Turning A New Leaf

Okay, I'll admit it, my best friend Laura was right. I had put my life on hold for my business. I opened "Blythe's Travels Books" in the summer of 1995, right before people pretty much stopped buying travel books forever. But I was 22 with a fresh business loan in hand and it had always been my dream. That first year involved a lot of handing out flyers, holding events for anyone who could bring in anyone else, taking donations, and, frankly, begging my friends and family to help keep the place afloat.

Fast-forwarding to 1998, on the verge of turning 25, I found myself standing at a crossroads, reflecting upon the life that had unfolded around me, going by so fast I could hardly pay attention to it. In the pursuit of turning my entrepreneurial vision into reality, I had unintentionally sidelined living. The concept of dating, the thrill of clubbing, and the adventures that my peers from Barnard had embraced as rites of passage remained foreign to me.

But back then, I was either blissfully ignorant of my missed opportunities or adept at pretending that they didn't matter. My business had undergone an evolution. It had morphed from being solely dedicated to travel literature to a haven for all things unique: Secondhand treasures, indie gems, and visually captivating works. I had consciously veered away from the allure of bestsellers, opting instead to curate an eclectic collection that showcased the beauty of the unconventional. The tactic had its benefits and drawbacks, but, with a prime location that I'd snagged during a brief dip in the market, I didn't have too much trouble staying afloat.

The first time Stevie walked through my doors, tinkling the silver bell above, I didn't even notice her. It was Thursday morning, which meant I was restocking, taking inventory, and making sure things were up to snuff before the weekend started. Most of my business came from these summer weekends when the whole city was flooded with tourists. She was the usual type who came in on their way down Seattle's streets: Blonde hair held back with a bandana, oversized bomber jacket on top of baggy, ripped overalls, chunky boots She faded into the background.

I didn't notice her until she came up to the register with a big, Southern Belle smile. She had the bright, sunny, sharp features of a young Farrah Fawcett. Even with no makeup on, her face was striking, all highlights and shadows and angles and edges. She had a book by Freya Stark on the bottom of a stack of random antiques and trinkets, which finally convinced me to meet her eyes.

"I'm Stevie," she said, putting her haul on the counter. The voice matched the smile; she really was from the South, her warm drawl contrasting with her very Northwestern style. "Are you Blythe or you just work here?"

"I'm Blythe," I replied, writing up her sale and getting her change. I glanced up at her. "In the flesh."

"Little young to have your own store, I'd think," she said absently, looking around at the decorations I'd collected over the years. "It's a beautiful place. Gorgeous."

"Thank you. I like your pin," I said with a sly smile, pointing to the one on her overalls that read 'warm fuzzy dyke' in pink letters. "We've got some like that in the back, too."

She grinned. "Oh yeah? I'll have to check that out."

Then she left, and, like most people, I assumed I'd never hear from her again. But, for the next few weeks, Stevie was in every other day, picking up enough books and random stuff that I'd be able to make my rent early for the first time in years. Stevie's visits became a routine, like clockwork every few days. At first, I brushed it off as a curious coincidence -- perhaps she just really enjoyed browsing the shelves of secondhand books and picking up the odds and ends that caught her fancy. She would disappear into the labyrinth of literature for hours, emerging with an armful of discoveries that she meticulously selected from the sea of printed words.

As the days turned into weeks, the unspoken connection between us grew stronger. She'd greet me with a coy smile, and I'd respond with a subtle nod of acknowledgment. The books she chose revealed a myriad of interests -- from classic novels to obscure non-fiction, her tastes seemed to reflect a mind as complex and captivating as the stories she sought.

Then came the day when she picked out an assortment of books and quirky trinkets with such enthusiasm that I couldn't help but notice. It was a stack that seemed to defy the laws of physics as it threatened to topple from her embrace. She approached the counter with a mixture of excitement and embarrassment, her cheeks tinged with a faint blush.

"That's quite the collection you've got there," I commented, amused by her determination to carry it all.

Stevie laughed softly, her eyes sparkling with a playful charm. "Well, I've been meaning to catch up on some light reading."

As she laid out her loot on the counter in front of me, I laughed. I checked out all her books and trinkets, bagged them so she could get a better grip, and sent her on her way with a smile.

