“Is it wrong to have a crush on the Hulk?” Sunny had said.
“You mean Bruce Banner?” Win asked. If so: definitely wrong. Mark Ruffalo was older than their dad.
“I mean Hulk. Big, green. Kinda grumpy. Kinda sexy.”
“Well, he’s not to my taste, but you do you.”
Sunny never did anything else. She scooped up a handful of the popcorn sitting between them and then said, “So who is? To your taste, I mean.”
A question Win had spent most of her life evading with a change of conversation, or a supple little lie that slipped out before it could be stopped.
But that day, with her sister, she wanted to tell the truth.
It wasn’t easy.
“Valkyrie,” she managed. More croak than word. “Definitely more my type.”
“Yeah, she’s hot.” Except Sunny’s tone suggested the point had failed to strike.
“And Hela.” There was still a distinct shake in Win’s syllables as she said it. “Particularly when she’s not all antlered up. And, y’know, I’d take Topaz over Thor.”
Sunny was nodding, slowly, like she’d shifted from appreciating an aesthetic to understanding there was something more going on. She didn’t say anything though. On Sunny, silence meant that she was trying to listen, which meant Win had to talk.
Win cleared her throat and kept her eyes on the screen. “Are you sensing a theme?”
“Yes.” The word burst out of her and Sunny wrapped Win in a hug that lasted until the end of the film. As the credits rolled, she shuffled up straighter and added, “Just to check. That was you telling me you’re a lesbian, right?”
Win would never have guessed that three months later she’d be telling the girl who lived next door.
The day should have been perfect. In many ways it had been – Win had caught the train to Leeds, the journey there an exquisite agony of anticipation, her phone out as she and Riley sent each other a barrage of updates. Selfies from the train, the view from the window, Riley’s walk from her house into the centre of town, Win poring over the pictures, barely able to believe she was finally going to see her girlfriend in person. Her whole soul was nerves, leaving no room for any other thought or feeling that didn’t relate to Riley, until she was speed-walking through the barriers at the station and then they were together, arms wrapped round each other in delight, breathing each other in and finally relaxing in relief.
No kisses.
No hand holding.
That would come later, when they were both ready. For now, being close, hearing her, seeing her – that was enough.
The plan was to head to the cafe Riley’s sister worked at – nestled between a barber and a dentist on the same road as the gay bars that came to life long after Win would go home – then they’d catch whatever was showing at the Queer Film Festival. A holiday into Win’s future, with the girl she wanted to kiss in the present.
Like any holiday, Win became more aware of herself, of the confidence that she usually held close, the side of her that only her sister and her friends online got to see, because they were the only ones who knew how to look.
That day, with Riley, Win glowed.
“I can’t believe I get to do this.” Riley squeezed Win’s hand, their fingers fused together as they left the cafe.
“Me neither.”
And because she felt bold, because she felt brave, because she was feeling so utterly herself, Win lifted their hands and pressed a single kiss to Riley’s knuckles, delighting in the grin she got for it – the promise of a kiss that crept closer with every second.
As the two of them stepped onto the pavement, Win turned to look for the bus stop.
And saw her next-door neighbour.
When Win looked back at that moment – which she did, a lot – she wasn’t sure what really happened. She knew she let go of Riley’s hand. Knew that she’d had a moment of hope in which she thought she might have gone unnoticed, because that was, after all, Win’s superpower.
Except it wasn’t. She was only human and she was standing right in front of Freya Newmarch, outside a cafe called Bi Artisan Bakes, whose menu was a list of gay puns.
“Winnie!” Freya didn’t know Win well enough to realise that only her parents and teachers called her that. The searing blue of Freya’s gaze shifted to Riley in a less-than-subtle question that Win was not prepared to answer.
“Freya. Hi,” Win said. “We’re in a bit of a rush, so…”
“Of course.” Freya half-turned to the man behind, who was frowning down at his phone and muttering something about this not being the viaduct he’d been thinking of, before she gave Win a superficial, “I’ll see you around.”
Post-date, Win’s head should have been nothing but endorphin clouds and memories of kissing Riley round the back of the community centre where they’d just watched a series of shorts, the slight hint of salt from the popcorn and the warmth of another mouth on hers, lips as much smile as kiss.
But Win’s joy came tempered by worry about Freya. Most of what she knew came from neighbourly interactions – invitations to the occasional barbecue or that one time Freya’s mum invited everyone over for drinks at New Year – and a little from attending the same school, one year apart. Freya didn’t inhabit the same corners of the internet as Win, but her profiles were public and nothing Freya did went undocumented – or unnoticed. Everyone at Buckthorn knew who she’d kissed on the French trip, who her friends were and where they would be…
An existence that was the antithesis of Win’s.
That night, between a stream of wistful messages to Riley and excitable updates on the group chat, Win scrolled through Freya’s feed, filling colour into familiar outlines, building a more detailed picture of someone who used her own secrets as currency for attention, who didn’t shy away from asking public questions of things better kept private, and who (it appeared) knew every single person in the entire school one way or another.
Including Sarah Evans, who’d been seeing Win’s cousin Gen since the two of them battled it out in the final of a regional debating competition, and Andy Ho, whose parents were friends with Win’s.
On the day of the date, confidence had come from feeling in control and Freya had wrenched the wheel from Win’s hands without even wanting to drive: the only option was to wrench it back.
Her hand was remarkably steady as she reached to knock on the door the following morning.
Freya opened it, bare limbs and feet, hair wild, eyes narrowed against the sunshine. She was pretty and slender and sleepy, like a pedigree cat woken from a nap.
“Oh. Hello again.”
Win couldn’t gauge anything from that.
“Hi.” A breath, then, “Sorry for running off yesterday. I thought maybe we could have a chat about that.”
“I mean, it’s fine. You were with your friend and I was with my dad…”
Friend. A word to give Win a way out. But she was here now. She had prepared. And that word still held wriggle room that would give Freya power over a narrative that belonged to Win.
“I’d still like to talk. If you’re free?”
Instinctively she slipped out of her Converse and followed Freya barefoot across cold stone tiles and into the hollowed-out belly of a house that only resembled Win’s from the outside. Inside was chillier, less homey, with one enormous room doing the work of three – kitchen, dining room and lounge all wrapped as one around the hall.