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You win a trial, you sneak into a bar. Simple as that.
Leah knows she could’ve said no. She could’ve said no, and they all would’ve gone without her, but she still could’ve said no. Not like having a fake ID was much of her choice anyway, considering how Fatin wrangled these up without asking if it was wanted in the first place. It’s as if she knew they’d get a successful verdict; she confidently sold her watch, Venmoed the guy who knows a guy who knows a girl that makes fakes and, bam, here they are.
Well, kind of.
They had to experience some turmoil, such as what felt like endless hours of their lives practicing for the courtroom, and then even more endless hours actually in the courtroom, to get to this moment. It was cumbersome, sometimes embarrassing, and unnecessarily pedantic. If anyone dared to ask for Leah’s description, that is.
A jury and a judge and a bunch of people in suits and pencil skirts, watching each of them while they felt like open wounds bleeding out, as they hedge all their bets on these strangers not mistaking it for ketchup. Yeah, it was nice being with each other, showered, in real beds, with consistent meals, but… it was scary.
Their case has gotten press. As much as Leah hates it, she also completely understands. If she weren’t herself, she’d be morbidly intrigued by Gretchen, a woman who did experiments on teenagers like they’re rats in a lab under the guise of girl power. It should’ve been a television show that Dot raves about but, alas, it's something she experienced.
And now they’re being perceived by people who don’t fucking get it.
Even the empathetic messages make Leah angry. Not as angry, but still angry. At least a little bit. Less on a good day. The therapist she's been essentially forced to see told her that's normal, but she struggles to believe it. The lady has a throw pillow with the word “JOY” in what she could only describe as a calligraphy-adjacent, wine mom design on it, for God’s sake. Not very trustworthy.
This is all a bad idea, but she doesn’t care much about how good or bad ideas are anymore. It’s more like, is it against her morals? Does she feel like it?
If it's a no and a yes, in that exact order, then why the hell not?
So, she’s hand-in-hand with Martha as they amble down the sidewalk, not bothering to be as fast of walkers as those ahead of them. Martha is someone who’d stop and smell the flowers, but it’s a damp evening with streetlights that enhance the wetness underneath their feet.
Nothing is appealing, and honestly, Martha seems to be vibrating at the prospect of underage drinking in a public place tonight.
“How do people order drinks?” Martha asks, and Leah isn’t sure if it's rhetorical. “Is there a menu?”
“Is it weird that I have a deep desire to ask for a Scotch? On the rocks?” Leah replies.
Martha giggles, then her face lights up. “Oooh, or a Sex On The Beach!”
“All fun and games until you have actual sex on a beach. Sand in your slits.” Leah leans into Martha, nudging her a bit.
They get in just fine, the bouncer skimming their plastic cards with little care. They must pass as 21… or that guy is terrible at his job. Either way, she’s grateful for one less annoyance.
Fatin struts through the bar like she’s been here a million times before. It’s convincing enough, since nobody else finds it odd.
“Ladies, this is what I’m talking about!” She says over her shoulder, a quiet excitement.
Shelby reaches over and shakes Fatin, just as thrilled, if not more. “I can’t believe that moron let us in! But, Lord, I’m not complainin’! Happy to be here!”
Toni snorts, watching her girlfriend’s contagious energy illuminate their group.
“I feel so out of place,” Nora’s soft, always wavering voice says. She smiles in a way that makes Leah wish she wasn’t still holding resentment. “And for the first time, that's exciting.”
Nora carries herself with a sympathetic innocence. It works like a charm, really - she receives fond looks from each of the girls after speaking, even when she simply states a fact, or unnecessarily comments.
Leah is civil now. Harmonious, even.
That doesn’t mean the desideration of forgiveness mixes well with Leah’s tendency to hold a grudge. Or how she wakes up swimming in sweat, trying to calm herself down, repeating over and over that she's in her bed and not the hole.
Rachel, the person who Leah really hones it all in for, links her arm with her sister’s. “It’s true. Nora's said that about everywhere except the library.”
Leah observes their own moment. And they deserve all the moments, she knows this. Yet, still: a small sting. How Nora made her life better and worse, all the same. How Rachel was saved in possibly the most convoluted way. Everything is great, except for how terrible everything was.
The bar is dimly lit, a few people scattered around. The bartender is a factually beautiful woman, Leah notes. She doubts anyone would argue with that, though. The tips she gets each shift are probably through the roof. It feels liberating, knowing she's using her assets for her own gain, until the implications sink in.
