It was Kellen’s least favorite answer from him. Hell, it was everyone in the room’s least favorite answer. Kellen sighed heavily. “Eliot?”

  “As written, the original Voting Rights Act had constitutional problems and was an inconsistent piece of legislation. We have an opportunity here to rectify some of those problems, to, with surgical precision, issue a decision that offers the protections minority voters need while not discriminating against southern states.”

  The silence in the room was so thick it was almost palpable. Not one single justice would have predicted Eliot McKenzie would side with the liberals on this case, or speak eloquently about why.

  When Kellen said, “Very well,” no one in the room believed he meant it. “Victoria?”

  The unenviable position of speaking last meant that she seldom had original arguments to contribute. Instead, she found herself saying words she had never expected to utter: “I agree with Eliot.”

  Kellen nodded gruffly. “Well, I don’t. Matthew and Anthony, I assign myself the task of writing our position. Alistair, who’s writing for your side?”

  Alistair glanced at Victoria. They’d done more than discuss Victoria writing this opinion—she’d shown him drafts already. She nodded at him anyway, knowing what was coming.

  “Eliot, I’d like to give this assignment to you,” Alistair said.

  It was the strategic choice. There was always a chance that a justice who voted in an unexpected way in conference would change his mind at the last minute. But if he wrote the decision, he was sure to agree with it. In other words, if the liberals wanted to keep Eliot, their best chance was to let him speak for them.

  “I’d prefer not to, if that’s all right, Alistair. I have my hands full with the estate tax decision, and frankly, I think this case is more suited to Victoria.”

  Just when she thought Eliot was done surprising them.

  Consideration of their other cases proceeded much more predictably, and by lunch break, Victoria was yawning.

  She ate a kale salad at her desk, reviewing the afternoon’s cases. On her way back into the conference, she stopped by her secretary’s desk.

  “We’re officially handling the majority decision on the voting rights case. Please let the clerks know that I’d like to meet about this as soon as the conference ends—we’re going to need to coordinate a lot with Eliot’s clerks.”

  “I’ll e-mail them straight away,” Lynn said.

  Victoria turned to walk away.

  “Oh, Justice Willoughby. I thought you should know that Genevieve Fornier called for you. I asked if she wanted to be transferred to your voicemail, but she declined.”

  She studied Lynn’s face, but found no judgment or artifice there. “Thank you for letting me know,” she said, cringing inwardly at the stiffness in her voice.

  The afternoon dragged on, with benign disagreements here and there. The same-sex parentage case came up last, when all the justices were weary and ready for the weekend. No surprises as they moved around the table, and everyone’s expectant eyes turned to Jamison when it was his turn.

  “This case couldn’t be more clear-cut,” he said. “The Court should issue a sweeping decision that parental rights have nothing to do with gender, and we should require states to change birth certificates so that they ask for the two parents’ names, not a mother and father.”

  If a pin dropped on that plush carpet, it would sound like a canon, it was so silent in the room. Jamison had never spoken so clearly and strongly on a case before.

  It took O’Neill a moment to recover his voice. “Okay, then. Eliot?”

  “I agree with Ryan,” Eliot said, and he and Jamison shared a smile.

  Victoria glanced at Kellen, who looked like he was ready to ask, “What the hell is happening?” Instead, he blinked and turned to her.

  “Ditto,” she said.

  With a heavy sigh, Kellen asked, “Alistair, who’s writing for your side?”

  Alistair cleared his throat, clearly unsure how to answer. He glanced at Victoria, and she nodded at Jamison.

  “Ryan,” he said, “will you do the honors?”

  “I’d be happy to,” Ryan said.

  “Right, then,” Kellen said, gathering his papers quickly and standing. “Happy holidays, everyone. See you in January.”

  He was typically the first to arrive and the last to leave, so O’Neill’s rapid departure left the rest of them staring at each other for a moment before they, too, collected their things and headed toward the door.

