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  “You can pick up a Tom Clancy or a Dean Koontz and expect all kinds of stuff,” Frankie went on. “But you won’t get that with a Nora Roberts or a Ngaio Marsh.”

  “Toni Morrison?”

  Frankie got a thoughtful look on her face. “Honestly, if anyone can break it, she can. But she’s got the, uh…”

  “Racism thing?” Dez ventured.

  “I was going to say something like ‘the weight of a wrongful history’ behind her. And her books make you uncomfortable because she’s talking about something that Stephen King and Tom Clancy can’t.”

  Dez nodded, although she wasn’t sure she really agreed.

  “My point is,” Frankie said, trying to maintain the head of steam she’d built up, “you’d never pick up a Francesca Bethany novel if you’ve heard it reads like the next blood-soaked Schwarzenegger screenplay.”

  “I guess a lot of people might not,” Dez said. Was that her first name? Francesca?

  The waitress came over and introduced herself with a name Dez immediately forgot.

  “Just dessert tonight?” she asked.

  Dez nodded.

  “The cheesecake is our specialty,” the waitress said, “But we also have an excellent peach cobbler. Those are the two most popular items on the menu, and I’ve got to tell you, honestly, they’re my favorites.”

  Dez looked at Frankie. “What do you think, girl? One of each?”

  Frankie shrugged. “That’s fine.”

  “Do you like something else better here?”

  “No,” Frankie replied noncommittally. “The cheesecake’s good. It’s worth it.”

  “Okay,” Dez said, recognizing that Frankie was playing a game—but she couldn’t figure out which one. Nor did she really want to participate. “One of each of those, and a coffee for me, please. Frankie, you want coffee?”

  “No, I’ll be up all night.”

  The waitress nodded, gathered their menus, and walked away.

  “So,” Dez said, “how come you let them get away with that?”

  “Get away with what?”

  “With, uh, I don’t know how to say it. Forcing your conformity. Your agent, your readers, anyone. Come on, this is supposed to be the decade of the woman, right? Hillary Clinton campaigning alongside Bill, Oprah making movies, woman CEOs? You’re bending to the agent just because you’re not a romance writer?”

  Frankie sniffed. “Spoken like someone who’s never written a book before.”

  Dez laughed. “Well, girl, you got me there.”

  “And another thing,” Frankie said. “I don’t have to be a romance writer to make money.”

  “But if you’re not, you have to be male.”

  Frankie began to bristle. “Listen, it was my decision. I don’t have to defend it to you.”

  Dez gave Frankie a tired smile. “Of course not. I’m just saying. That’s not giving your public much credit. This is a different world than it was when George Eliot or Jane Austen were writing. It’s even a different world than Ayn Rand wrote in.”

  Frankie closed her eyes and shook her head.

  “Oh, Lord, Frankie, don’t kill me in my sleep over that.”

  Frankie still didn’t smile, but she sighed and sat back.

  The waitress appeared with their desserts and two spoons for each of them. “And your coffee will be right up. They’re just brewing a fresh pot.”

  Frankie looked at the waitress walk away. “Think she’d still serve us if she knew we were two girls out on a date?”

  Dez leaned back in the booth. “I guess it depends on how she feels about it. My senior year, a girl wanted to bring another girl to senior prom. She was very vocal. A few of the parents threatened to boycott. But I was amazed—the school let her do it.”

  “That’s not that big of a deal. Schools here have been allowing that for a while.”

  “Yeah, but this was in Lake Charles, Louisiana. They usually just sweep all that shit under the rug. But I think maybe only four or five parents pulled their kids out of the prom and asked for a refund of their tickets.”

  “So were you the girl?”

  Dez shook her head. “Sometimes I wish I’d been that girl. I might not have run away from Lake Charles to California.”

  “You ran away?”

  “Not like a teenaged runaway. I graduated high school and applied to schools on the West Coast. Ran my ass off in track to get a scholarship.”

  Frankie’s eyes went to Dez’s body. Dez thought perhaps Frankie would make a comment about Dez having a runner’s body, but her outfit didn’t reveal anything about her shape or athleticism. Well, her jeans looked good on her, but she was sitting and the table was in the way.

