When Savannah was eleven, she was obsessed with a book series called the Sweetwater Girls. They told the story of three sisters: the spirited, ambitious Hope (aged fourteen, brunette); impulsive troublemaker Faith (fifteen, redhead); and bookish, beautiful Grace (sixteen, blonde), who lived in the geographically ambiguous lakeside town of Sweetwater. The books revolved around the girls’ love lives and friendships and school dramas, stuffed with cliffhangers and emotion, and racy enough to feel illicit. Savannah had her first orgasm after Grace let local bad boy Chase Daniels touch her breast (the eldest sister had bumped her head and experienced a complete personality change; this dangerous medical phenomenon would be reversed after Grace bumped her head again). There was no greater thrill than opening the pages of, say, #23 Hope for Class President or #107 Grace’s Two Loves, and losing herself in the perpetually sunny world of Sweetwater and its three beautiful sisters. For over a year, it was a singular focus, a fiction addiction of the highest order. When Savannah grew out of the series, she never again found a passion as wholly consuming, pleasurable, and engrossing as the Sweetwater Girls.
Until she kissed Honey.
Honey and Savannah didn’t leave Savannah’s bedroom for one hundred years. At least, that’s how it felt. Cool Leonie referred to it as love soup: the sensation of being completely submerged in another person. Savannah was in the soup, and it was delicious.
It wasn’t until Savannah kissed a girl that she realized how much she needed—craved—softness. Softness of skin, of lips, of hair, of voice. How much she’d been trying to enjoy masculine hardness because that’s what she was supposed to like. And now a galaxy of possibility had opened up. And it all started with one gorgeous brunette who was permanently sequestered in Savannah’s twin bed. A brunette with Hope’s independence, Faith’s sass, and Grace’s inner goodness.
“I’m so into you,” Savannah kept repeating, as they rolled on top of each other. “I’m just so into you.”
“I told you,” Honey would giggle. “I knew it.”
Now, early on a Friday evening, Savannah admired how cute Honey looked, dressed only in Savannah’s Kentucky Wildcats T-shirt and boy-short underwear, as she peered into the fridge. “What are we going to eat? If I eat any more pizza, I’ll turn into a pizza.”
“I know,” Savannah groaned. “I need to buy groceries. I’ve been… distracted.”
“We could go out.”
Out. Savannah was struggling with going—or really, being—out.
They had gone out a couple of times, to get pizza or happy hour wine. But Honey wanted to hold hands and make out, and while Savannah pretended she was cool with that, she wasn’t. It felt like too much. Like they were on display. Holding hands with a woman in public, having a girlfriend, marked her as different. Outside the norm. And on top of all that was her faith. She was pretty sure her God loved her, and accepted her for who she was, without caveat. But she wasn’t absolutely sure. The hipster churches in Brooklyn were open-minded. The regular churches in Kentucky were way more traditional. And the idea of being alienated from society or her faith because of who she was dating made her feel afraid. Which is why it was easier not to think about either.
Savannah followed Honey into the kitchen. “Can’t go out. Too far from bed.”
Honey laughed and hopped up onto the kitchen counter. “Let’s go away for a weekend. My friends are dying to meet you. You’ll love them; they’re hilarious.”
Savannah had read that lesbian relationships move fast. But this was warp speed. “You told your friends about me?”
“Of course. I was thinking it was time we were ‘Insta official.’ ”
Honey said it like it was a joke. But Savannah knew she wasn’t joking. Apparently her entrepreneurial spirit also extended to relationships.
“Hey, do you remember,” Honey said, “when we first met, you asked me when New York started feeling like home?”
Savannah was too nervous over where this was going to do anything other than lie. “Um, yes?”
“It felt like home when I met you.” Honey looked deep in Savannah’s eyes. Too deep. Way, way too deep.
“I’m starving,” Savannah blurted. “We need takeout—Thai food sound good?”
She was across the street and ordering chicken pad see ew before she knew it. God bless New York: a million dinner options from around the world on a single block.
They hadn’t discussed Savannah’s sexuality. Honey seemed to believe it was now a moot point, as relevant as discussing alien conspiracy theories after being sucked up by a silver spaceship. But Savannah didn’t bring it up because, ultimately, she had no idea what all this meant. Yes, she liked Honey. But was she gay? Bi? Queer or questioning? Into all women or just into Honey? Was it an experiment? Or something more permanent?
She was starting to understand that sexuality existed on a spectrum. But figuring out where she fit on that spectrum felt like seeing color for the first time and instantly being asked to pick her favorite. Honey was gay, and the way she felt about sex with men was the way Savannah felt about wearing flannel: hard pass. But Savannah couldn’t say with absolute certainty she’d never have feelings for a guy for the rest of her life. She knew she didn’t need to define herself, and even if other people wanted her to, it wasn’t any of their business. But the fact remained that for reasons she could name and reasons she couldn’t, she wasn’t comfortable moving at the same pace as Honey.
Savannah retraced her steps to the loft feeling apprehensive about the coming conversation. But as she approached the front door, that apprehension distorted into something weird and disorienting. There were voices inside that weren’t her roommates or their friends. As she turned the key in the lock, Savannah had the surreal feeling she was stepping back into her old apartment in Kentucky, falling through layers of time and space.
The two people standing inside turned and beamed at her. “Hi, Pookie!”
Her parents.
Were in New York.
With Honey. Who they’d been talking to. Her mom was wearing sneakers and a Patagonia vest, even though it was eighty degrees. Her dad was in a Hawaiian shirt. Savannah’s heart started thrashing about in her chest. It took her several seconds to remember how to speak. “M-Mom. Dad. Wh-what are you doing here?”