  “Thanks, Victoria, for letting me write this,” Jamison said softly as he held the door for her. “I know you would have loved to write this decision.”

  “Not at all, Ryan,” she said. There was no way she was ever going to write it—she and Alistair had already agreed.

  “Merry Christmas, Victoria,” He held out his hand.

  She shook it and smiled at him. “Merry Christmas, Ryan.”

  So the parentage case would be 6-3. Genevieve and Penelope would win their case.

  Just thinking about their names together in the same sentence made her skin crawl.

  She wasn’t sure if this healthy margin of victory would make things better or worse between her and Genevieve, if there still was such a thing as the two of them. The case hadn’t needed her vote—or her powers of persuasion—after all. She could have recused herself, Genevieve could have argued, and the result would have been, for all practical purposes, the same.

  Holding her happiness at the decisive victory for gay rights against her anxiety about what would come next with Genevieve felt disorientating, to say the least.

  Chapter 16

  Sitting in her car staring at Tori’s house was becoming a bad habit. Genevieve shivered against the winter chill seeping into the car, put on a brave face, and marched to the door.

  Tori opened it shortly after she knocked and leaned against the doorjamb, a copy of Kellen’s god-awful new book on US tax law tucked under her arm.

  “Hi,” Tori said.

  “Um, hi.” Genevieve drew it out, but Tori made no move to let her pass. “Uh, can I come inside?”

  “I suppose. We have a lot to talk about.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out Genevieve’s phone. “Like, for example, why you spent the night at Penelope Sweet’s house last night.”

  She casually tossed the phone to Genevieve, whose brain scrambled. She barely managed to grab the phone before it fell into the snow.

  By the time she’d scrolled through the messages and found the one from Penelope, Tori had long since retreated inside. Chilled to the bone for multiple reasons, Genevieve trudged after her, kicking off her shoes just inside the door and frantically thinking of what to say.

  Tori was huddled in the corner of the couch, a cup of tea resting on her legs. Genevieve sat down as close as she dared, given that she had no idea which direction this conversation would go.

  “Tori, it’s not what you think. Nothing happened between us. I slept on her couch, and she loaned me some clothes. That’s all.”

  Tori turned and scrutinized her, and Genevieve suddenly felt naked. She tried to hold Tori’s gaze but failed, and she was sure Tori saw the heat in her cheeks.

  “I see,” Tori said as if she’d just decided something, and Genevieve’s heart thudded in her ears.

  “What—what do you see? I just said nothing happened.”

  “Well, regardless, you went over there for a reason.”

  “You pissed me off, and I wanted to be with someone who…I felt like was on my side.” It sounded unconvincing, even to her.

  “Mm. I don’t think you’re telling the truth—to me or yourself.”

  “I—what’s that supposed to mean?” Genevieve’s face turned red for an entirely different reason. “Don’t assume you know—”

  “It’s hard not to make assumptions when you disappear, sleep over at another woman’s house, and then can’t even look me in the eye when explaining why.” Tori looked away, her eyes bright with tears.

  Which somehow made Genevieve more angry than sympathetic. “Look, it’s no secret that things between us haven’t been great—”

  “Here it comes. Just say it. I know you’ve been wanting to.”

  “You know? How the hell… God, if you’ve got it all figured out, I don’t even need to be here for this relationship, do I? You can just imagine whatever version of me you want, make it your reality, and that’s that.”

  Tori turned back to her, shoulders slumped. “You think I want you to cheat on me? To decide this relationship isn’t worth it? I’m not worth it?”

  “Look, you’re the one who doubted this relationship from the start. Never introducing me to your friends, refusing to be seen with me in public—you never fully committed to me.”

  Tori stood slowly, as if it hurt her, walked to the fireplace she never used, and stared into its darkness. “Maybe we should take a break. Some time apart. To sort out what we want.”

  Taking a break—that was a ridiculous thing that couples did when they were too weak to call a spade a spade and just break up.

