Lesbian, Interrupted

The bags filled the back seat of Sarah's car, high-end labels rustling with every bump in the road. Portia sat in the passenger seat, her eyes on the window, her mind racing faster than the city passing by. She'd never spent this much money in one day. Not even close. Not when she and Bernice went to New York. Not when she booked that weekend in Mont-Tremblant. Not even when she'd bought her iMac.

This was different.

This was lipstick and lingerie, skirts that barely covered anything, tops that flipped the narrative on Portia's ample breasts, letting them be celebrated rather than hidden. All of it selected under Sarah's guidance, with just enough "are you even trying?" looks to keep her focused.

Portia was focused.

Having dipped into every savings account she had, Portia knew it was money well spent. Sarah had thrown in her own money like it was nothing. And Hank—kind, generous, wonderful Hank—had even given her a couple hundred dollars to "get her back on her feet". The shoes that money had paid for would certainly do that and more.

The radio was playing a pop tune that Portia had heard enough times to get on her nerves. Glancing at Sarah, her new roommate, she realized that Sarah was humming along happily. Was that the kind of woman that Hank liked? Was he into girls who liked songs like that? She would have to pay close attention. Details like that mattered. She started humming, too.

Portia would be crashing on Sarah's couch until Hank figured out what to do with her. She hoped that meant a move to the bedroom to join Sarah and Hank. She'd peeked inside the room at the queen sized mattress. It would need an upgrade to a king. Or maybe something bigger. Were there mattresses bigger than a king? She'd have to do some research.

Another reason the money for her new wardrobe didn't bother her very much was that she anticipated her living expenses dramatically dropping soon. Her lease for the upscale apartment she'd been renting for a year-and-a-half would have to be sublet, or broken. Staying with Sarah would give her plenty of disposable cash to buy the lease out if need be, and even replenish her savings. Or not. Maybe her new lifestyle would need more mad-money, spending cash to shower her man with trinkets, artifacts of her love and loyalty. Either way, money wasn't a big issue.

Still, there would be some logistics involved. Her apartment hadn't, after all, burned down. It was still there, full of clothes that represented a lifestyle she now rejected, furniture she no longer needed, Bernice's toothbrush.

Bernice.

The name caught like a splinter under her skin.

There hadn't been time to talk about her. Portia's priority was Hank, and would continue to be Hank from then on. Sarah had been right to remind her of that. But now, in the quiet lull between the mall and Sarah's apartment—her new home—Bernice had crept into her thoughts.

She thought of the way Bernice would curl up next to her, smelling like antiseptic and lavender, her eyes tired after a ten-hour shift at the animal hospital. The way her small, soft body fit perfectly against Portia's back. The way she cried when they had to put a cat down, and how Portia would hold her until the tears dried.

Portia thought she should miss her. That she should miss that. But in so many ways, her memories, her feelings, were bringing up a new reaction.

Resentment.

Portia had a mission, a purpose. Hank Granger was a great man, a man she would do anything for. And Bernice, her beautiful, kind, loving girlfriend kept interrupting her thoughts, her plans. The way her mouth tasted in the morning. The way she took off her bra and whipped it around her head like she was some sort of showgirl. The way she used her tongue to cheer Bernice up after a particularly difficult day.

All of this was distracting. All of this was unfair for Portia to have to carry around in the back of her mind. She wished that Bernice would just fuck off.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. That just wasn't who she was anymore, who she wanted to be.

Of course, Portia knew it wasn't Bernice's fault. She wasn't forcing Portia to think about her. This was a Portia problem. She was the one who was broken. Portia knew that she might never see Bernice again, but something told her that if she didn't find a way to close the door to her, Bernice would always be with her, haunting her, trying to pull her away from Hank.

What would Hank say if he knew? If he found out she was sitting here fantasizing about someone else—about a woman—when all he'd done was try to give her a second chance?

He'd doubt her. Doubt her loyalty. Doubt her love.

That could never happen.

She took a shaky breath and looked down at her hands, freshly manicured and still trembling a little.

"You worry about your man," Hank's son had told her. His voice echoed in her mind like a commandment. "About how you're gonna stop acting like a bitch and start being my dad's dream girl. Got it?"

She got it.

She had to stop thinking about Bernice. Stop thinking about how good it had been. About how soft it had felt. She wasn't going to be soft anymore. She was going to be perfect.

So she gives up being a lesbian. So be it.

She could learn to be straight. She could figure it out. Fast.

Hank deserved that.

She pictured him—not Bernice—him. The broad shoulders stretching his worn button-downs. The stubble that shadowed his jaw. Those big, capable hands that looked like they could build or break anything.

He was a real man. A grown man. He didn't cry when cats died. He probably didn't cry at all.

That made Portia's heart race even more.

She swallowed. Her mouth was dry. She had never been into men. Never. But now? Now she loved Hank.

Present tense.

She loved his size. His voice. His roughness. She hardly knew him, but she knew she loved him. She had to. What kind of dream girl didn't love her man? And that was who she was. The girl of his dreams. Or at least she would be soon. She would learn each and every one of his dreams, and she would sculpt her life to fit into them.

It was a dedication she'd never felt before. Not in art school. Not in piano lessons. Not even when she thought of her family. No, Hank was the focus of her love. A love that she would treasure, that she would make grow.

And one day—soon—she'd love everything about him. She'd love the way he looked at her, the way he kissed, the way he smelled in the morning. She'd even love his cock.

That... might take a bit.

But when that bit came?

She'd love it. Desperately. Shamelessly.

And not a single day would go by that Hank doubted it.

She shifted in her seat, straightened her posture, and reached up to tease her short hair. Sarah's hair was long and dark. Portia could grow hers out. Maybe she'd ask her roommate if she should go blonde. Or platinum. Whatever Hank liked best.

She was going to figure it out.

Fast.

Because nothing was too good for him. And she'd do anything—be anything—to prove it.