  “And you came out here, huh?”

  “Yes ma’am,” Dez said. “I have an aunt who lives out in Bakersfield. Makes Thanksgiving and Christmas a little easier.”

  Frankie nodded, but Dez could tell she wasn’t paying very close attention. Dez took one of the spoons and started to take a spoonful from the point of the cheesecake.

  “Wait!” Frankie said quickly, holding up her hand.

  Dez paused, her spoon in mid-air. “What?”

  “My mother always used to say that if you ate cheesecake backwards—from the crust to the point—then you can make a wish before you eat the point and it will come true.”

  Dez smiled. “You don’t strike me as the superstitious type.”

  Frankie smiled back. “I’ve never had a wish come true yet, but it doesn’t mean I don’t do it.”

  “I never heard of that before.”

  “It’s because you’ve got voodoo in Louisiana. It’s probably a totally different set of superstitions.”

  Dez let her Louisiana drawl come out. “You best be careful, Miss Frankie, you don’t want me puttin’ no curse on you or nothin’.”

  Frankie laughed, a full, open-mouthed, hearty laugh, but Dez immediately felt pangs of regret for going into that mode.

  She and Rhonda would riff on their backgrounds constantly, putting on their mothers’ accents. On weekend nights, if neither one of them had a date—which wasn’t often for Rhonda, but was quite often for Dez—they’d grab a case of cheap beer or, God forbid, wine coolers, grab burritos at the local taquería, turn on an old cheesy movie, and start to make fun of their families, especially with their accents and their half-English phrases (Rhonda called her mother’s odd phrasings Nicaraglish), and the passive-aggressive things their mothers would do to try to assure that Dez and Rhonda would end up with good husbands. It was cathartic, and Dez and Rhonda often collapsed in gales of laughter, talking over the television, pleasantly buzzed, maybe even braving the traffic on Stearns and Los Coyotes to walk to In-N-Out for cheeseburgers. And now Dez had pulled back the curtain to a stranger, a white girl at that. And maybe she wasn’t even a lesbian.

  “I’ll be right back,” Frankie said, wiping her mouth with the off-white cloth napkin. “Don’t eat the point of the cheesecake while I’m gone.” She shook her finger at Dez and flitted off.

  Dez watched her walk away, toward the restrooms, admiring her figure. When Frankie turned the corner, Dez leaned forward and took a spoonful of peach cobbler. The peaches weren’t fresh, but she wasn’t sure what she expected in late January.

  Frankie had left her purse on the table. For a fleeting moment, Dez pictured herself rifling through Frankie’s purse to find out her real name. Was Bethany really her middle name? Was her last name something long and unpronounceable? Lord knows Dez had enough Californians mispronounce her last name. Or was it something pedestrian, like Smith or Jones or Johnson?

  She took another bite of cheesecake, eating it backward, like Frankie’s mother would have wanted, leaving the point untouched.

  She thought back to the last date she had been on, just when the school year started, with a very out lesbian who was loud and proud. Her date went by the name Mettie, although Dez found out that it was really Margaret. Partially shaved head and a man’s tee shirt with the sle
eves ripped off that said Stormé. Like with Frankie, everything out of her mouth was a diatribe. Frankie was all about gender dynamics in literature, and Mettie was all about sexual dynamics in culture and society. And Mettie was very sexual, as she let most of the people in the restaurant know. It had been a typical Southern California September, with the Santa Ana winds making Long Beach blazing hot for a week at a time before cooling down to something tolerable for a day or two. It had been one of the hotter days, and Dez had worn a tank top and shorts, and Mettie had been very vocal about liking Dez’s runner’s body, enough to make Dez uncomfortable.

  Mettie had driven Dez home and had been very clear, and quite descriptive, in her goals for the rest of the evening. Dez had politely declined, wondering if Mettie would take no for answer. She wasn’t happy about it, but she had left Dez at the door and hadn’t called again.

  Dez sighed, eating another bite of cheesecake. She had eaten almost half of it, and should probably leave some for Frankie. Although Frankie might so busy ‘speechifying’ the rest of the night, as Dez’s mother would say, that she might not notice that the whole slice of cheesecake was gone. As long as the point was left.