  Well, maybe she wasn’t that special after all, because she wasn’t ready to call it quits yet, just like every other sap out there currently taking a break from their relationship.

  “Sure. Yeah. A break.”

  She walked to the door, and Tori didn’t stop her. The cold hit Genevieve’s face like a wall, and the click of the door behind her echoed against the snow and the trees and the dark purple sky.

  * * *

  Genevieve stared at the steering wheel. She wanted to rage. Or cry. But nothing came.

  Looking up, she saw that the window to Tori’s bedroom had the curtains drawn, but a faint glow indicated that the lights were on. Maybe she was curled up in bed, on top of the comforter, shivering. Too angry and lost to climb under the sheets. Wondering how Genevieve could do this to her. Confirming all her suspicions that she’d never be enough.

  Genevieve reversed out of the driveway, and the next thing she knew, she was home.

  Her townhouse was dark and cold. She turned up the heat and clicked on all the lights in the living room and kitchen. The fridge held only condiments and an unopened bottle of chardonnay, in case Tori ever came by. A thin layer of dust topped a bottle of merlot, the only item in her tiny wine rack. The liquid made a satisfying sound as it gurgled into a glass, and it swelled around her insides. She wouldn’t be able to drink her problems with Tori away, but drinking a lot this one night sounded perfect.

  She found a truly awful movie on Lifetime, laughed at its oversentimentality, and eventually fell asleep on the couch.

  Too-bright sunshine woke her up, and before standing she knew she’d be late to work, even though it was Saturday. Since taking over at HER, weekends had come to mean something a lot less fun for her. The team working Amelia’s case would be spending the day in the conference room strategizing.

  Her first glass of wine from the night before, barely touched, rested on her coffee table next to her phone, which she picked up and unlocked, wondering if Tori had sent her anything.

  And then she remembered.

  She couldn’t say what exactly she was trying to achieve, but she texted her girlfriend:

  Tori, nothing happened with Penelope. Like I said yesterday, I borrowed her shirt and crashed on her couch. I’m sorry for any doubt her text gave you.

  It was eight thirty, well past the time Tori normally rose from bed. She was probably already at the farmers’ market, or else on her way there. Genevieve typed another message.

  Regarding this “break,” let’s talk again in a couple of days.

  She stared at the screen for a long time, debating how to end it. Finally, because it was true and probably always would be, she wrote I love you and tapped send.

  Well, she had work to do, and she wasn’t about to wait around for a reply. The shower helped wash away a night spent on the couch.

  At the intersection of U and 16th streets, her phone buzzed. She knew she shouldn’t, but the light was red, and she picked up the phone to read Tori’s reply.

  A couple of days—sure. Let me know when you’re ready, and we’ll see if I am too.

  For crying out loud. Passive-aggressive much? Genevieve certainly hadn’t intended to set up some kind of power play, but evidently she’d lost. Now it was on her to reach out next, with no guarantee of a meaningful response.

  Karma probably thought she deserved it, what with almost seducing another woman and all.

  Alone in the elevator on her way up to HER’s offices, Genevieve punched the button with unnecessary force and sincerely hoped for their sakes that every single one of her staff had brought their A game today.

  Chapter 17

  Drink in hand, Victoria slowly walked the length of Alistair’s library. As she read book titles, she noted with amusement the perfect alphabetical order to every bookcase.

  The soft clink of plates and forks being loaded into the dishwasher down the hall faded when she noticed a first edition copy of Poe’s The Tell-Tale Heart. The pages were brittle, framed by darker shades of tan on the edges. Turning them gently, she fell into Poe’s darkness, where hidden fears that should be deeply buried were instead starkly exposed.

  She was returning the book when Alistair’s slightly uneven footsteps on the hardwood floor grew louder behind her.

  “Well, what do you think of my little library?” He swept his hand toward the floor-to-ceiling bookcases, the wainscoting between each one sparkling with light from the delicate chandelier that hung from the ceiling. In the middle of the room, two benches with leather seats on top and books beneath called to her, and she sat.

