“Of course. So, what are you going to do?” His tone softened, and she stopped her pacing to look at him, her arms hanging helplessly at her side.

  “I don’t know. When I confronted her about it, I acted like I wanted to end it, but I was bluffing.”

  “I guess you have to ask yourself how badly you want a relationship with her—what you’re willing to give up, for one, and what you’re willing to put up with from her.”

  “That all sounds so logical. I can’t answer a single one of those things.” She stared at her drink, but it offered no answers.

  “Relationships are always work. This is the work you have to do now, it seems. If you two end up continuing, you’ll have other work to do, I’m sure.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “It’s work that never stops. I suppose that’s what makes it so rewarding.”

  “I keep waiting for that part.”

  “Oh, you two have been together for a little while now. It can’t all have been bad.”

  “The first ten months or so, we were still pretty closeted. Or, I was, I guess. I took her out to one dinner to woo her back after leaving her twenty years ago, and then once we were together, I kept finding excuses for us to eat at home rather than in public, or else reasons to be too busy to eat together at all. Between my fear of going out in public with my…girlfriend, and Genevieve’s busy travel schedule, we saw each other every other weekend, maybe. It’s made for a pretty prolonged honeymoon period, but reality has hit now.”

  “You two did lay pretty low last year. I think by the time we went into our winter recess I’d figured it out, but that’s only because I know you. The other justices had no clue until that photo was suddenly everywhere.”

  “Since we’ve been outed, I don’t really have an excuse for staying home with her, and I think she’s starting to feel stifled by me. She’s been delegating more travel responsibilities to her staff, so that there are more opportunities for us to spend time together, but we’re not taking them. I think we’re both trying to figure out what all this means.”

  She trailed her fingers across some books and pictured Genevieve’s smile. “Remember when we decided the gay marriage case? Not two years ago—last year’s, when it became legal everywhere? She stormed over to the Court and cornered me as I was leaving the building from the justices’ entrance around back. She kissed me, right in front of all the people who had gathered outside, who had cameras and cell phones. Turns out no one cared—they were all too busy celebrating to notice us. I think I took it as a sign, and when we were in France the next week, I tried to be more open. Hence the picture of us kissing on the bridge.”

  “Almost kissing.”

  Victoria raised her eyebrows. “And that detail matters why?”

  “Just makes for a better photo.”

  Placing his glass next to hers, he walked over and put his hands on her shoulders. “I don’t have any advice for you, Victoria. All I can say is that there aren’t clear or right answers when it comes to love. There are choices you make—and choices you decide not to make. And I’ll tell you one thing—you regret the choices you don’t make.”

  His eyes held kindness, tinged with worry. And his whole face wore the strain of a long day caring for an ailing partner and a hot mess of a friend.

  Victoria sighed. “I don’t even know what that means.”

  “It means don’t run away if she’s what you want.”

  After gathering their glasses and returning them to the kitchen, Alistair walked her to the door, and they shared a long hug.

  Later that night, after a little more scotch, Victoria climbed under the covers. Alistair was right—she wasn’t a runner. She would fight for what she wanted.

  Tomorrow, she would call Genevieve. Smooth things over. Figure out what to do next.

  She slept soundly for the first time in weeks.

  Chapter 18

  It had been three days since she and Tori had agreed to take a break. Three days in which Genevieve snapped at her staff and gave a few off-her-game interviews. She toyed with the phone in her hand, wondering whether or not she was ready to call Tori.

  Then, on her way home from the gym, her phone rang, and Tori’s name lit up the screen. If she screened, then the ball would be in her court to call back again, and, well, fuck it.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi, Genevieve.”

  The ensuing pause felt so thick with doubt that it couldn’t be coming just from her. Considering it was Tori who called, Genevieve didn’t think it was her responsibility to speak next. But as the pause lengthened, she caved first—which felt like the story of their entire relationship. “Do you want to get together and talk?”

  Tori cleared her throat. “Yes. I bought a bottle of that Chilean pinot noir you love so much, and I was going to make you tacos.”

  It was sweet, how food was love in Tori’s world. Tori, who hated tacos but knew they were Genevieve’s favorite.

  Genevieve swallowed. “That’s really—thanks, Tori. But I’d rather go out. There’s a new wine bar in my neighborhood that I really like. I’ll text you the directions. Thirty minutes?”

  She could almost see the way Tori’s face fell. “Yes, of course. Let’s make it forty-five, just to be safe.”

  Genevieve charitably chose to believe that Tori just couldn’t get ready that quickly, rather than viewing the timing as yet another power play. As she stood in the doorway to her closet, she wondered what one wore on a date that might very well end in a breakup.

  She chose a pair of jeans and a relatively boring sweater, which she spiced up with a necklace. With her purse and keys in hand, she walked the three blocks to Ambrosia in her favorite pea coat and boots and sat down at the small table in the corner. She ordered a flight of reds to drink while she waited.

  The first and third wines danced across her tongue, but the second reminded her of chewing leather. The fourth swelled pleasantly in her mouth until her taste buds felt like they were soaring, and she ordered a full glass of it. It arrived at the same time Tori did.

