"The thing is," Camila said, as she followed Louis around the clothing store, "when I'm with her I feel like... nothing else matters, you know?"
"Mmhmm," Louis said, handing Camila a dress to add to the growing pile in her arms.
"But then," Camila continued, adjusting the weight of the clothes so they wouldn't fall, "when I'm not with her... when I'm walking home, or when I'm in bed, all the other stuff... the stuff that didn't seem to matter before suddenly does matter. And then all I can think about is how my family is going to react. Or... or what this means in terms of me. I mean, I don't want to go crazy over what to label myself. I don't even want to label myself. I just know that I want her, you know?" She paused as she noticed a lady giving her a strange look. "I'm trying to question my sexuality over here, do you mind?" she snapped.
The woman looked both surprised and offended, but hurried away without a word.
Camila took a deep breath and looked up to find Louis smiling at her. "What?"
"Nothing," he said, putting an arm around her. He began steering her toward the dressing rooms. "You're going to be just fine."
"Thanks, that helps me a whole lot." Louis guided her into the first available stall and slid the curtain closed behind her.
"So what's the problem?" he asked a second later.
Camila glanced briefly at the white curtain between them as if it might contain the answer to the question. What's the problem? "The problem," she said, as she sorted through the clothes, "is that I don't know what I want."
"Camila, you've got a date with Anthony tonight and all you've done is talk about this mystery girl of yours. It's pretty obvious to me what you want. Is she going to be wherever it is you're going?"
Camila bit her lip as she began to undress. "Yes," she said.
"So you're really meaning to look hot for her."
"Yes." There was no sense in denying it. She took a black nylon dress from the pile and slipped it over her head; the material hugged her body like a glove. "Does that make me an awful person?"
"No, but it makes you an awful date."
Camila slid the curtain open so that Louis could inspect her. "Well?"
He looked her up and down and smiled. "Perfect. Don't try on anything else." He grabbed her by the waist and turned her around so she was facing the mirror. "I love the fishtail hem. You have nice legs."
"Are you hitting on me?"
Louis giggled and rested his chin on top of her head. "Camila," he said, "if you like her, then at least let her know. Don't worry about all of the other stuff right now."
"I can't just tell her," she said, horrified by the thought.
"Then at least let her know you're not straight." He paused. "Unless you're still thinking you are straight..."
"No," Camila said, thoughts of Lauren flashing through her mind. "I mean, I don't know for sure because my experience with women is entirely limited to the thoughts in my head, but those thoughts have definitely not been straight."
"Well, then, I recommend telling her that much at the very least. And you really need to stop leading Anthony on. 'Cause even if you sleep with him and enjoy it, that's not going to make you any less not-straight."
"You're right."
"I'm always right," Louis said, stepping back. "Love the dress; shoes are next."
