The blanket lay loosely around us, keeping the loft’s mid-morning heat contained. Drowsiness hung to my muscles, insisting that I did not move, that I did not utter a word to disturb the blissful peace of waking with a woman’s arm wrapped around my stomach. 

Her face nestled against my shoulder. Her warmth bade any tensions in my body to relax, and her touch, kind and soft and gentle, whispered sweet secrets I hadn’t realized I’d missed.

You are safe. 

My fingers found their way to her hair and ran down her scalp. For a moment, I closed my eyes and inhaled the scent of wildflowers on a hot summer day, scattered around the edge of an expansive forest. The sunlight kept the chill distant, and the smell of tepid earth dismissed any sense of danger being in the wilds alone. 

You are safe. 

I kept a lock on my door as a teenager – after using my dog’s ability to open it as an excuse to have one installed. In the still of the night, when she rested in my bed, I would creep and secure one of the two entrances. The bathroom could not be easily sealed from my side, and even still, all held a key my parents kept close. But it would be enough to give us a warning. A warning was all we needed.

You are not safe.

I climbed into the bed, the old frame creaking beneath the added weight. Summer approached quickly, but Portland held a certain frosty touch at night. I curled beneath the blankets and she drew closer, pressed herself against my side. I put an arm around her. I closed my eyes. I told myself I would wake should my parents seek to open the door. 

Morning came with a rattle of the hollow-frame, startling me and my companion into a heart-pounding alertness. I pulled away from her. She looked at me. I went to answer the door and found my mother on the other side, irritated that I locked her out. 

You are not safe. 

I assured her I would not do so again. I pretended to forget this promise each time my companion stayed the night. 

As I reached the end of my Sophomore year of high school, my mother took me and my companion out to get our nails done. My companion never had someone touch her feet before, and the new sensation invoked a sense of anxiety. As I sat in my chair, she reached out to me, and I took her hand. Her shoulders relaxed and an easy smile crossed her lips. She ran her thumb across my skin and let out a heavy exhale. 

Mother and the workers watched. I acted as if I did not notice.

You are not safe. 

My companion excused herself briefly to use the restroom. I watched her go, avoiding the eye contact my mother sought on my right. 

“They think you’re gay,” she hissed. “You shouldn’t hold her hand like that. The workers are whispering things about you.” 

You are not safe. 

My companion returned. I did not take her hand. 

I lay on the family couch with my friend after a long day of college. Sun burst through the wall of windows on our left. A fire crackled within the wood stove, filling the air with a hot, homey smell of burning wood. Idly, we watched a trash show and messed around on our phones. My head rested against hers. 

My mother entered. She looked at us.

“Aren’t you sitting a little close?” she said. “There’s the whole rest of the couch.” 

You are not safe. 

“You shouldn’t be so affectionate, people are going to think things about you.”

You are not safe. 

“You don’t have to hold her hand, you know. Even if she wants you to.”

You are not safe. 

“Why does she hang on you like that? You shouldn’t let her touch you so much.”

You are not safe. 

“If your friend was gay, we wouldn’t let her come over.” 

You are not safe. 

“Your school called. They told us you’re attending a gay club.”

You are not safe.

“You aren’t gay, Lauren. That’s wrong. That’s sinful. That’s sick.” 

You are not safe. 

Her face pressed against my neck. Chills spiraled down my spine. I ran my nails down her back, slow and gentle as she breathed against my skin. I did not want her to leave. I did not wish for her to escape my grasp and return to her life. I wanted to keep her in the one place I truly felt safe. I wanted her to stay here with me in my home, to wait before we faced what the world held for us on the outside. I wanted to unlock my door and leave it cracked.

You are safe.

I could not feed off my selfish desires forever. I would need to abandon my shelter from time to time. I would need to let her live her own glorious life so that I might continue to construct safety in mine. I told her to come back soon. We murmured our farewells. 

“You can bring your female friends around, you know,” my mother said. I leaned against her kitchen counter, nursing a strongly alcoholic mimosa. I watched her as she cleaned carrots, washing them in the sink beside me. A crowd of blood relatives filled the house with noise, with laughter, with enough buzz I could feel my body start to tense. 

My cousin brought her boyfriend. I came alone.

“I know,” I replied. I took a sip. The champagne burned on the way down. Oranges flooded my nostrils and gave me a new sensation to focus on for a moment. 

“We wouldn’t treat her any differently,” mother went on. “You know that, right?” 

“Sure,” I said.

“I’m just not okay with PDA in my house. But I think you’d respect that, right?”

“Sure,” I said. My cousin and her boyfriend cuddled on the couch.

“Well, I just want you to know that I’m okay with meeting her.” 

“Okay.” 

She took her carrots to the stove. I watched her go. I topped off my mimosa with more champagne.

You are not safe.

My brother is considering marriage. 

He and his soon-to-be fiancee peered through glass windows and considered rings two nights ago. She came with him to his birthday dinner hosted at a local restaurant. She hugged him. She leaned against him. She held his arm, his hand. They displayed the affection outlawed to me because of who I love.

My mother took her phone out for the fifth time that night while I swallowed the final drops of my third drink. The alcohol calmed my nerves, it relaxed anxieties around group situations with relatives. It made the world hazy, and blissful, and warm. It made the world feel safe. She lifted her camera and gushed about how cute my brother and his partner were. She snapped photos and lamented on how pretty the two were together. She expressed her undying excitement about how they might get married.

I took a bite of the apple crisp dessert offered before me. The mix of sweet honeycrisp layered with cinnamon, cardamon, and topped with a tart cranberry burst across my tongue, brought a new feeling to hold onto for the moment. 

I am happy for my brother. Unendingly so for him to find someone whom he would consider spending his life with. I am jealous of him for receiving the approval of my parents that I will never have. 

I cannot tell my mother about the women I fancy. I cannot tell her about the sweet whispers we share, the dates we go on. I cannot hold a woman’s hand and expect her nose not to wrinkle, her lip not to lift with disgust. 

You are not safe. 

Soberness reached me as I settled into my car. It rumbled to life and heat poured from the vents, hurriedly warming the vehicle. It smelled of chilled metal. The leather bit into my palms as I got it moving down the road. 

I am happy for my brother.

I am mad I will never receive the same joy around someone I like. 

You are not safe. 

I opened the door to my tiny house. I locked it behind me, shed my jacket, my shoes. I sat down on the couch. My hand ran down along my face, smearing the eyeliner around my eyes. I looked to the ceiling and took a deep breath. 

Wildflowers. Wildflowers on a hot summer day, near the edge of an expansive forest. The smell of baking earth. 

You are safe. 

I closed my eyes. I rested for just a moment – a few minutes and nothing more. I let myself remember the security of my home. The security of myself. The security of letting her hold me in the blistering winter morning and feeling, for the first time in years, that I wasn’t afraid of being found out. 

You are safe. 

I am safe.