On Sunday I go with Mom and Navi to San Jose to they visit some friends of Navi’s. Esther and Cammie are a cute old married couple with two large mastiffs and a collection of rainbow flags on their back deck. Esther, Mom and I sit and talk and drink wine while Cammie and Navi go down to the basement and do whatever filmmakers do when they get together. In the evening Esther calls out for Chinese and we eat, watching the sunset flare down behind the trees. They are the most demonstratively compatible couple I’ve ever seen, and in a way that isn’t gross, but sweet.

“So, Darah, do you have a boyfriend,” Cammie asks, standing behind Esther with her arms around her.

I nearly spit out the wine I’m sipping. My mother giggles lightly.

“What?” Cammie says.

“You did it again, Cam,” Esther says, kissing her wife’s weathered cheek. “Cammie has no gaydar. Never did. She didn’t know I was after her until we were sucking face in my car.”

Cammie blushes adorably.

“That’s okay, Cam, not all of us were born with the ‘dar. You know Dana Fairbanks, the tennis player?”

Esther makes a purring sound. “Reow.”

“Dishy,” Cammie says.

“Well, Dana is a very good friend of mine, and she has absolutely no gaydar.”

“Really?”

“No an iota.”

“Hmm. Whoodathunkit.” Esther says.

“Well, do you have a girlfriend, then?”

I open my mouth for a second before I answer the question. “No.”

My mother rolls her eyes. “She is in love and so is the girl but god forbid they say it to each other.”

“Mom!”

“Sounds like someone I know,” Cammie says. It’s Esther’s turn to blush, or at least look a little sheepish.

I jump on the chance to turn the conversation away from me. “Oh yeah?”

Cammie sits down on the bench next to Esther. “You know how long Essie and I were together before she’d hold my hand in public?”

“How long?”

“Four years!”

“Well, that was a different era, right?” I ask.

“Oh, bull. We were in San Francisco.” Cammie says. I adore this woman. She is spunky.

“So Esther, do you have committment issues?” I smile.

“Do I look like I have committment issues?” She gestures toward the house, the two snoozing dogs, the rainbow flags. The domesticity. “We’ve been together for thirty years. She just likes to ***** and moan.”

I laugh. And I refuse to think about the obvious parallels.

This year my birthday falls on a Friday. Unfortunately Navi has a crucial meeting on that day so they are leaving on a red eye out of LAX on Thursday evening. I’m not bummed, on the contrary I want to spend the day with Shane.

I spend a very pleasant week with them, going to Mann’s Theater and all the tourist traps. The walk of fame reminds me of the first time I hung out with Alice, and this makes me smile.

On Tuesday Mom asks me why I don’t invite Shane over to have dinner with us. I tell her that I’m almost positive Shane’s at Radar, but I don’t bother to call her and ask. I know it’s weak, but I’m afraid that my mom’s presence will freak her out.

On Wednesday we hit the LACMA and the tar pits, then visit Bette at the CAC. The four of us have an nice impromptu dinner in Hollywood. If I didn’t know my mom better, I’d think she was smitten with Bette.

On Thursday they give me birthday presents, a new silver watch, some books, a few CDs, and a pretty blue-violet dress. “We’re taking you out to dinner,” Navi announces. “Why don’t you wear the new dress.”

“Okay. Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“Okay,” I grin.

“Why don’t you invite Shane?” Mom says.

I sigh. “Maybe.” I intend to muse on this while I’m in the shower. But when I come down, twisting my hair up into two gold chopsticks, I see that my mom is talking into my cell phone. She turns to see me and her eyes twinkle. “Okay. Okay. We will pick you up in a half hour.”

She grins and hands me my phone. I stand there. “Ma, what the *****?”

“Don’t swear at me, Benti.” She says it sternly but I can see the mischief in her eyes.

“You called her and invited her didn’t you? On my speed dial.”

“Yes, and she is happy to come along. Life is too short for these games you play.”

“Ma!”

“You are being a butthead, darling.” She says, and pats my cheek. “Let’s go.”

Did I mention that I admire the ***** out of my mom? But those same traits which are admirable can be annoying.

Secretly I am glad, though, that Shane is coming. I haven’t seen her since Saturday and I crave her like a drug. She left me a voice message which I did not return.

The rental car died on the second day and they didn’t bother with a replacement, so that is one less thing to worry about. I help load their luggage into my car despite Navi’s objections. The dress is perfect, and I feel amazing with my hair done up and my chandelier earrings.