  Her first impulse was to stand and kiss Tori, but instead she waved at the waiter.

  If Tori was put off by her less than warm welcome, she hid it well. “This place is cute. How long has it been open?”

  The waiter came by with a menu, but Tori simply said, “I’ll have a glass of whatever cabernet you recommend.” He nodded and left them alone, staring at each other with tense shoulders. Tori’s foot was tapping.

  “Uh, I think it’s been open for three weeks or so. The word hasn’t gotten around just yet, so it’s still pretty quiet. I’ll be sad when it’s packed every night, but I’m sure it’s headed in that direction.”

  Tori nodded and they sat in uncomfortable silence until the server arrived with her wine. “So, there’s really nothing between you and Penelope?”

  “Penelope’s not the issue here. Not really. We have other problems.”

  Tori slid the glass away and sat with her hands in her lap. “Tell me. Help me understand.”

  Genevieve took a healthy drink of absolutely delicious wine and tried to figure out how to explain it. “I feel like it’s the Tori show, and I just make cameos here and there.”

  “Well,” Tori adjusted her glasses. “Don’t hold back or anything.”

  “I’m just being honest. This doesn’t feel like an equal partnership, and I don’t want to settle for anything less.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to. Believe it or not, Genevieve, your happiness is very important to me.” Her voice cracked on happiness, and Genevieve willed her heavy eyes not to leak.

  “Likewise. And I can tell you’re not happy either. I think… Maybe we were in love with the idea of us.”

  If Tori was fighting a similar battle with her eyes, she was losing; they glistened in the dimly lit bar. “Don’t. Don’t you dare belittle this. I’m in love with you. I might not have figured out how to show you just how much, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel it.”

  It was Genevieve’s turn to look away, and she studied the placemats made of old wine corks. “We used to be really happy. We used to have fun together.”

  “That’s a lot of past-tense language. Is that where we are now? The past?”

  Genevieve thought about months of feeling sidelined in her own relationship. About how she and Tori still hadn’t seemed to find a comfortable rhythm after over a year of dating. Her night with Penelope had been both validating and thrilling.

  She hadn’t expected to say it, but at that moment, it seemed the only thing she could say: “Yeah. That’s where we are.” She picked at her napkin while she waited for Tori’s reaction.

  Finally, Tori put shaking hands around her wine glass. “So that’s it, then? We’re through?”

  “We’re through,” Genevieve said, feeling awful and sort of liberated at the same time.

  “You’re making a mistake. You’re every bit as in love with me as I am with you.”

  “Maybe. But I’m also tired.” Genevieve rubbed her face with both hands.

  “The great Genevieve Fornier. Warrior of gay people everywhere. Too tired to fight for the woman she loves.”

  “Why should it be a fight?” Genevieve pushed her shoulders back against her chair.

  Tori leaned across the table toward her. “I can’t believe you. I’ve loved you forever. I know we’re not easy. But I also know there’s no one out there for me besides you. And I know you’ll regret this.”

  “Maybe. Maybe I’d regret staying even more.”

  “Fine. I won’t grovel.” She squared her shoulders, reached into her purse and extracted some cash, which she deposited on the table. “I love you, Genevieve Fornier. And I hope you wake up soon.”

  She moved to walk past Genevieve toward the door, then stopped and rested her trembling hand on Genevieve’s shoulder. “I’ll be in touch about when you can come by and collect your things.”

  She placed a kiss on Genevieve’s cheek, pressure so soft that Genevieve might have imagined it. Then Tori was gone.

  Alone with the consequences of her decision, Genevieve finished her wine and Tori’s. Bethany would gladly comfort her if she called, but she wasn’t ready for that. She wasn’t ready to talk or justify herself. Although she’d expected to feel relief, and feared feeling regret, she mostly felt anger. Why couldn’t Tori have given just a little bit more? Why couldn’t she have been more reasonable, more willing to meet her halfway? Instead, Tori lived with fear and internalized homophobia, with deeply ingrained habits that she showed zero inclination to change, and with an intransigence that sucked the air out of the room. And screw her for making those qualities seem appealing from the outside, when the reality was anything but.

  As she walked home alone, Genevieve paid particular attention to her empty hands, which had only once held Tori’s when they walked down the street together. She was leaving the bar with exactly what she’d gone in with.

  And she was going to learn to be just fine with nothing.

  * * *

  The evening of the State of the Union, Genevieve watched from the chair in Tori’s room while she did her hair and makeup. She chose a charcoal skirt suit, and Genevieve bit back a comment about the weather being below freezing and pants being more practical. She toyed with the drawstring of her sweatpants and enjoyed feeling comfortable while Tori tucked in her blouse.

  She tried not to watch as Tori sat on the bed and worked black stockings up her legs. After situating earrings in her delicate, perfect ears, Tori slid on a pair of black stiletto pumps and was good to go.

  They stared at each other, a sea of unsaid things ebbing and flowing between them. Finally, Tori gave Genevieve an entirely fake smile and asked, “Am I camera ready?”

