Learning Curves

Recognizing that she was heading into what her therapist would call a negative thought pattern, Michelle set down her whisky and opened her laptop. She loaded her university email, frowning as her screen filled with unread messages. Somehow, she always forgot how much correspondence came with the start of a new academic year.

Audrey slipped into an all-gender restroom—something she was thrilled to see that her alma mater had adopted since she was a student—and took care of business.

Michelle wasn’t naive. She was forty-five years old, for god’s sake. She knew attraction when she felt it, but she couldn’t lust after her former student. She just couldn’t. Honestly, it had been so long since she’d felt anything for anyone. Her marriage had been dead romantically for years. She’d actually been excited about the possibility of feeling butterflies for someone new, but it couldn’t be Audrey.

don’t feel much of anything when I think of my parents. I’m tired of talking about them, though.”

Audrey was thirsty

“You wouldn’t be imposing. I’d love to have the company, and showing people how to use the wheel is pretty much my favorite thing.”

“Oh, but . . .” I already have one, she wanted to say, but the words got lost, because Audrey’s fingers had dipped into the top of the clay. Not all her fingers, just her index and middle finger. They pressed into the clay in a gesture so undeniably sapphic that Michelle’s skin flushed hot, and her core clenched as if those two fingers had just dipped inside her.

Audrey pressed those two fingers into the clay, and Michelle couldn’t be the first lesbian to find this erotic. Because good lord, the way Audrey’s fingers dipped into that clay . . . Michelle pressed her thighs together, hating herself for reacting this way. Audrey had invited her over to show her a skill, not for Michelle to write mental porn about Audrey’s fingers.

So wet, Michelle’s sex-starved brain supplied.

Audrey was talking again, explaining her process as the clay slowly transformed into the shape of a teacup. She kept using the word “wet,” and it was having a most inconvenient effect on Michelle. Making a teacup didn’t take as long as Michelle had expected, and she attributed that to Audrey’s talent.

Michelle should say no. Drinking alcohol while her judgment was already impaired by her rampaging hormones was a recipe for disaster. Or maybe a glass of wine would help calm her down.

The wine was a mistake. Halfway through her second glass, Michelle found that her inhibitions were hopelessly blurred. She sat entirely too close to Audrey on the sofa as she waxed poetic on the most influential women in realism, including one of her all-time favorites, Rosa Bonheur.

Too much fun, perhaps. Maybe that was why Michelle kept looking for reasons to back out. “Okay. I’ll borrow a shirt.”

“Don’t back out because of your shirt. Just borrow one. Please? We’re going to have so much fun.”

“First, you want to get it wet.” Audrey gestured to the wheel head, and Michelle really needed her to stop using that word.

She’d forgotten what the process was called.

You’re going to wet these two fingers”—she held up her index and middle fingers, making Michelle flush—

She should have declined wine and gone straight home because this . . . she should feel ashamed. Her headspace was so inappropriate, but all she felt was excitement. Her heart was speeding, and her stomach tingled pleasantly.

“Like this,” Audrey murmured, her fingers skimming over Michelle’s, making her ache.

Her whole body shuddered, and her skin flushed warm. Her knees were parted

Michelle’s lungs had lost their rhythm. Her breaths came out loud and raspy. Audrey’s fingers continued to doodle hearts on her arms, and every touch intensified the ache in Michelle’s core.

Audrey’s fingers moved, sliding up Michelle’s wrists to her forearms. She watched, mesmerized,

Hearts. She was drawing hearts on Michelle’s skin, hearts painted in clay.

She’d completely lost control, and for once in her life, she didn’t care.

Michelle sucked in several deep breaths, and Audrey could practically hear her thinking, as that sexy brain of hers attempted to make sense of things. Audrey’s brain was starting to come back online, too, whirling with a combination of I actually kissed Michelle Thompson, and That was the hottest kiss of my life, and We really shouldn’t do it again.

“I just . . . what is there to talk about?” Michelle had clearly cooled off now.

She’d known better than to see Audrey outside work. Everything about today had been a terrible idea, even if it had been so refreshingly fun and exciting, right up to the moment she’d ruined everything. Michelle wanted to curl up in a ball and cry.

Michelle wasn’t sure how she’d reached this point, where she spent each day counting down the minutes until she saw Audrey. Their time together had become the highlight of her week, especially when Audrey came to her office for afternoon tea. Michelle would sip her herbal blend and enjoy some of the most intellectually stimulating conversations she’d ever had while trying desperately not to think about the way it had felt when Audrey kissed her and how badly Michelle wanted to kiss her again.

Michelle didn’t have that kind of relationship with her own mother. The idea of drinking margaritas and watching silly movies together was too foreign to even form a mental image.

As Michelle entered Holman Hall on Monday morning, Kate’s words were still ringing in her ears. She didn’t want to hope for another kiss. Audrey had been clear that it couldn’t happen, but Michelle couldn’t seem to rein in her fantasies. And she couldn’t wait to see Audrey again. If anything, the bond between them seemed to have strengthened over the break while they were exchanging all those messages. Michelle loved this new development in their friendship.

“He’s single,” her mother added, as if Michelle hadn’t caught on to where this was going yet. “He leads the youth group at church. All the women are quite taken with him. A real charmer.”

Her mother’s lips pursed. “Why must you always be so difficult? The Christmas service is a time to see and be seen. Oliver—”

With a huff, her mother sipped from her wine. “Fine, but you’ve disappointed me greatly, Michelle. I want you to know that.”