  Dez wondered if the evening could be saved. The whole Frank Bethany thing was intriguing. How does someone make the decision to do that? What makes them tick? And Dez knew that her physical attraction to Frankie had a lot to do with her willingness to stick it out until the end of the date. But Dez thought Frankie probably wasn’t interested enough to continue. Not unless something changed when Frankie got back from the restroom.

  She looked up from her reverie and Frankie appeared, sliding easily back into her chair—and immediately noticed that the cheesecake was half-eaten. “Well, I see someone likes the cheesecake,” she said, giggling.

  “Yeah, the waitress was right. It’s really good.” Dez thought Frankie’s laughter was potentially a good sign.

  Frankie stuck her lower lip out in a mock pout. “But that same someone doesn’t like the peach cobbler.”

  “The peaches aren’t fresh,” Dez said. Frankie was in a good mood compared to when they were walking to the bistro, but it was a little suspicious. Dez looked in Frankie’s eyes, and couldn’t tell in the low light of the bistro if her eyes were unusually dilated.

  “Well, what did you expect? It’s January.”

  Dez nodded. “Sure.”

  “I see you’ve been eating the cheesecake backward.” She smiled, a little goofily, and took Dez’s hand in hers. “Thank you for respecting me and my family.” She guffawed, then grabbed her spoon, scooped up the point of the cheesecake, and shoveled it in her mouth.

  Dez stared at her.

  “Ha, ha,” Frankie said with her mouth full.

  “I can’t believe you just did that,” Dez said.

  “I know,” Frankie said around the bite of cheesecake. “I didn’t even make a wish.”

  4

  Frankie’s good mood didn’t dissipate. She talked about how much she loved Die Hard, and how the whole movie was a multilayered critique of Reaganomics. Dez didn’t believe it at first, but she explained it so well, so thoroughly, and with such conviction that Dez finally agreed, breaking into a smile.

  Dez paid the bill, though as a college student, the idea of taking out a bestselling author was a little annoying. Still, Dez reasoned, she had been the one to ask Frankie out. And it was coffee and dessert, not a full steak and lobster dinner. Although that would have been better than the Whopper Jr. she had called a meal.

  The rain had come back when they left the bistro, but it was just drizzling.

  “You want to chance it?” Frankie said in Dez’s ear. And Dez felt the tingle of attraction with Frankie, the same as she had when Frankie was in the dress with the cherries at the party in Westwood. The anger about the unfairness of the publishing industry seemed miles away. Even Frankie eating the point of the cheesecake seemed spontaneous and edgy, not obnoxious or bitchy. Although Dez wasn’t sure how much that opinion was affected by Frankie’s tight sweater.

  And there was the suspicious, dramatic change before and after Frankie’s visit to the bathroom—but Dez decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  “Sure, we can chance it,” Dez said. “It’s not bad. And it’s only about a half-mile.” Ten minutes, tops, even if they walked slowly.

  But when they got a block away from the bistro, the skies completely opened and it started to pour. Frankie squealed, the way she might have if she had been on a date with a boy, and Dez took her hand and they started to run like schoolgirls, splashing through the rain on the sidewalk and soaking their feet in the huge puddle next to the curb as they began to cross Sepulveda.

  “I can’t believe how much it’s raining,” Frankie said, delight in her voice.

  And Dez would have been upset at the rain if it hadn’t been for Frankie’s sudden turn in mood and her joy at everything that was happening. This was how she remembered Frankie at the party, not the humorless woman of earlier this evening.

  They arrived back at Frankie’s apartment, laughing and soaking wet, and still holding hands. Frankie fumbled to get the key out of her purse, finally letting go of Dez’s hand, but just long enough to get the door open. She grabbed Dez’s hand again as she crossed the threshold, and closed the door behind her with her foot.

  Then pulled Dez close, and kissed her hard on the mouth.

  Dez kissed back.

