07 • Camille

“No you didn’t. We’ve been together for five years.”

The other woman made a noncommittal sound, taking another sip of her beer, and once again Camille was reminded of the uncomfortable stalemate she always found herself in when it came to choosing between her best friend and boyfriend.

It was an inexplicable feud that began right at their start of their introduction when Milo, with surprising maliciousness, made a comment about the killing of elephants when he saw the ivory figurine she’d gotten as a housewarming gift from her mother, and Tavie, not one to back down, called him out for being an overgeneralizing asshole.

To say the least, those were the most awkward two hours of Camille’s life.

Several attempts at reconciliation had been made since then, may have succeeded even, if the both of them were not notorious for their ability to hold a grudge—and so Camille had learned to play to both parties and had gotten good at it too, though this did not mean she did not feel the strain.

“You were telling me about the new girl,” she informed, and at this reminder Tavie immediately brightened.

“Yes! So we matched,” Tavie explained, turning to rummage through the jacket of her Gabriela Hearst suit which lay almost lazily over her chair, “got talking and found out we had a bunch of things in common. Like she doesn’t think Friends is all it’s cracked up to be.”

“Nobody thinks Friends is all it’s cracked up to be, really,” Camille mumbled.

“That's why we're friends. You’d be surprised,” the other woman said, letting out a quiet whoop of victory as she whipped out her iPhone. “Anyway, I gave her an eight but then I found out she was a doctor and upped it to a nine, because you know I love a woman in a white coat and a stethoscope.”

“Is that so?”

Tavie ignored the obvious jab, scrolling through her phone in a few short movements before holding it out to Camille, who accepted it.

“Wow,” she said, “wow.

A cocky grin split her best friend’s face. “Boy, I’ve got game.”

“I’m gonna have to agree on that,” Camille mumbled, eyes still fixed on Tavie’s phone screen.

The picture was a close-up of a Black woman whose lips were quirked in an almost-smile which only called more attention to her aesthetically-pleasing asymmetrical features, further emphasized by almond-shaped russet-colored eyes that reminded Camille of autumn.

She had one of those unconventionally pretty faces which happened to be impossible to look away from, and could’ve passed for a Modigliani painting or runway model.

“Christ, she’s a ten,” Camille said again, looking up at Tavie who grinned at her.

“Who’s the lesbian here?”

“I would turn gay for her,” she shot back, handing back the cell phone. “Don’t test me.”

“Her name is Lana, and slow down, she’s mine.”

“Oh, we’re getting possessive now, are we?”

Tavie gave a dismissive wave, placing the phone beside her on the counter before bodily shifting so she faced her.

“What about you?” she inquired. “What’s good?”

Camille made to speak but hesitated and looked to Tavie, whose face remained open, eager, and more than a little bit pleased. She knew only their easy familiarity kept her from take offense at the lapse, knew she’d gotten used to sudden breaks in conversation—time it took Camille to put away the veil of skepticism she viewed the world through, to deliberately remind herself to fall, to trust.

They’d only spoken about it once.

Another moment passed, and then Camille let go, discarding the guardedness that came so naturally to her as she eased Tavie into the workings of her life since they’d last spoken (which was not even three days past).

It was short and to the point, at least until she got to the part about Michael Brahms and the poker game.

Tavie gave a delightfully muted squeal as she leaned forward, eyes shining.

“Tell me you did not make away with 500G and then gloat about it to the other player!”

Camille let a completely innocent look fall over her face as she answered.

“Why, little old me?” a pause, “Damn right I did.”

“That’s my fucking girl!” Tavie exclaimed a little too exuberantly, and noticing her faux pas she offered a half-hearted apology to the patrons closest to them, dropping her voice to a near whisper.

“I want to be like you when you grow up.”

She was in the middle of delivering a quick retort when she realized that their party of two had been joined by a third.

It was a man, clean-shaven and handsome, with broad shoulders and intelligent eyes. He smiled when his gaze locked on Camille’s.

“You ladies look like you’re having a good time,” he said, directing his question at her.

But Tavie was having none of it.

“Yes we are,” she cut in impatiently, “thanks for asking. You can leave now.”

His eyes widened, smile dimming by a fraction, but after a jiff it came back with a vengeance, revealing laser whitened teeth which gleamed suspiciously, considering they were indoors.

He was not the type to give up, though she hadn’t expected him to because clean-cut as he was he fit into a category of men she’d long since been acquainted with.

“Well I came to see if I could get you both a drink.”

Her stint with Morgan had made her suspicious of men who offered to buy her drinks and Camille was in the process of shaking her head to refuse him when she felt the firm kick on her shin, gasped in shock and glanced up sharply to see Tavie beaming at her.

“That would be much appreciated, really,” her best friend said, doing a total 360 from her attitude earlier and Camille sighed. This again.

Ever the mooch, Tavie was always on the lookout for a deal. It didn’t matter if she could buy the whole wine lineup or even Deluxe itself and still have a fortune to spare; free drinks were a preposition she did not turn down.

The man shot a wink—an actual wink—at Camille before slinking towards the bartender, giving them time to speak.

“You’re already drunk out of your mind and you want to drink more? Don’t you have a job to get back to?”

“Pft, girl please; I bill in the most hours at C & R, basically untouchable.”

“Well, I have a job to get back to,” she said, powering up her phone to find that more than forty-five minutes had passed—she needed to head back and supervise close up.

“Just give him an excuse and bolt. I mean, he’s obviously into you.”

“You shouldn’t have let him get us drinks in the first place. I already said I’d pay.”

“Oh, you are, by letting me pimp you out.”

Camille looked to the ceiling, exasperatedly.

“I think you’re really enjoying this.”

“Yes I am,” Tavie admitted, adding, “If you could walk into a room of inebriated white men and pull a fast one on them then this is no biggie. You’re the devil.”

“Oh, honey, the devil never looked so good,” Camille responded automatically.

It was an inside joke they’d started back when they first met, though its use and reuse had completely washed out the roots of this particular tradition.

“That’s the spirit,” Tavie cheered, just as their intruder returned with their beverages.

“Milady’s,” he said theatrically, “your drinks.”

The two women shared an imperceptible glance, there and gone in seconds.

Then simultaneously, they smirked, reaching for the proffered drinks.