  “I installed these two pocket doors myself,” Alistair said.

  “It’s amazing. Who did the woodwork?”

  “I hired a contractor half my age, who seems immune to the effects of such backbreaking work.”

  “Well, he did a beautiful job.”

  Alistair sat down on the bench opposite her and swiveled his cocktail in its glass. “That’s what you have to say? Nice woodwork? What about the years and years I’ve spent curating such an impressive literary collection?”

  “Alistair, this place is just like you—overwhelmingly sophisticated and impressive. And utterly impossible to do justice to.”

  “Oh, pshaw.” He shrugged, but his eyes danced with happiness.

  “You have a lot of Poe. Are you particularly interested in the gothic?”

  “More the tragic. You’ll notice Poe is situated in the same section as the ancient Greek tragedies. And Shakespeare.”

  “And Wuthering Heights? How are you defining tragedy?”

  “The same way everyone else does. Hamartia.”

  Victoria rolled her eyes. “In English, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

  “A fatal flaw. A trait that should be someone’s strength, but turns out to be his—or her—biggest weakness. A world where one’s undoing comes from within. Hamartia.”

  “Thanks for the literature lecture. So, what’s your fatal flaw?”

  “I prefer to think of my life as a comedy populated with low characters whose biggest struggles in life involve miscommunication leading to pratfalls. Where there are lots of doors that constantly get opened and closed.”

  “So, Molière?”

  “Precisely.” He clinked his glass against hers and took a drink. “What about you, Victoria? What’s your fatal flaw?”

  “As if there were only one.”

  “Ah, but you see, Victoria, only one will actually be your downfall.” His delivery was so deadpan that she almost snorted.

  “I’m sure you meant to say that I’m not a deeply flawed human being and that I should stop being so hard on myself.”

  “You say potato…”

  “Gee, thanks. I know where to turn if I ever need a pep talk.”

  “Well, really, Victoria, do you honestly believe your life is a classic tragedy? I’ve always viewed you as more of a Western. Or maybe steampunk.”

  “I can’t believe you even know what steampunk is.”

  “Well, I confess that came from my daughter. She kept raving about this steampunk novel she was reading, so I looked it up after she left. Evidently it involves Victorian England and science fiction. And steam engines. I think I connected it to you because, well…” He waved his hand vaguely at her.

  “Any chance you could finish that sentence?”

  “Oh, the Victoria/Victorian thing. But then again, what’s in a name?”

  “Following conversations with you is like following directions when Genevieve’s navigating.”

  “We were comparing your life to literary genres.”

  “Can I be a Jane Austen novel? I realize she’s not an entire genre, exactly.”

  “Of course she is. And that’s the point, Victoria—you can be anyone you want to be.” He paused and scrutinized her for a moment. “Besides, I’m detecting distinct threads of pride and prejudice weaving in and out of your life.”

  Victoria made some kind of indistinct noise and turned her attention to her glass. “What do you call this again?”

  “You mean the gin fizz or your transparent change of subject?”

  “Genevieve and I might be breaking up.”

  The glass in Alistair’s hand slipped, and he barely caught it. Maybe she’d hit him with too much truth at once. Gin had sloshed onto the back of his hand, which he wiped on his pants before clearing his throat. “And you think this why?”

  “She spent the night at Penelo— another woman’s place. And she left the next morning wearing this woman’s clothes.”

  “That all seems circumstantial. Do you have any evidence? Have you accused her?”

  “What is this, criminal court?” Victoria took a deep breath and tried unsuccessfully to prevent her shoulders from slumping. “She pled not guilty.”

  “Well, I for one have some reasonable doubt and am not prepared to convict her.”

  Victoria put her drink down on the bench and walked around the library, gazing at books without really seeing them. “My head’s spinning enough already. I can’t talk about this in terms of some third-party court case. It’s personal.”