  “Do you want to get out of those wet clothes?” Frankie asked, breathlessly, although it was more like a statement. Dez nodded and kissed Frankie’s neck. They both dropped their purses on the floor, next to the staircase. Frankie started to unbutton Dez’s Oxford shirt.

  They stumbled to the bedroom.

  ◆◆◆

  They held each other for a few minutes after they were done, and Frankie giggled, holding Dez and squeezing her.

  “I liked that a lot,” she said.

  “That was really nice,” Dez agreed, although it hadn’t been.

  “Can I tell you a secret?” Frankie asked.

  Dez knew what was coming. “What?”

  “When I said I’d been with a woman before. I haven’t. You’re my first.”

  Dez nodded, unsurprised.

  “I mean, I’ve kissed girls before, and I’ve done some other stuff. But that was the first time I’ve really, you know, been with a woman.”

  Dez nodded again.

  Frankie propped herself up on one elbow. “Oh no. You could tell.”

  Dez shrugged. “I mean, I guess so. But it’s okay.”

  “Are you sure? You don’t hate me for lying to you?”

  “There was a first time for me, too, you know. It wasn’t that long ago. A few years, I guess, but it’s not like I’ve got decades of experience.”

  Frankie was silent for a minute.

  “Like, I bet the first story you ever wrote wasn’t as good as Exodus Nights.”

  Frankie laughed. “No. Of course not.”

  “But I bet you couldn’t have written Exodus Nights without writing that first story. Just like you need your first time with a girl.”

  Frankie nodded and flopped on her back. “True enough.”

  “What was the first thing you ever wrote, Frankie?”

  She paused. “The first thing I ever wrote. Like, are we talking about elementary school?”

  Dez laughed. “How about the first thing you wrote once you knew you wanted to be a writer?”

  Frankie chuckled. “Well, that’s easy. It was a short story called The Harbor.”

  “That sounds interesting already,” Dez said. “I like harbors. Have you been to the Cabrillo Aquarium near San Pedro Harbor?”

  “Ugh, aquariums. They’re so dark and creepy.”

  “No, they’re not. I love aquariums.”

  “Fish prisons, you mean.”

  Dez cleared her throat. “Anyway, your story. What was it about?”

  “It’s kind of embarrassing.”

  “Oh now, i
t can’t be as embarrassing as telling me I’m your first girl,” Dez said.

  “Okay,” Frankie said. “It was about this guy. He was really mysterious, you know?” She shifted in the bed until her head was on Dez’s shoulder. “I tried all these tricks that they teach you in high school creative writing classes.”

  “They offered creative writing at your high school?”

  “Yeah. They didn’t at yours?”

  “Nope.” Dez took Frankie’s hand and intertwined their fingers. “Y’all are lucky. What was a trick you used?”

  Frankie chuckled and cuddled into Dez’s shoulder. “He had a nervous tic. He’d snap his fingers whenever he was cold. So I alluded to it three times, just like you’re supposed to. And—have you heard of Chekhov’s Gun?”

  “Chekhov’s gun? You’d think they’ve have told me about it in Criminal Justice by now,” Dez joked.

  “Oh, it’s not a real gun. It’s a dramatic principle.”

  Dez closed her eyes. Frankie, even when she was in a good mood, slipped into condescension easily. Dez supposed it was an innocent enough mistake to make, but it still rubbed her the wrong way.

  “If you show a gun in act one, you have to fire it by act three,” Frankie continued. “Otherwise, why show it in act one?”

  “Gotcha.”

  “I mean, it was very formulaic.”

  “That can work, though,” Dez said.

  “I guess.” Frankie shifted to get more comfortable. “Anyway, the story starts by following this sexy Parisian woman. What was her name? Elantra? Electra? Something like that. It was very un-French. And this insane East German who was paranoid. I wrote this while the Wall was still up, so it had more international intrigue.”

  “That’s very John Le Carré of you,” Dez said drily, hoping that Frankie would notice her reference. She had gone through a Le Carré phase during her freshman year, and had bought a few of his obscure novels, her reward for a successful hunt in used bookstores.

  “Hah,” Frankie said, without humor. Dez couldn’t get a read on how she was supposed to take that. “Anyway, this guy—”