She's always been the more noticeable out of the two of us. More sociable, more approachable. More everything.
Riley, head of the cheer team, and me, Daisy somebody, her quiet, tagalong friend. Only ever there to assist with missed homework, to salvage forgotten notes, to bask in her glorious shadow. All through college, that's how it was. The cheerleader and the bookworm. An odd pairing, almost comical.
Of course, that's only how it looked from the outside.
No one saw the real Riley, not in the way I was fortunate enough to. The Riley who saved a seat on the bus for me, reserving the space with her pink backpack and sliding it off eagerly upon seeing me step on board. The Riley who
didn't
, in fact, make me write her notes for her (though her clique would insist otherwise) but instead listened to me so actively, so endearingly as I walked her through my study methods that it made me blush, my body shot through with a fierce warmth even in the cool upper levels of the library.
The Riley who, despite her shapely body and golden looks, confided in me that she despised all the boys who swooned over her at parties, and had never gone to bed with any of them, despite those same boys' boisterous claims by the lockers, days later.
The memory from that end-of-year party (a small affair -- just Riley, her friends and me) is still burned vividly in my mind.
The night of laughter and gossip drew to a close, Riley's friends started to filter out, either finding a room to crash in or calling a cab to take them out to the clubs. Soon enough, it was just Riley and me, left to sit about the table scattered with half-finished drinks and confetti. I stood up, got us both a glass of water. She slumped into the freshly vacated couch. I joined her, made sure I didn't sit too close. Her hair was loose and untidy. Her frilly blouse was riding down, drifting askew. I kept my eyes as level as I could.
She spoke suddenly, earnestly, and far too clearly for the alcohol to still be talking. "I'm moving out in a couple months, you know. Got a place lined up closer to the city."
"Oh!" I pretended to be surprised, even though I'd heard the rumour from one of Riley's friends' just hours prior, hushed, vague. "Um, wow. That's exciting."
"Yeah, it's just... I need a roommate if I'm gonna make it work. That's the only trouble."
"I see," I murmured as I picked up my glass with my sleeve-draped hand, feeling more than a tad self-conscious in my simple hoodie compared to her stunning get-up. The theme of the party had been princesses, I'd only managed a cheap last-minute tiara. "Do you have someone in mind?"
Riley drank steadily from her glass -- she was parched -- and smiled at me smugly, as if to say '
read between the lines, babes.'
Then she delivered the sentence that had me kicking my feet the entire cab ride home. "I'm asking
you
, silly."
★
It's been three months since I moved in with her. It's a small unit, cosy, decent view of downtown. Two bedrooms, one bath. Not enough living space for fully keeping to oneself, but I don't mind that.
We both work to make rent, her at a grocer a couple blocks away, myself at a café on the same street. The flow of our working days is perfect for me: I finish work earlier than her, giving me a couple hours in the evening to make dinner, most nights.
Call me old-fashioned, overly romantic, or whatever, but I adore cooking for her. I love putting on my apron, laying out the prep work, keeping it all well-timed and orderly so the food winds up hot and fresh just as she gets home.
The best moment is hearing the key turn in the lock, watching her come around the corner into the kitchen, her pretty face still fresh and flushed from the cool evening air. She throws her coat over her chair, eyes catching on the laden table, and sighs: "Oh, Daisy, I do
not
deserve you, babes."
I like it when she calls me 'babes.'
Riley always insists on washing up, and I let her, keeping her in earshot as I clear the table, bringing the dishes through. Some nights we talk, griping over shitty customers, messy management, stuff like that. Other nights we barely say a word, moving around each other with quiet efficiency, simply glad for each other's physical presence.
I want to start packing her lunches with the leftovers, but she won't have it. "You're sweet, but come on, Daisy -- I'm a big girl."
★
Her good looks are undeniable, always have been.
Toss of blonde hair, always falling just-so in that divine, shoulder-length tangle, dyed brighter at the tips. Smooth cheeks, rubbed soft as an angel's. Wonderfully full lips -- she's a bit self-conscious about their size, but I adore them. Plush, glittery. Kissable.