My best friend Laura had been watching the whole thing unfold from the sidelines, volunteering for me on one of my days off. When I walked through the beaded curtain to my office to update my inventory, I found Laura waiting for me, a knowing grin etched across her face.

"You haven't noticed, have you?" Laura's voice carried a hint of amusement. "You've always been such a dumb virgin."

"And you've always been a brilliant bitch," I scoffed. "Noticed what?"

She rolled her eyes and leaned in, her eyes locking onto mine with an amused intensity. "That regular -- Stevie, right? She's into you, you know."

The revelation hit me like a sudden gust of wind, leaving me momentarily stunned. Duh, Blythe. Nobody else was in here as often. Nobody else stopped to make small talk the way she did. And nobody left as many business cards with her phone number written on the back in our monthly giveaway bucket. As I replayed our interactions in my mind, everything seemed to click into place -- the lingering glances, the extra moments spent talking about trivial matters, the genuine interest she showed in my life beyond the confines of the bookstore.

"No way," I protested, a blush creeping up my cheeks.

Laura chuckled, her tone gentle but teasing. "Oh, come on. It's written all over her face whenever she's here. And you're into her, too, obviously. How could you not be?"

"Well, shit. What should I do?"

She rolled her eyes again. Laura had been a serial romantic for years, never missing the chance to flirt with whatever guy cast a glance her way. "Just be yourself, Bly. Obviously that's what she's into."

So, the next day, when Stevie came in right after opening, I was doing my best to be myself despite my heart pounding at the sight of her. That day, she had two coffees, and she set one down on the counter. "Thought I'd bring you one, too. I figured you were a black coffee girl."

In fact, I absolutely hated black coffee, but I picked it up, took a tiny sip, and said, "That's really sweet of you. Thanks a lot."

"Anything for my favorite bookstore owner." She smiled, but then she looked at me seriously and said, "Blythe, I have something I need to tell you."

Blush ran up into my cheeks, Laura's words staining my eyelids. "What is it? A return?"

"No." She took a sip of coffee and then a deep breath. "I like you, Blythe, and clearly what I've been trying isn't working. I want to go out with you."

A little smile flickered at the edges of my lips. "Yeah, all my friends think I'm oblivious, too."

Stevie rolled her eyes. "Did you really think I could read eighteen books in two weeks?"

I raised my hands up in mock defense. "I thought maybe some of them were gifts or maybe you were just a collector or-"

She interrupted, "You want to go out, then?"

I'd only been on one date with another girl, back at Barnard, and I was too embarrassed by how awkward I was to call her up for a second one. I'd avoided the entire enterprise since, focusing on my work and my hobbies.

But it was getting ridiculous, right? 25. That's when most people were getting engaged and starting their lives. So, because it's what Laura would do, I replied, "Yes. Definitely, yes."

--

The night was bathed in silver moonlight as Stevie and I embarked on our first date. She wore a vintage velvet dress and stockings that seemed to come straight from a different era. I'd worn a blazer, my nice one, and a pair of jeans with a loose tee, which was about as fancy as I got. Her blonde hair was braided into pigtails on each side; l kept mine short, so I just added some gel to push it backward to expose my bright eyes better. I couldn't help but feel a pang of excitement as we headed to a hidden park nestled amidst the urban jungle.

Stevie carried an old wicker basket filled with sandwiches, cheese, and a thermos of hot cocoa. We spread a blanket beneath a twisted tree, its branches creating a makeshift canopy. Strings of fairy lights adorned the branches, casting a soft and enchanting glow around us. The distant sounds of the city were like a memory, drowned out by the moment.

Stevie pulled out a small radio that crackled to life with songs from decades past. We laughed, shared stories, and traded bites of food, the air heavy with the scent of cocoa and our easy camaraderie. As the night deepened, we lay side by side, tracing constellations with our fingers. When she leaned her head on my shoulder, my entire body shivered from everything but the March air. As the time slipped by, our bond continued to grow, drawing us into a new world that had always eluded me.

