“Oh. I had no idea.”

  “Clearly.” Bethany sighed and gestured inside. “I was just yelling at my television. You might as well come in and join me.”

  Victoria followed, wary. “What are we watching?”

  “The Dallas Cowboys. And they’re losing. I swear our offensive coordinator has no idea what a screen pass is.”

  As she entered the living room, Victoria wasn’t about to mention that she had no idea either. A plush, burnt-orange couch dominated the room, and a huge blanket with a longhorn on it was draped over the back. Between the couch legs and the hardwood floor of Bethany’s townhouse was what Victoria imagined could only be a genuine cowhide, which also extended underneath the low wooden coffee table. A large flat-screen television, mounted on the wall opposite the couch, was showing the football game. On either side of the TV, horseshoes hung on the wall.

  “Drink? I’m on my second margarita,” Bethany said, heading into the kitchen.

  “Sure, thanks. A margarita sounds great.”

  Alone in the living room, Victoria sat down next to the couch on a large chair upholstered with short, coarse brown and white fur that matched the rug. Even perched on the edge of the seat, Victoria felt the bristles poke through her trousers.

  Bethany was, without question, Genevieve’s friend and not hers. They’d never spent time together without Genevieve. While her host bustled around the kitchen preparing their margaritas, Victoria racked her brain for safe topics of conversation.

  The drink deposited in front of her was pink, not light-green, and when Victoria gave her a puzzled look, Bethany said, “Strawberry. Hope that’s okay.” She sprawled on the couch and gazed at Victoria. “Well. I assume since you thought she was here that you and G-Spot had an argument.”

  The margarita was strong, and Victoria mentally decided she’d have to stop at one if she wanted to drive. “Things have been a bit…rocky of late. And today was a rough day for her. I mean, I can’t say I blame her—she must be feeling really awful. And I’m sorry for the role I played in that. But honestly, storming out is no way to handle a disagreement, and—”

  “Mm. God, where did you learn how to tackle, kindergarten? Fucking defense. I swear, Victoria, you could tackle better than our secondary.”

  “I’ve obviously come at a bad time. I should let you get back to your game. Thanks for the margarita,” Victoria said, slightly irritated that her host was more interested in television than conversation.

  Bethany muted the TV and gestured at her with the remote. “Look, that’s entirely up to you. You’ve made no secret in the twenty years we’ve all known each other that you care about me and my opinion not at all. If something’s changed, by all means let me know. Otherwise, you’re welcome to watch the game, as long as you don’t root for the Giants.”

  Bethany’s eyes were blazing, and for the first time, it occurred to Victoria that she was probably an excellent litigator. Having her casual dismissal of Bethany thrown back in her face stung. “I care what you think,” she said, and she knew she sounded defensive.

  “Bull. Not only do you have no respect for me, you have no respect for my friendship with Genevieve. It’s just like back in law school—you’ve claimed her, and you keep her on the tightest leash imaginable, and no one else ever gets a piece of her.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Genevieve is an adult, fully capable of making her own choices.”

  “Victoria, how many times in the past few months have you asked Genevieve how she wants to spend the evening, instead of having already made dinner and just assuming the two of you will spend the night playing Scrabble at your place? Jesus, Tori, you’re not eighty.”

  Victoria shifted uncomfortably in her chair. What kind of masochist would upholster a chair like this? And what kind of idiot would put it in her living room?

  Bethany sat up and turned the television off. “You haven’t created any room in the relationship for her. Do you have any idea what she’s given up for you? Seriously, close your eyes for a second. I mean it—close your damn eyes. And imagine what it would be like if the rules governing recusal were different, and because your girlfriend filed the original complaint in this case, you automatically had to recuse yourself.”

  “But that’s ridiculous—that would never happ—”

  “This is a thought experiment, Victoria. Get on board. Imagine that as soon as Dalton appealed the case, you were off it. How would it feel to listen to arguments from your living room via a live audio stream, not from your comfy chair behind the bench? Imagine hearing Genevieve arguing the case in a way that’s disappointing to you, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Imagine knowing that the other justices were debating the case behind closed doors, while you have no say in the matter.”