Leah isn’t going to drink tonight, anyway. She’s not sad. But she’s not happy, either. There's not much of a point if there isn’t any reason.
As soon as Fatin sets her elbows on the bar table, a man slinks up next to her. A well-groomed beard, piercing blue eyes—the kind that makes you uncomfortable. His teeth are almost too white, like something you’d see for a Crest commercial. Probably in his late 20s. Early 30s, if he acquired the good genes. Or has Botox.
He talks laxly. Leah can tell simply based on how his words are formed with his over-salivated mouth, how he’s speaking in hushed tones. It’s a move, obviously. Fatin has to scoot in closer to hear. She knows this, he knows this.
Why Fatin goes for it is beyond Leah’s understanding. Maybe it’s the thrill, or just the need to feel normal again.
On instinct, Leah moves in, wrapping her arm around Fatin’s shoulders.
The guy looks at her. Not like he's intimidated, or sorry—which isn’t what Leah was going for—it’s more so curious, if anything.
“Who’s your friend?” he asks Fatin. Leah was right about his voice.
Fatin looks up at Leah, an inquisitive smile on her face. “This is Leah.”
Leah didn’t plan this far ahead. Okay, she didn’t plan at all. She hates that she’s wearing a gray t-shirt, because she can feel her armpits sweating, and she knows it’ll soak through the fabric and leave a stain.
“That's right,” she replies, sounding like a machine that hasn’t been on for years but is expected to work in a pinch. “Saw you two getting cozy. Figured I should, y’know, cut in.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Fatin raise a brow. But she can’t focus on that, move her gaze elsewhere. She keeps her eyes locked onto the man’s face. Is she even blinking? She can’t tell. Whatever, it’d probably be more threatening if she weren’t.
“Sorry, but Fatin seems perfectly capable of making her own decisions,” he says, his lips puckered slightly. If Leah knew she could throw a good punch, she’d be more tempted to do it. But instead, all she wants to do is bite.
“Right, well. She decided to be with me, and I’d hope some douchebag at a bar isn’t going to change her mind,” Leah retorts.
Unfortunately, she knows the non-robotic thing to do now would be to turn to Fatin. As she does, Fatin isn’t sneering. She’s still smiling. It probably looks like her facial expression hasn’t changed at all, but Leah is an expert in Fatinisms.
It’s a hybrid, since Fatin is naturally complex.
Impressed. Likely because of Leah’s leadership. But also fascinated… likely for the same reason.
Fatin puts a hand around Leah’s waist. “She’s so protective. Must really love me, huh?”
Leah’s cheeks heat up. And that could mean anything, since she’d turn red after one flight of stairs, thank you very much.
The guy chuckles a little. Checks his watch, “Alrighty then, ladies. I’ll let you two be.”
Fatin squeezes Leah’s hip as they watch him walk away.
“Interesting tactic, Leah. Have us be gay lovers so you can gatekeep hooking up with a middle aged hottie?”
This makes Leah pull away from the mutual touch. She's frustrated at Fatin’s choice of words, but when is she not?
She crosses her arms over her chest. “Yeah, mhm. That was my intention. I just have to be unique in my statutory rape.”
Fatin rolls her eyes, laughing softly. “I’m kidding.” She reaches back out, her fingernails tapping against Leah’s hand.
Leah doesn’t respond.
“Aw, now my girlfriend is giving me the silent treatment? I thought our relationship was healthy,” Fatin nearly coos, pulling Leah’s palm out from her protective stance, playing with her fingers. “I’d never cheat on you, baby. You know it.”
Hating how the words make her heart quicken, Leah plays it off as well as she can. Historically bad, she’ll admit it. “The last thing any of us need is to be going off with strangers, Fatin.”
Fatin looks up at her through her lashes, probably to soften the sarcasm blow. “Hey, I wasn’t going to do anything. Plus, you totally saved me, so it’s all good.”
Leah wants to pull her hair out. Each strand, one by one, and swallow them. Leaving a giant Fatin hairball in the pit of her stomach to cough up later. Maybe she’d keep it forever, instead.
“You’re notorious for making poor choices, and we just experienced the first good thing to happen to us in a year. Can you blame me for swooping in?”