Next, it was my pick, and I went for something safe that had already brought us together: A bookstore on the opposite side of town that had the same sort of vibe as mine. I handed her a list of riddles and clues, each leading to a hidden book somewhere on the shelves that meant something to me over the course of my life. Books were always how I'd connected with other people, and I was finally out with someone who seemed to understand that. The anticipation in the air was electric as we dove into the challenge, the promise of discovery lighting up Stevie's eyes.

With every book we found, we delved into its pages, sharing excerpts and discussing characters and themes. In the cozy corners of the store, we uncovered forgotten treasures and unraveled mysteries, both from the books and from each other. Stevie's laughter echoed through the stacks, sounding warm and welcoming like the bell at the shop.

As the evening drew to a close, we nestled in a cozy nook surrounded by the books we had uncovered. Our fingers intertwined for the first time. Mine were sweaty. She didn't say anything about it. Amidst the hushed embrace of the bookstore, the scent of old paper and ink filled the air as Stevie and I found ourselves in the moment that had been building since our first encounter. The soft glow of vintage lamps illuminated the stacks of books that surrounded us, casting shadows on her face.

Stevie's laughter, a gentle melody that always put me at ease, had carried us to this point. We had been engrossed in conversation, lost in the pages of a story she had recommended, when our eyes met in a moment of shared understanding. A soft smile tugged at the corners of her lips, and I felt a flutter in my chest as her gaze lingered on mine. The distance between us felt both too vast and too close, a paradox that only added to the tension building in the air. Her fingers brushed mine as she reached to put the book back, and a jolt of electricity shot through my veins.

As she turned to face me, the book held loosely in her hands, time seemed to slow, no matter how silly that sounded. I saw everything in movie theater HD. Her blue eyes held a mixture of anticipation and vulnerability, mirroring my own, I had to imagine. The air was charged with an unspoken question, a question that begged for an answer.

With a mixture of nerves and determination, I took a step closer, closing the already minimal distance between us. My heart raced in my chest, and I felt heat rise to my cheeks. There was a brief, almost awkward pause as we both seemed to hesitate, unsure if the moment was right.

And then, as if guided by an invisible force, our lips met. It was a sweet collision, soft and tentative, a blend of curiosity and longing. The taste of the moment was thrilling, like the first page of a novel waiting to be explored. I let my body do what it wanted to. Instinct. My hands found her waist as hers met at the back of my neck. Our breaths intertwined alongside our tongues. As our lips parted, we met each other's eyes, the unspoken words hanging in the air like constellations waiting to be named.

On our third date, Stevie led the way to a place I had only heard whispers of: the Seven Sisters, a local lesbian club. Since I'd gone to a sister ivy, going there felt poetic, somehow. But, as an introvert who had spent most of my life avoiding bustling social scenes, this was uncharted territory for me. But with Stevie's hand in mine, her confidence radiating like a beacon, I felt a sense of anticipation and excitement that outweighed my reservations.

The club's entrance was adorned with colorful neon lights that bathed the sidewalk in a kaleidoscope of hues. The rhythmic bass of music thumped through the air, sending vibrations beneath our feet as we stepped inside. The energy was palpable.

Stevie's eyes sparkled as she navigated through the crowd, greeting friends with warm embraces and boisterous laughter. I trailed along, feeling a mixture of wonder and apprehension. She introduced me to people, their smiles genuine and their conversations easy. I was an outsider, a quiet observer in a world that was both unfamiliar and enticing. Stevie was what my friends called 'out-out.' Everyone knew she was gay, and that's how she liked it. I was 'soft-out.' The people who needed to know, knew.

Stevie's fingers brushed against mine, her touch a reassuring anchor in the midst of the sensory overload. She leaned in, her voice soft and close to my ear. "Don't worry," she whispered. "Just be yourself and enjoy the energy. Nobody here's going to judge you."

We found a corner booth where the music's pulsating beats were a touch less overwhelming. Stevie ordered drinks, her smile radiant as she engaged in animated conversations with those around us. Her openness and authenticity seemed to bridge the gap between my introverted tendencies and the spirited atmosphere of the club.