“Visiting you!” Sherry was smiling so hard her eyes were slits. “You said it was a great idea!”
Savannah recalled an email from weeks ago: Dad found a last-minute deal from Louisville to NYC! Should we take it? She’d barely skimmed it, whipping off a distracted reply: Sure, whatever, great idea. They’d never followed up. She’d assumed it was a pipe dream.
“This is a fun neighborhood, huh?” Terry glanced out the window and frowned. “Very cool.”
“Yes, it’s very… urban, isn’t it?” Sherry added.
Honey crossed her arms. She’d put on a pair of Savannah’s sweats. She looked like she did when serving drunk douchebags at the bar—outwardly pleasant, inwardly steely.
Terry was looking around the loft like he wanted to torch it. “You said four people live here?”
“We were just chatting with Honey,” Sherry said, turning to her. “Now, do you live here too?”
“No,” Honey said, looking at Savannah.
“This is my…” Savannah stared back at Honey. She imagined saying girlfriend This is my girlfriend. Her parents wouldn’t even hear that, they’d hear girl friend, and she’d have to correct them, No, Mom, this is my girlfriend, this is someone I’m dating. She imagined the silence. Twin blank looks. The Is this a joke?, the I’m sorry, what’s happening? The shock. The confusion. The nervous laugh, the sudden need to sit down. And then, as the truth of what she was saying sunk in, the horror. Not so much that she was dating a woman, although it certainly would not be good news. The horror that over the course of the six short months since she’d left her home state, their only child had turned into someone they didn’t even recognize. Didn’t even know. Or—and possibly, this was worse—that she’d been lying to them. For years. Willfully deceiving them about who she was. “Friend.”
Honey blinked. Just once.
Sherry addressed Savannah. “We booked a hotel in Times Square, so I guess we’ll just get a cab? We’re only here for the weekend, but I thought we could see a Broadway show and Dad wants to see some baseball—”
“Is the front door fireproof?” Her dad was opening and shutting it.
“—and we want to do the Hop On, Hop Off bus.” Her mom blew her nose. “Do we have to buy tickets for Ellis Island?”
“I gotta go to work,” Honey lied, backing toward the front door. “Nice to meet you guys. Enjoy New York.” Her warmth was entirely professional. “Bye, Savannah.”
“Wait,” Savannah said, but she was gone.
And so instead of lazing around in bed with Honey all weekend, Savannah found herself touring her parents around the city. It was both Terry and Sherry’s first time there. They were good sports about it, but Savannah could tell they found it chaotic, crowded, and completely charmless. Their jokes—“There sure is a lot of garbage here!” or “I had no idea you could charge that much for coffee!”—were thinly disguised criticisms. Her dad liked the baseball, and her mom thought Central Park was pretty, but the trip asked more questions than it answered. Specifically: Why do you like it here? Her love for the city was a disappointment. Savannah had always believed her parents to be open-minded and permissive—they’d never pressured her to pick a specific major or told her how to dress. But now she understood they did have expectations of her life, as it related to them. And having a daughter with a girlfriend who lived in New York City was definitely not part of their parental fantasies.
As Savannah rode with them in a taxi to the airport on Sunday night, her mom squeezed her knee, thanking her for showing them the famous New York City. “But you must be looking forward to coming home.”
Savannah pictured spending the rest of the evening in bed with Honey or even just hanging with her roommates and a lot of boxed wine. “I am,” she admitted.
Her mom smiled, relieved. “Us too.”
They’d mixed up the meaning of home.
It took an entire week to lure Honey over. When she finally showed up, the usual ease between them was gone. They watched an old episode of Schitt’s Creek in bed on Savannah’s laptop, but when neither of them were laughing, Savannah knew something was really wrong. She closed the computer. “Are you mad at me?”
Honey frowned. “Of course not.”
“You’re acting like you’re mad.”
“I’m not.” Honey drew her legs up to her chest. “I just had—I’m having—some feelings. Feelings I didn’t really expect to have.” She twisted a curl tight around the tip of her finger. “Look, I get the parent thing. You’re not about to tell them we’re together. It’s brand-new, it hasn’t even been a month: I get it.”
“But?”
“But, I was in the closet for so long, Savannah. And I can’t go back.” She hopped off the bed to pace Savannah’s room. “I’ve been thinking about this all week, and here’s where I’m at: I need to be out. Totally out. I want to meet the parents, and tag my girlfriend on Instagram, and hold her hand in public, and one day in the not-too-distant future get married to someone in a dress. And I know that’s a lot to lay on you. But I know what I want, and I know what I don’t want. I can’t be your friend, Savannah. Your ‘gal pal,’ your ‘traveling companion.’ Not for very long, anyway.”
Savannah’s pulse sped up, panicky. This sounded like an ultimatum. “It’s just… this is all so new: I don’t know what I am—straight and a little bit gay. Gay and a little bit straight.” She paused. “I mean, probably that one, but I’m not totally there yet.”
“You don’t need to label yourself,” Honey said. “That’s kind of the slogan of our generation.”
“It’s not about labels,” Savannah said. “It’s about knowing myself. I’m still figuring out who I am.”
“I get it,” Honey said gently. “But I know who I am. And that’s super gay, and super into you. So either we’re doing this, or I might have to seriously think about finding someone else to fall for.” Honey looked at her evenly and with absolute certainty. “Someone who’s ready to love me back.”