Some Girls Do

by Jennifer Dugan

She whispers the word “gay” like it’s some kind of horrible secret. Which, no.

Add it to the list of things I feel guilty about.

just because a person doesn’t want to be alone doesn’t mean they want to talk about

“Hi, I’m Morgan.” My voice breaks as I swallow back some tears, because for the first time, maybe I’m exactly where I need to be, exactly where I fit. “I’m a lesbian. She/her. And I like to run.”

Owen groans. “How do you have a girlfriend already? I’ve been here two years and don’t have one.” “That’s because you’re annoying, Owen,”

She takes a step forward, and no, no, Morgan, go. These are not people you talk back to. These are people you don’t leave your friends alone with at parties.

I grit my teeth and, for a half second, panic that he’s actually figured out what I’m trying so hard to ignore. The thing I’ve worked really fucking hard to hide.

“Then what is it?” Her eyes meet mine, and it feels for a second like she can see right through me.

Maybe heat doesn’t pool in her belly when she looks at me, the way mine does when I look at her. Maybe she doesn’t think of me at night when it’s quiet. Maybe this is all in my head.

We search one another’s faces like we’ll find the answers there, and that sinking feeling comes back, that utterly helpless not-doing-enough feeling I can never seem to outrun.

“Wow,” she breathes when I’m finally done. And I think I want to live here, in the space of that “wow,” in that one little syllable she’s managed to stuff so full of adoration and joy.

Like two girls can just hold hands and then go on with their lives or something.

But this is insecurity and indignity and everything I suck at, all at once.

I take a deep breath and cut open that little box of feelings inside me. If she needs me to bleed for her, I’ll bleed.

“Well, some girls do.”

“Sometimes change is good,” I plead. “I . . . I need this.” “You need this? Morgan, my coming out is mine. It’s not something to slap in your win column so you can feel better about yourself.”

“Well, some girls do,” I say, echoing her words from the shop.

And all of a sudden, it feels like I’m going to explode, words welling up in my chest, like I’m choking, like if I don’t get them out immediately, I’ll drown in them.

“I realized that my ‘truth’ or whatever wasn’t more important than his reality. He’s not comfortable being out, and his home life isn’t the most supportive. I decided that I love him enough that I can wait.”

“This dress is so beautiful,” she says, running her hand over the screen like it’s not hanging in my closet at Billy’s for her to touch whenever she wants. “You can have it,” I say. I don’t even know why.