Don't even get me started on her body. Fuck, I'm going to sound like a perv here, but screw it. Her body is
insane
. She's impossibly well-sculpted -- a trained gymnast before she got into cheerleading, the type of girl you see on social media. Unfairly pretty, unbelievably so. She's done with cheerleading these days, but her tight-fitted pink shorts still flash into my mind from time to time, intrusive, in no hurry to be forgotten -- yet another of those stupid, stupid little things that I, as her friend, should
not
be thinking of in such a way.
Like when she grabs my arm and laughs at my weird jokes, real laughter, deep and unforced. Or when she tries (fruitlessly) to teach me an old dance routine of hers, for 'fun' -- throwing her ass in a little circle, looking back at me, keeling over laughing at my flustered expression.
Yes, I've always done my best to reign in this attraction to her. But this façade was always doomed to crack at the edges at some point or another. Sooner rather than later.
★
It was a month ago our co-existence hit its first real bump.
Despite how well her and I get along, we naturally have our differences. For example: I can't stand when she forgets to take care of her laundry. The little basket tucked into the corner of her battleground of a room is always overflowing, regularly rescued by me, never her, no matter how adamantly she insists she was
'getting to it.'
Of course, I
try
to avoid entering her room without express permission. But that decisive night last month, knowing she was going to be home late, knowing she would be in no mood to comply, I found myself once again wading into her pastel pigsty to take care of the forgotten task.
I sighed the second I saw it, my hypothesis confirmed: the basket was stuffed absurdly full, clothes spilling out onto the floor. I picked her crumpled garments up off the floor, wedged them back into the crowded heap as best as I could.
I was especially efficient with her blue panties, forbidding myself from touching them any longer than necessary. Something made me stop upon picking them up -- I noticed a curious weight to them.
For no good reason, curiosity overcame me, and I shook what was inside them out onto the floor. It bounced weightily, then came to a rest.
I picked it up. Rubbery, purple, hefty. Shaped like a peanut, fat at one end. As I turned it over in my fingers, I felt the click of some hidden switch, and it buzzed to life in my hand, rumbling in staggered bursts, loud, hard, slow. The vibration snapped me out of my curious daze and I hurriedly clicked the thing off, heart hammering away in the hollow of my chest.
To my utter shame, I held it close to my face instead of putting it back down right away. Saw how worn the rubber was on the favoured end. Could see and smell something faint and pale on it too: Riley's dried cum. The scent flooded my brain with sheer, seething need, and it took a second before I became acutely aware of myself. I breathed deep and slow, dropped the toy back into her panties, placed them back onto the floor and stormed out with the basket clasped tightly under my arm.
I left sticky notes out for Riley that night, informing her I had turned in for an early night and that there was food in the fridge if she wanted.
I heard her when she finally got home. She pottered around for a bit, there was an opening and closing of the fridge. The hum of the microwave kicked in and I used it as a chance to finish myself off, smothering my gasps in my pillow and as I writhed about in the dark, hand between my legs. I whispered hard into my tangled sheets as I came, an intoxicating blend of guilt and excitement surging through me. "I'm sorry, oh, I'm sorry."
★
I've been acting differently around her since, and I hate it.
I'd be lying if I said I hadn't seen her in such a light before, of course, but now things are dialed up a notch: my fantasies now have some scarily tangible premise to them.
I saw her sex toy. A proper sex toy, that she, that sweet, sunny girl, uses on herself for pleasure.
She leaned over to take the syrup from me at breakfast this morning and she was asking me about something but all I could think about was whether she lays back or props herself up on all fours when she clicks her vibrator on at night -- whether she tortures herself with it in brutally spaced intervals or holds it down firm, finishing herself off without a second to waste.
I had to ask her to repeat herself, and tumbled my way through the rest of the conversation as decently as I could.
I can't help but feel she's able to tell something's off about me. I just pray that she doesn't press the issue.
★
I haven't even sat down for dinner and she's pressing the issue.
"Babes? Are you feeling alright?" Riley cups her chin in her palm. I try to ignore her concerned tone, her sleepy lashes soft-lit in the evening haze -- these things would normally be enough to melt me, but I'm walled up.
"Yeah, fine. Why?"
"IDK," she says, pronouncing each letter, a silly joke-turned-permanent-habit. "You seem a bit far away, no offence. I just wanna check in."
