"I didn't take MDMA that night. I just…wanted to kiss you.
…I want to kiss you now."
"You're gay?"
"No, no, I just…sorry."
"Yeah, me too."
She didn't intend for it to sound so harsh, mean.
But it's practically second nature to her now – the spite, sarcasm and all the accompanying glares and sneers – such that the scathing words are out before she could even begin to think of the gravity of their meaning, how much hurt they could inflict.
She sees her expression change. Her brown eyes flicker downwards, the admirable but momentary boldness faltering. A thought comes to her, with a suddenness and clarity that she finds unnerving: this is the most honest anyone has been with her. No pride or preoccupation with what's cool. No appearances to maintain or labels to fit into. No cryptic and offhand remarks to decipher. Just pure and simple want.
And she – Naomi Campbell, hater of injustice – has somehow managed, under 5 seconds, to trample on it.
She feels her stomach drop.
Get out of here.
The restroom is as good a hiding place as any. She leans back against the sink and lights up a fag, trying to find some distraction from the guilt that's presently eating her insides.
Her repertoire of feelings does not include guilt (because guilt only surfaces when someone recognizes that she has done something wrong and Naomi is never wrong…, right?). So she picks one that she's an expert at: defensiveness.
Honestly, how did the redhead fucking expect that to play out? For me to swoon at her confession and then make out with her for the rest of the night? Well, Jesus fucking Christ. She has kept mum all this time, just watching while her twin made me into a verbal punching bag. Now, she says she wants to kiss me? Don't you think that's a tad convenient? No, you don't get to want me now, Emily, when all those years I wanted you (wanted to know you, and maybe just be your friend even) and you didn't want me back.
There you go. Bitchiness justified, conscience cleared.
The indignation makes her feel better, as the strange feeling clutching at her chest has loosened up a bit.
And so, she tries to feed it with memories of hallway encounters with Katie, casual jabs and taken-for-granted assumptions about her sexuality, and Emily's silence. As she relives them in her mind, the small embers of indignation develop into full-blown anger. Because, you see, when the infamous and oft-referenced kiss happened years ago, it didn't just make her realize that she liked kissing girls (or perhaps, just Emily). No, she also realized that people's opinions can define you if you let them; people will twist and distort reality to suit their needs; people's comments may not have an iota of truth but they will still hurt all the same.
She tries to hold on to that anger. It's safer than guilt or any other emotion that Emily makes her feel.
The all-seeing brunette finds her that way: pensive, (guilt-ridden) and still smoking.
"Tonight's full of surprises, don't you think?" She reaches out, plucks the fag out of her fingers and then positions herself opposite Naomi, leaning back on the cubicle wall.
Naomi doesn't mind sharing a fag. What she does mind is sharing her thoughts, especially with Effy who appears to be adept at subverting her stonewalling tactics.
"I don't know what you mean." She really has no other option but to try though.
"Well," Effy says in between a drag, "Cook hasn't been a total cock tonight. Has even kept his hands to himself…so far."
"Yeah, well…" Like I care.
"Emily…." Naomi couldn't help but meet the girl's eyes when she mentions her name, "isn't entirely a doormat after all. Although, where the girl got the courage, I don't know…she isn't even drunk or high."
She doesn't know why, but she cracks a smile at that.
"And you,… you aren't as immune as you pretend to be."
Fucking useless anger.