Once they have loaded all their stuff I drive to Shane’s. My mom sits in the passenger’s seat singing along atonally to my Lucinda Williams CD, getting the words wrong, which is incredibly amusing. I see Navi in the rearview mirror nodding his head to the beat, unaware of how mangled the song is. I feel a sudden pang. I’m going to miss them a lot.

Shane comes out of the house before I even park.

“Holy *****,” I mutter.

She is wearing a little black dress. The milk-white of her shoulders seems shocking next to the black. “Ma, did you tell her to wear a dress?”

“No!”

“She looks lovely, no?” Navi says, seeing nothing out of the ordinary.

“You don’t understand. Her in a dress is about as likely as you in a dress, Navi.”

“Never!”

“Exactly.” I duck my head to see her through the window. She is wearing low black heels and the dress is sleveless, *****, low-cut. I feel the warmth of lust low in my belly, streching out into my veins. Desire. Wow.

Navi moves over so that Shane can have the seat closest to the curb.

“Hi,” she says, getting in. “Thanks for the invite.”

“Hello, Shane,” my mom sings sweetly.

I stare at her over my shoulder. “You actually own a dress?”

“No, this is Jen’s.”

I continue to gape at her. She is beautiful, despite looking as if she wants to crawl out of her skin.

“What? I had no clean laundry. Stop staring at me.”

“You look great,” I say. Bad posture aside, I can’t believe how gracefully she carries herself, despite her obvious discomfort. She is like a lithe smooth swan, and her skin is like cream.

She smiles nervously and I feel like ***** for making a big deal about it.

“You look very beautiful, Shane,” Navi says.

“Thank you, Navi,” she says, as if to say that he was being gracious, unlike some people, and I press my lips together in an effort not to smile.

The restaurant is swanky and candlelit. I sit opposite Shane and my mother, which makes me happy, because I can never get enough of looking at Shane. Her dress is lightly dusted with sparkling beads that catch the light every time she breathes. She looks hot as can be. The tablecloths are long and linen and I stroke her ankle with my stockinged foot.

She looks up at me and I smile. She smiles back, and I feel high.

The waiter brings wine. It’s red, and resonant with the taste of grapes.

I can’t get over my shock at seeing Shane in a dress, but I try not to show it. Every time Shane looks as if she’s getting comfortable she shifts and she seems to be reminded that she is wearing a dress, and she looks miserable all over again. I guess she’s just not born to be a femme. But I enjoy it while I can, looking at her cleavage as I sip my wine. I’d like to lick this wine from her lips.

No one in the place gives us a second thought. We appear, perhaps, as a family – mom, dad, and two daughters. Except for right now I’m having some very unsisterly thoughts about what I want to do to her later tonight.

We relax, drink some wine, and I stop after one glass so I can get them to the airport in one piece. Around the time our entrees arrive, I feel like someone is watching me.

I turn to the window, and see a balding white guy, forties, dark hair, in an impeccable suit. I don’t know him, have never seen him before.

I look away, but I can tell from the corner of my eye that he is still staring. It’s unnerving.

He is sitting behind Shane’s back, and mercifully Navi is too focused on his filet mignon to notice the guy. I wrack my brain trying to figure out who this ***** is.

It all makes sense when a coiffed blonde woman walks in as if she owns the place, then sits down opposite him.

Oh, *****.

I have to play this carefully, try to keep Shane from looking in that direction. I glance over every so often, and the man, presumably Mr. Jaffee, shows no sign that he sees Shane. Nor does Mrs. Jaffee.

I want to walk over there and rip her head off, but I try very hard to act oblivious. Maybe this will blow over. They’ll eat, we’ll eat, and that will be that. Please.

When I glance in that direction again, Mr. Jaffee has gone over to talk to an acquaintance on the other side of the restaurant, and Mrs. Jaffee is staring at Shane.

Oh, double *****.

Shane still hasn’t seen Cherie, I’m positive. She has a buzzed and impish glint in her eye and she says “so tell me what Darah was like as a kid.”

I groan. Good. If her rapt attention is on mom, then she won’t notice the hungry eyes of the socialite across the restaurant.