  Victoria’s stomach churned and her neck itched.

  “What would you have to say to Genevieve in that scenario?”

  “God, I don’t know,” Victoria said, opening her eyes. “Everything. Nothing. I have no idea.”

  “And what she’s giving up because of you—it doesn’t stop with this same-sex parentage case. When was the last time the two of you spent the night at her place instead of yours?”

  “I offered last night!”

  Bethany raised her eyebrows, and Victoria knew she sounded defensive. “I can never find parking there.”

  “Bullshit. Take a cab. Or, I don’t know, invest ten minutes of your time looking for parking so that you can be in her space, with her furniture and food and shower products.”

  “Has she said something to you?” Victoria asked, equal parts angry and embarrassed. How could Genevieve discuss their private life with someone else?

  “See, this is the problem. Genevieve tries to talk to me, even while she feels guilty about it because she knows you’d have a problem with it, and she gets all twisted up, and I have to read between the lines and, really, it’s not working. She needs someone to talk to about all the changes in her life—someone who isn’t part of those changes.”

  “Like a therapist?”

  “Lord knows I’d need a therapist if I were in a relationship with you. How can you be so smart and so dense at the same time? Like a friend, Victoria. If you’re not sure what that is, look it up in the damn dictionary.”

  “Don’t be insulting, Bethany.”

  “Please. It’s one of the reasons Genevieve loves me. Which you would know if you ever paid attention.”

  “Let me get this straight.” Victoria recrossed her legs. “Jesus, Bethany, what’s with this awful chair? Are you intentionally trying to make guests uncomfortable?”

  She laughed. “No one ever sits there. I promise I won’t bite if you move to the couch.”

  The fabric was soft, the cushions enveloped her, and Victoria was instantly a thousand times more comfortable. “Am I supposed to apologize for the fact that you’re her friend and not mine?”

  “Doesn’t it get exhausting having such a black-and-white world view? People can be friends with their girlfriend’s friends. They should be, in fact.”

  “But wouldn’t Genevieve get jealous?”

  “Unless we have some kind of sexual tension that I’ve never picked up on before, I suspect not. But I’m her best friend. You’re her girlfriend. She shouldn’t have to choose between us.”

  “But you don’t like me. Why would I want to spend more time with someone who doesn’t like me? For that matter, why would I want Genevieve to spend time with you if all you’re going to do is tell her I’m awful?”

  “God, there are a dozen places I could go with that. First off, who the hell knows if I like you? I don’t even know you. Maybe we’d be thick as thieves. But second, you have to trust her. Do you really think I could convince her to leave you if she didn’t want to?”

  “Does she want to? Are you trying to convince her to leave me?”

  “Seriously? That’s what you take from what I just said? You’re a frigging judge—can’t you recognize a hypothetical argument when you hear one?”

  “Not when it comes to Genevieve.”

  “Why?”

  Victoria retrieved her margarita from the table. The liquid in the glass looked like the color she imagined her cheeks were turning. She couldn’t say it louder than a whisper, and she couldn’t believe she was saying it out loud. “Because I spend every day afraid that she’s going to leave.”

  Bethany took what Victoria could only assume was her first real breath of the evening. “That’s an awful way to go through life. Has she given you any indication that she wants to?”

  Victoria shook her head. “We’ve been arguing a lot, and I keep thinking she’s going to just give up, but no.”

  “Victoria, darling, stop operating in your relationship like she’s going to leave you at any moment. For one thing, you sound desperate, which is the least attractive quality I can think of. But more importantly, if you don’t believe in this relationship, she’ll stop believing in it too. It’s unfair to ask her to have faith for the both of you.”

  “I’d never thought about it that way.”

  “It doesn’t seem like you’ve thought of many things from her perspective.”

