Cut the Deck (Lesbian Story)

Neon No-Shirt

Acknowledging Nyla's natural curls and beautiful ebony skin💛

I made it. Thirty minutes late, hair frizzing, thighs sticking to your leather seats, and completely overdressed—but I made it.

"I'm Celine, but you can call me Ms. Doris!" a woman in her mid-30s announces while power-walking toward me. She sticks out her hand with the enthusiasm of someone who probably alphabetizes the lunchroom condiments. I shake it stiffly, flashing a smile that's 40% polite, 60% "I should still be asleep."

Then she hands me a neon green T-shirt that looks like it crawled straight out of a highlighter's ass. I stare at it... then at her... with the exact expression of someone who just realized their life choices have led them to this moment.

"Do I have to?" I groan. Because—Versace. And because it's eighty-something degrees, and I am not roasting for free.

"You are a volunteer, right?" she chirps. "We give all our volunteers a T-shirt and a complimentary water bottle for their amazing service. Water bottle comes later!"

The way she says water bottle reminds me of how people talk to toddlers about stickers.

I plaster on a sour smile, then reluctantly take the shirt.

Ms. Doris keeps smiling, waiting—demanding—that I slip it on. And I realize... yeah. I'm not leaving until I do.

I sigh dramatically, yank the shirt over my head, and feel my soul exit my body.

Beautiful. Stunning. Deck Guery, a globally known model and influencer, now baking like a rotisserie chicken in neon green volunteer merch.

"This way," she says, with shade so heavy you'd think she planted me under a tree. "Let's join the volunteers who arrived on time."

Okay. Ms. Doris has jokes.

I roll my eyes and follow.

We walk onto a long stone pathway lined with trimmed hedges and too many statues. The other volunteers are scrubbing bronze feet, brushing dirt from marble robes, picking leaves off lawns like they're in some kind of landscaping bootcamp. They all stop when they see us.

Ms. Doris clears her throat. "Everyone, this is—"

"NO WAY! That's Deck Guery!" a freckled boy with hair like a flaming tumbleweed blurts out.

A wave of whispers spreads.

"Is it really her?"

"She looks taller online—"

"She's even hotter in person."

"She dates athletes."

"No, she dates models."

"No, she's too famous to date!"

I force a half-smile, used to the gawking. Another day, another crowd treating me like an Amazon package they didn't order but are excited to open.

"She'll be joining you all today," Ms. Doris says. "Try to stay focused."

The stares burn into me as I scan their faces. I expect strangers.

But then—I see her.

The girl from Jay's house.

Joe's babysitter.

The one with the warm smile and soft voice.

What was it—Nora? Naya? Nat—?

Nyla.

Her bronze skin glows under the sun, her curls split into two puffy ponytails, sheltered by a bright pink bandanna knotted at the edge of her hairline. She's crouched down, painting the base of a statue like she's being gentle with it. She looks so peaceful, so pretty, so... unaffected by my presence.