“Hmm. What stories can I tell you? Well, when she was seven, she decided she was going to host her own talk show in the living room…”

Jeez, the indignity. But it’s good, if it will keep this situation from blowing up into ugliness. I tune out what my mother is saying, glancing toward the Jaffee’s table in my peripheral vision. Cherie is still staring. Mr. Jaffee is directly in front of me, chatting with someone, and he feels way too close. I want to take her hand and yank her out of here, but I can’t.

Shane still hasn’t seen Cherie. She is smiling and laughing as my mom finishes her mortifying story about me designing a “set” with a desk and ficus trees. I push the shrimp around on my plate, take a sip of wine. Feign embarrassment when what is really churning inside me is fear.

My mom finishes with the story about me telling my kindergarten teacher, when asked about my ethnicity, “my mom is Arabic and my dad is plain.” Everyone laughs, including me. I’d forgotten this.

Then Shane stands up, putting her white cloth napkin beside her plate. “Excuse me,” she says, and walks to the bathroom. I don’t need to look at Cherie to see that she is watching every step Shane takes.

“Oh, *****,” I whisper.

“Didi, what’s wrong?” I tell them not to look at the Jaffees and covertly explain the sitch to them. Navi nods then looks directly toward the table where Cherie Jaffie was sitting.

“So, it is bad that that lady goes to the bathroom too?”

I look up, and sure enough Cherie is making a beeline for the bathroom.

“*****. She’s gonna get her killed.”

“Killed?”

“It’s a long story. But the husband threatened to kill Shane if she ever went near Cherie again. And I think he just might.”

I shift in my seat and stare at the bathroom door. I put my napkin on the table and am this close to getting up, but I remember the near catfight at the hospital fundraiser and decide not to. My parents stare at me as I thrum my fingers on the table manically. Every instinct I have screams for me to go in there and protect Shane, even though I know she can hold her own.

I hope she can, anyway. She certainly didn’t that night. I remember her stunned, teary expression, and how she was wide open for more hurt.

Want to kill that *****. This is killing me. Shane, come out of there, I think.

I feel eyes on me again, and look over to see Mr. Jaffee staring at me.

At that instant Shane bursts out of the bathroom, walking a bit too quickly to appear normal. She sits back down at the table, puts her napkin on her lap, and smiles nervously.

My mother mercifully pretends to start an argument with Navi in Arabic. I can tell they are talking about what is going on.

“Are you okay?” I whisper.

“*****, no,” she hisses, and in her distress she looks so beautiful, nostrils flaring, eyes fierce. “Why didn’t you warn me?” Mom and Navi mercifully pretend to ignore us.

“Because I only figured it out two seconds before you went in the bathroom. And what was I going to say, hold it? I was hoping we could just eat and leave.”

She just closes her eyes sadly and sighs.

“What did she do?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

“Okay.” I take her hand in mine, and she lets me. She squeezes tightly, and her other hand shakes a bit when she lifts her wine glass and takes a sip.

When the waitress comes back we all decline dessert and Navi pays the bill. We thank him for dinner. We have to walk past the Jaffees and I’m surprised when Shane puts a possessive arm around my waist.

It feels sweet, but I don’t know if she’s doing it to salvage her pride, or because she wants the comfort, or because she wants to prove to Mr. Jaffee that she’s with me, therefore no threat to him.

Maybe she needs me. Maybe she just wants to live.

Shane sits in the front seat and I put my arm on her shoulder, gently stroking the hair at the nape of her neck. We are quiet as we drive to LAX. I feel unsettled and melancholy as I park in front of the Delta terminal, help them with their bags. Shane gets out too, and is quiet, I feel fear clench my viscera as I think how sweetly fragile she looks in the violet neon light of the columns lining the drop off lane. Her eyes glitter in the dark evening.

My mom hugs me. “It is your birthday in a few hours, Didi. Can’t believe I was in labor with you thirty-two years ago.”

“Me neither.” I inhale a lungful of her sweet mother scent, then hug Navi.

I’m aware that Mom is stretching her arms out to Shane. Maybe it’s her fragile mental state, or maybe she has become that comfortable with my mom, but Shane returns her hug instantly. “It was wonderful meeting you, Habibi.” my mother says to her. Shane mutters something intelligible and I notice my mom’s strong dark hand stroking Shane’s back. I feel warm inside, grateful.

Navi kisses my cheek and we part. “I should walk you to security, at least,” I say.

“You go ahead. We’ll be fine.” Navi says. I worry about them flying. They are clearly Arab and 911 is still fresh in people’s minds.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Navi glances at Shane. “Shane, it was nice meeting you.” He extends his hand to her, but when she takes it, he awkwardly pats her back a few times in a semi-hug.