As the night continued, I found myself engaging in conversations, albeit with a lingering shyness. Stevie's presence emboldened me, making me feel like I was a part of something greater than myself. The dance floor beckoned, and with a gentle nudge, she led me to its heart. Amidst a sea of moving bodies, we swayed and laughed, the music becoming a soundtrack to a newfound connection. Stevie's laughter lit up the air as she twirled around me, her energy infectious. With each step, I felt a bit more at ease, a bit more a part of this world that was so integral to our identity.

The space between us shrunk with every movement, and the world beyond our dance became a distant blur. Her touch was electrifying, sending shivers down my spine as we moved together, quickly becoming one smooth entity. The press of her body against mine ignited a warmth that spread from the tips of my fingers all the way to my pussy, which had never felt more wanting. I'd masturbated, of course, but nothing compared to the way my body responded to Stevie's.

As the song's tempo changed, our movements grew more intimate, more entangled. Stevie's cheek brushed against mine, her breath a sweet whisper against my skin. I kissed her neck, just below her ear, and she sighed against me, her breath hot and sweet. And then, as the song approached its end, our bodies drew impossibly close, our chests pressed together, our breaths in sync. She'd worn this slinky dress that displayed her breasts, and I had to rip my eyes away from them as she pressed her body to mine. I kissed her, suddenly full of all the confidence she'd been trying to give me.

The night drew to a close and we stepped out of the club, our hands still entwined. The city's lights glowed softly around us, and I felt a sense of gratitude for the journey I had embarked upon. Stevie had introduced me to a world I had kept at arm's length, and in doing so, she had opened my heart to a greater understanding of her -- and of myself.

This was the part where we'd hail separate cars and head out in opposite directions. The part where I'd watch her swaying body get into a cab, the part where I'd spend the drive home waiting to call her, the part where I'd spend my night envisioning what it would be like to have her next to me.

Not tonight.

No.

Instead, before I could lose the confidence of a few beers and a night of dancing, I asked, "Do you want to come back to my place? Or yours, if that would be better?"

"You live above the shop, right?" When I nodded, she said, "Then let's go to mine. Get you out of your natural habitat."

A mix of excitement and nervousness danced within me as we hailed a cab, our bodies close but our conversation limited by the hum of the city around us. As the taxi navigated the streets, her hand found its way to my thigh, her fingers lightly tracing patterns. The city lights streaked by in a blur as we reached her apartment building. I settled the fare with the cab driver in cash, trying my best to seem like a competent, adult lesbian ready to take care of a girl.

The evening air was charged with tension as she led me through the lobby and into the elevator. We stood side by side, both aware of the palpable connection between us, yet rendered speechless by it. Silent glances were exchanged, each look conveying more than words could. The elevator ride mirrored our earlier cab ride--fraught with silent excitement and anticipation. The ding of each floor felt like a step closer to something unknown.

Finally, the elevator doors opened onto her floor, and she led me down a dim hallway with an old carpet, just like every building people in their 20s lived in. Her actual apartment, though, was exactly the kind of space I'd imagined in my late-night fantasies.

Stevie's one-bedroom was a treasure trove of character and charm. Every nook and cranny held a piece of her personality. The walls were adorned with a carefully curated collection of vintage records, each album cover telling a story from a different era. The record covers boasted vibrant colors and intricate designs, acting as both visual art and a portal to her taste.

Plants of all shapes and sizes lined the windowsills, their leaves bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight filtering in. A vintage leather armchair sat next to a modern, plush sofa, offering a juxtaposition that somehow felt harmonious. The coffee table was adorned with a stack of well-worn books, half from my shop, each with a bookmark peeking out.

We still didn't exchange any words as she led me through the main space to her bedroom. String lights adorned the walls, casting delicate patterns on the surfaces, and a few strategically placed candles added a touch of romance to the air. She lit them with a zippo while I continued to take things in.

Soft lamplight bathed the space, its gentle glow accentuating the framed photographs that adorned the walls--a visual chronicle of her life. Sheer curtains allowed the moonlight to filter through, casting delicate patterns of light and shadow on the walls. A vintage record player rested on a shelf, poised for any of her hundreds of collected records. Nearby, a writing desk with scattered pens, journals, and sketches hinted at her hobbies. Beneath the window, her king-sized bed took up most of the room. There were a bunch of eclectic pillows on a tufted blue velvet duvet cover, comfortable and bohemian.