  “No, I have! I spend hours trying to imagine why the hell she’s still here, what the hell she sees in me. There’s no way she’s forgiven me for walking away all those years ago. She says she has, but she can’t have.”

  “Let’s face it, Victoria. You’re a control freak, to the point where you’re even trying to control when and why your girlfriend’s going to leave you. And, if you ask me, you haven’t forgiven yourself. But don’t put that on her. You two were kids. Kids do stupid shit.”

  “But I was so cruel. And she has brought it up again lately, that I ran away back then.”

  Bethany tucked one leg underneath her and rested her arm along the back of the couch. “Victoria Jane Willoughby, I can tell you in all honesty that Genevieve Fornier has forgiven you for being a shortsighted fool when you were twenty-four years old. If she’s got problems with your relationship, it’s not because of that, believe me. She’s long past moved on from that bit of history. So now it’s on you: are you going to be a shortsighted fool at forty-whatever-the-hell-you-are, or are you going to move on too?”

  “I’m not very good at moving on.”

  “No kidding. Find a way.”

  “Bethany, if Genevieve isn’t here or at home or at my place, where is she?”

  Bethany dropped her hands and reached for her drink. “Beats me. Probably having a stiff drink somewhere.”

  Victoria finished her margarita and stood. “Yes, that’s what I’m nervous about.”

  “The alcohol, or the other women at the bar?”

  “Take your pick. I should go. Shall I put this in the dishwasher?” she asked, indicating the empty glass in her hand.

  “Nah, leave it there. I’ll take care of it later.” Bethany rose and led her toward the door. “You know, this is the most you and I have ever said to each other. You’re crazy, but not half as crazy as I pretend you are.”

  “Thanks, I think. You’re a good listener. And questioner.”

  They reached the door, and Bethany paused in front of it, turning to face her. “So. Friends, then?” She held out her hand.

  “You’re a nut. But yes, friends.” Victoria shook her hand as though sealing a business deal, and Bethany pulled her into a hug, engulfing her face in hair and Aqua Net.

  “I’m sure you two will make up soon. And then maybe this time you can give me the sexy details instead of Genevieve.”

  Victoria pulled away in alarm. “She talks about sex with you?”

  Laughing, Bethany opened the door. “Good-bye, Victoria. Drive safely.”

  She drove home, deep in thought, and before she knew it she was in her kitchen again, Genevieve’s phone in her hand. She didn’t remember much from the drive home, just the way her thoughts churned and churned. For perhaps the first time, she saw the appeal, and was grateful that Genevieve had a good friend in her life. It made her momentarily jealous before she remembered her brother and his wife—she had friends too, if only she’d open up to them.

  Well, activity for another day. It was late, and she was going to bed, trusting that Genevieve would return in the morning and they would talk. And vowing to find new ways to let Genevieve take the lead in their relationship.

  * * *

  The next morning, she awoke to sunshine streaming through her window. Dreams in which she and Genevieve were in Paris, holding hands and kissing their way down the Champs-Élysées, filled her with warmth and contentment. For weeks, she’d been dreaming about work; it was ironic that the night Genevieve stormed out on her, she finally had happy dreams about her. Maybe Bethany’s sage words from the night before had given her some comfort.

  Putting on her glasses and heading into the kitchen for some coffee, she vowed to call Bethany and thank her. That seemed like what friends would do.

  The coffee was brewing and she was rifling through the fridge, searching for yogurt, when Genevieve’s phone, still resting on the kitchen island, beeped. She glanced at the screen, and her heart stopped.

  PENELOPE SWEET: I’m glad you stayed last night. You can keep the shirt—it looks better on you.

  Her first instinct was to throw the phone across the room. Before she did something rash, she gently placed it on the counter, grabbed her coffee, and headed into the living room.

  On her pristine, white couch, with her legs elegantly crossed, she sipped coffee because Genevieve preferred it to tea and, contrary to popular belief, she had made alterations to her life to accommodate her girlfriend’s habits. Concessions that, it now seemed, were a waste of time.

