her.”

Glitter-Cheeks read the cue, offered a shrug and a flirt-tired smile. “No problem. Maybe I’ll see you both later.” She melted back into the crowd.

As soon as she was gone, Samantha let out a breath she’d been holding too long. “Thank you,” she murmured, voice tight. “I—she was… persistent.”

“Yeah, some of them are,” Marissa said, dropping the fake brightness. “You all right?”

Samantha nodded, though her eyes shimmered with the start of tears she refused to let fall. “I’m fine. Just… out of my depth.”

Marissa studied her. The perfect lipstick, the fragile gaze. “This your first queer bar?”

Samantha’s answering laugh was shaky. “Is it that obvious?”

“Yeah, a little.”

They stood in the flicker of lights, bass vibrating underfoot. Around them, bodies moved, oblivious. Samantha wrapped her fingers tighter around her glass, then set it on the bar with a decisive clink.

Marissa could see it. See the discomfort, the unfamiliarity with it all. And she felt pity. “Listen, do you want to go somewhere more quiet? I get a feeling this is all a bit too much for you, and there’s a nice cafe that stays open late nearby.”

Samantha looked at Marissa. She looked at this woman whom she had no right to expect anything from except disdain. And yet, here she was, offering her an out. “Are-are you sure?”

Marissa pursed her lips considering it for a second longer. She felt almost responsible for Samantha right then and there.

“Yeah, I’m sure. Come on.”