“Oh, Zoya.” When Camille pronounces my name, she puts the emphasis on the last part. Nobody says it like she does. “Oh,” she moans.

She doesn’t ask me for anything else, for anything more. No fingers. No directions. As though the desire in my heart has a direct line to hers. We’re connected. And I know all of this sounds ludicrous. Like teenagers under the influence of their cruel hormones. Yet, this is how it is. And as Camille shudders beneath me, her body giving itself up to me, her sex pushing into me, I know that Jason was right. I’m in love with her.

Chapter Ten

The next day, when Camille and I are on the way to the restaurant to meet Caitlin and Josephine for dinner, Camille asks me all kinds of questions about them, while all I do is regret agreeing to this, because it might only be dinner, and yes, we have to eat, but it cuts brusquely into my time alone with her.

“So, Caitlin is a writer and she works for television as well, and she used to be a professor in the United States,” Camille summarizes what I’ve just told her.

When Caitlin and I set up this dinner on Monday morning—not even forty-eight hours ago—I had no idea that my feelings would intensify even more. That every minute spent away from Camille would feel like trying to write something without the use of my fingers. Not just an inconvenience but like vital parts of me were missing.

“Seeing as you love to google so much, you should google Caitlin some time. She’s quite a big deal in the US. Although us Aussies quite like her as well.”

“I’ll friend her on Facebook. Then I will know all about her,” Camille jokes.

Last night, after we couldn’t touch anymore of each other because we were raw from too much, I gave her my thoughts on Facebook and social media in general, and how I abhor that the TV network I work for insists we send out a certain number of tweets every week. I never make my quota. When my contract is up for renegotiation, I will have a clause added that stipulates nobody can make me use any social media.

I bump my shoulder into her, relishing in the simple act of walking to a restaurant with her. A simple life with a woman I love. It’s all I want. All I need, I think. But life is not simple. And I should really stop using the L word. It makes me feel like I belong to the same demographic as Micky’s children.

“When are you going to accept my friend request?” Camille is not done making fun of my, what she called archaic and rigid, stance on Facebook. “I promise I won’t invade your privacy any more than I already have.”