  Honestly, she couldn’t even be surprised. This was exactly what she had been trying to say to Bethany the night before—Genevieve was gorgeous and had spent her adult life in and out of casual relationships. The idea that she would suddenly settle down with an uptight closet case was absurd. Getting involved with Genevieve… Well, Victoria was basically asking for this.

  Unbidden, thoughts of Bethany came to her, and she was pretty sure she knew what Bethany would say to her right now: Yes, Victoria, you basically asked for this when you didn’t trust her. You worried so much about the other shoe dropping that you didn’t leave her a lot of options.

  Well, she had lived without Genevieve for most of her life; surely she would be fine without her again.

  It occurred to her that she had gone through about fifteen levels of assumptions and defense mechanisms, all before having finished a single cup of coffee. There might be a reasonable explanation.

  But Chief Justice Kellen O’Neil wouldn’t care one iota that Victoria’s personal life might be falling apart. The justices’ conference started in two hours, she still needed to shower, and there was a pile of briefs on her desk that she needed to glance at first.

  On mornings when Genevieve was there, once she’d had her coffee, she left the cup on Victoria’s table in the living room or the kitchen island or, really, anywhere other than the sink or dishwasher. Bethany, too, seemed not to care about errant drinking receptacles loitering about the house.

  Fuck it, she thought. And when she left the mug on the coffee table, she didn’t even use a coaster. I can be relaxed.

  * * *

  Turned out she couldn’t leave the house without putting the mug in the dishwasher. Some personality traits were just too hard to change overnight. Or maybe ever.

  She arrived in her private chambers with thirty minutes to prepare for the conference. The same-sex parentage case was the last one they’d hear until January, and they would be reviewing the arguments of all the cases so far this term.

  Kellen’s suit was wrinkled, Alistair had huge bags under his eyes, and even Michelle Lin looked drained. The judicial calendar wasn’t unlike the academic one, and Victoria was reminded briefly of a bunch of undergraduates worn out at the end of the semester, trudging through a grueling finals period.

  “We begin with the voting rights case,” Kellen said. “Alistair, your thoughts.”

  “I still maintain that the Court made a grave error in 2013 when we overturned large portions of the Voting Rights Act. The arguments in this case put forth compelling reasons to reinstate the spirit of the original act, while avoiding some of the constitutional gray areas.”

  “I agree with Alistair,” Jason said. “The Fourteenth Amendment issues here require us to intervene in state laws that put undue demands on would-be voters, especially minority voters. The number of polling places in minority-concentrated districts that have been closed since the 2013 decision came down is staggering.”

  “I see no evidence of actual harm here,” Jaworski chimed in. “The plaintiffs have no cause to have filed, much less appealed, this case.”

  Michelle rolled her eyes. “Really, Anthony, you want to consider this on procedural grounds? This is a civil rights issue, and you know it. Hiding behind procedure is at best kicking the can down the road, and at worst a weak attempt to avoid grappling with the very real, very serious racism in this country.”

  “Racism? Really?” Matthew Smith, who was about the whitest man imaginable, was actually turning pink. “How dare you imply someone is a racist if they feel that the Constitution simply does not support the contradictory and even irresponsible demands that the Voting Rights Act put on select states? You’re an artist, so let me put this in terms you can understand: style is substance. Procedure is content. We are required by our oaths to interpret the Constitution in all of its technicalities.”

  Victoria could practically hear Michelle’s blood boil. “Our oaths? You’re bringing up our oaths right now? Supporting and defending the Constitution requires us to use common sense, not use phrases like ‘constitutional textualism’ as reasons to avoid doing our jobs.”

  “Michelle,” Kellen cut in, a hint of warning in his voice, “it’s Ryan’s turn to speak.”

  Ryan Jamison took his sweet time, and when he did finally open his mouth, nothing of substance came out. “I’m leaning toward restoring the VRA, but I’d like to read the opinion drafts once they’re written before I choose which one to sign my name to.”