“You too.”

“Call me when you get home, okay?” I don’t care that that will be three in the morning. I worry. I lean close to Shane. I can feel the warmth of her shoulder, inches from mine in the cool night air.

We say our final goodbyes to them and watch as they walk inside the terminal. “Are you okay,” I ask Shane, without looking. I’ve learned that she finds this less intrusive.

She is quiet for a beat. I can’t help but look at her. Her eyes move to mine, as if she’s first realizing that I’m here beside her. Her eyes have that lifeless look she gets when she is upset. Thankfully it’s never permanent.

“Yeah. I will be.”

She’s not okay, then. What did Cherie say to rattle her so much? Does she want to go back to Cherie, end this thing with me? She probably doesn’t realize it but her gaze is a million miles away and her face is like a mask.

“What can I do to help you right now?” I ask her gently, because I honestly don’t know what she needs. I walk around to the drivers’ side, slide in, giving her time to respond, then she does the same.

“Take me home. Take me to bed.” She stares straight out the window and her voice is wooden but I know that there is a lot going on under her surface.

“Okay.” And she is quiet all the way back to my place. At a red light I look over at her. Oh an irrepressible whim I reach over and stroke her hair. It is messy and soft under my fingers and she leans into my touch like a cat.

I’m afraid of how good that feels, something as simple as her leaning into me for comfort. Afraid because it is the sort of trust she might yank back when it threatens her.

Is she going to drown herself in me, bury the things she feels for Cherie somewhere within my skin? I hope not, but at this point I am not sure I would mind. Because I’m that far gone. Because I’d do anything to erase the hurt etched on her face.

We pull up in my driveway with out a word, and I cut the quiet thrum of the engine. She follows me inside, through the foyer, up the stairs, into my bedroom. I turn to face her in the dim light from my open closet.

I step close, touching her bare shoulder, then move my hand back to her nape where I find the top of her zipper. I slide it down, slowly take Jenny’s dress off her, and taste her skin. The touch makes her throw her head back, but we don’t make a sound.

She pulls my shoulder roughly, and kisses me hard. So fast and intense I can’t breathe. Am I comforting you, Shane? I wonder. Am I giving you what you need?

Her skin is desperate, she clings to me like she never has before. I’m not sure if it’s about me, or about Cherie. If it means everything, or it means nothing.

“What did she do?” I whisper into her ear. She is quiet, moving her hand under my dress, up the rise of my hip. I breathe once, twice, three times before she answers.

“She told me she loved me.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I’m so afraid, D. Steve is gonna think something was going on. He might really kill me.”

“He’s not going to kill you.” I say, pressing my lips to her forehead. I don’t believe it, *****, I don’t know the man, but I just have to lie. Because the alternative is unthinkable. “He’s just trying to scare you.”

“Well, it’s *****’ working.”

“So what happened when she said she loved you?”

“She tried to ***** kiss me. And I ran out of there.”

“That was cruel.” I say, not asking the one question I’m dying to ask.

“I just told her I didn’t love her, and… ran.”

She doesn’t love Cherie. Should I feel it this strongly, the warmth of relief rising in me like leavening bread?

“I’m so sorry. I was hoping we could just eat and leave and you wouldn’t notice.”

I think of the way Steve was glaring at us, and now that I know the whole story, it makes me shiver. She seems to think that it’s because of the way her fingers are unbuttoning my dress.

“I just want to forget about it. Make me forget.”

She kisses me hard, her hot moist lips hungry on my face, my cheek, my lips. I feel as if I am the drug that will calm her, and she can’t get enough of me. She’s never kissed me quite like this before.

She pushes me back to the bed, and we fall there together, but she still just kisses me, hand on my face. My mind is reeling and racing, wondering so much what she’s thinking and feeling, what it means, if anything. She pulls away and searches my eyes every so often, as if trying to gauge what I’m thinking, and it’s unnerving.

She kisses me hard, again, and I can feel her thrusting against me. So good. Then, she pulls away. Opens her mouth but nothing comes out.

She’s going to say something, and she’s nervous about it.

Oh *****. This could be very good or very bad.

“Hey, um, you know what you did to me before?” She looks down, not meeting my eyes.

Oh, *****. What is this? I close my eyes and bite my lip. “Yeah.”

“I want it again.”