Fatin’s face, somehow, simultaneously hardens and softens. “What the fuck ever, Rilke. I’m not a dumbass.” A pause. “Look at how much fun they’re having.”
Leah turns toward their friends. Rachel, Toni and Dot at the pool table; Shelby guarding their drinks as she whoops and hollers. Martha and Nora, sitting on a couch, pushed up against each other. They’re laughing, and Leah can’t hear it, but she knows what it’d sound like, so their familiar giggles reverberate through her head.
She sighs.
“I don’t know how they do it.”
Fatin’s touch is galvanizing. Especially when it’s meant as reassurance. “By letting go.”
Leah, stagnant as a moody teenage girl, wants to cry. She wants to cry and yell, because nothing feels resolved, even though all of it is. Justice was served, right on a silver platter. She earned it. She testified, she mulled over details, she cried in hotel rooms. She ate late night Takis with Toni, had 3 am heart-to-hearts with Shelby, held Rachel as she attempted to be unburdensome to Nora, relied on reality TV reruns with Dot, and, as always, confided in Fatin.
Fatin makes it easy. That's the crux of it all. When things are hard, turning to her is like taking a hit of an inhaler. Leah can breathe again.
She glances at Fatin, who is already looking at her.
“You understand me better than anyone else,” Leah says, delicately. “You cunt.”
Fatin’s face breaks out into a grin. “‘Cause I care about you. Bitch.”
Leah scans Fatin’s features. She virtually forgot what happiness looks like on her. Hell, maybe she never knew, since life wasn’t as great to Fatin as she once assumed.
“Come with me,” Fatin insists, pulling Leah all the way out the back door. It’s still humid, but the night air hits her nicely.
Fatin interlocks their fingers. Smiles with all her teeth. “I’ve been thinking—”
“—Whoa, what? No way,” Leah interrupts.
Fatin shoves her shoulder with a free hand. “Shut the fuck up.”
They both laugh a little. It feels like old times, except they’re not on an island, and they’re free, and they won.
“Contrary to your belief, I wouldn’t have gone off with that perv,” Fatin says. She twists her mouth up. “I’m not as big of a fan of casual as I used to be.”
Leah doesn’t know why Fatin is telling her this, but she’s positive Fatin has thought the same about many things Leah has rambled on about. She deserves a listener, too.
“Why’s that?” Leah asks, hoping that's what Fatin wants. To talk.
“Like I said” —Fatin squeezes Leah’s hand— “because I care about you.”
Leah swallows back what feels like a bucket of spit. She can feel her nostrils flair, as they often do when she feels any turbulent emotion.
“I care about you too—”
“—In what way?” The words quickly pour out of Fatin’s mouth.
“You’re my best friend, Fatin. And, I don’t know, fuck, I’d do anything for you. Does that- is that good enough?” Leah demurs, despite having nothing to be defensive about.
“Leah, ” Fatin enunciates. “This isn’t supposed to be stressful. It’s me and you. I’m being honest, because Toni told me to, but Toni fumbles bad bitches left and right, so who knows if she was the best lesbian to take advice from.”
Leah chuckles, albeit nervously. “Yeah. Probably should’ve asked Shelby.”
She can see Fatin nod in her peripheral vision. Her hand is squeezed again.
“You’re on my mind. Constantly. And it’s not what I’m used to,” Fatin admits. “I can get over it though. Just gotta, shit, I dunno, get bicurious with another chick.”
Leah gets angry at the mere thought of that.
“Nonono, you’re not- no, ” Leah argues, pulling away from Fatin, removing her now clammy hand to flail it around. “I’d kill myself. Seriously, I know the suicide card is toxic middle school boy behavior, but that’d end up with me in a straitjacket.”
Fatin laughs, because of course she does, but it ends with a sigh. “You can’t keep me if you won’t have me.”
“What? I’ll- Fatin. I’ll have you. Are you joking right now? I’d so clearly have you that it makes me sick. You’re hot and cool and way out of my league, so much so that I still believe this is a cruel prank, and I literally, which I mean since I hate when you use the word literally inaccurately, would eat dog shit if it’d make you smile.” Leah lets out an exhale, stopping in her pacing tracks. “So. Yeah.”
Fatin’s face doesn’t give anything away for a solid minute, which scares the fuck out of Leah.
Until Fatin pulls Leah by the arm, encasing herself against the brick wall.
“M’kay, up to you. Dog shit or kissing me?”
Easiest choice ever.