  “You look the same way you do every time you to go work. The height of class.”

  “There aren’t usually cameras when I go to work.”

  “Well, just remember to keep a neutral face the entire time, because you know the moment you itch your nose or something, the cameras will turn right toward you.”

  “Yes. That’s our job—sit there and don’t clap at anything. Because we’re nonpartisan. How silly.”

  “Well, get Jamison drunk at this preparty of yours, and see if he breaks character during the speech.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  It was probably the most civil conversation they’d had in a long time. Maybe it was a sign. Maybe they were better off as friends—and could actually be friends, at some point.

  Who was she kidding—Victoria Willoughby didn’t really have friends. She had close relationships with family, maybe, but she didn’t do casual in any sense. And there was too much history between them for them to be…close without falling into old habits.

  Tucking her hair behind her ear, Genevieve stood and stepped away from the chair. “Is the alarm code still the same?”

  “No, I’ve changed it again. Here, I’ll write it down for you.” A quick trip to her nightstand, and she returned with a notecard bearing five numbers. Her fingers shook slightly during the handoff. “Help yourself to anything in the fridge.”

  “Thanks, I’ll be fine. And I’ll be…out of your hair by the time you get back.”

  If Genevieve had punched her in the gut, Tori couldn’t look more winded. Ever the paragon of composure, she shook it off immediately.

  “That’s fine,” she said, but her voice wavered slightly.

  Genevieve nodded, unsure of the protocol in this particular situation. Should they hug it out? Kiss good-bye, even? They seemed to have mastered the fine art of standing there awkwardly.

  She was on the verge of taking a step toward Tori when the doorbell rang. “That’ll be my car.

  “I’m glad. I’ll walk you downstairs.”

  At the front hall closet, Victoria pulled out two hangers, one with her coat, and one bearing her Supreme Court robe, with the scarf tied neatly around the top. “Might as well put this on now, since it’s so cold out.”

  Helping Tori into her robe and coat felt gallant in a way that made Genevieve uncomfortable, but less uncomfortable than standing there doing nothing. When Tori opened the door, a Court police officer was on the other side, and beyond him a black SUV idled. Another officer waited by the rear passenger door.

  “How many agents do you get? This is like the aftermath of—”

  “Don’t even say it,” Tori cut in. “This is standard—I’ve had this many officers accompany me to the State of the Union every year. Security to get into the chamber is… Well, this and inauguration are the biggest security events of the year for them, or so I’ve been told. After our little preparty at Kellen’s house, all the justices will be driven to the chambers in individual cars with three officers on each of us.”

  “So. Break a leg? Or do I say something else?”

  “Break a leg works.”

  Genevieve stole a glance at the officer standing mere feet from them, grateful for an excuse not to prolong their good-bye. “Okay, well.”

  “Well, I’m off. I’ll see you…”

  “Yeah. Bye. Have fun tonight.”

  They stood there staring at each other, clearly both wanting to say more, before Tori gave a perfunctory nod to Genevieve, turned toward the car and the officer, and closed the door.

  Watching through the window, Genevieve waited until the dark SUV had pulled away, before she pulled on her sneakers and trudged out to her car to grab a few flattened boxes.

  Once she’d dragged the boxes into the living room, she opened the cabinet doors to reveal Tori’s seldom-used television and clicked it to CNN, which was basically doing a red-carpet show for the State of the Union. It was all so ridiculous, but also kind of thrilling.

  One by one, she taped the boxes into shape. Okay, she had stuff in the bedroom, the bathroom, and the office. And then it was probably just little things she’d left here and there, much to Tori’s annoyance, surely.

  God, why was everything about Tori so hard?

  She found her purse where she’d dumped it on the first step of Tori’s stairs, located her phone, and called Bethany.

  “Sweetpea! Why aren’t you glued to your TV like the rest of Washington? Well, all of us B-listers who aren’t invited to the big dance, anyway.”

  “I’m using this time while Tori’s…occupied to get my crap out of her house.”

  “Well, you can’t do that alone. I’ll be right over.”

  Genevieve relayed the address before hanging up and settling back into the couch.

  Chapter 19

  Schmoozing at Kellen’s felt like being in the smoking room of an old boys’ club. The male justices were all drinking scotch and laughing together, while she and Michelle stood on the side of the room, nursing wine. In his finished basement, Kellen had what he called a “drinking room,” a cozy, windowless space that smelled vaguely like a tap room. Three dark walls held paintings of vineyards, and through the fourth, glass wall, a temperature-controlled wine cellar contained hundreds of dusty, unopened bottles. Kellen had selected a Château Kirwan, which Victoria had actually heard of, since she and Genevieve had toured the Bordeaux region the previous summer.

  “Why didn’t we do this last year?” Victoria asked Michelle, swirling the wine around in her glass.

  “Something about Kellen giving up alcohol while they changed his blood-pressure medicine. God. Every now and then, don’t you just stop and think about the age differences between all of us?”

  “I know. Did everyone their age watch Bonanza?”

  “Seems like it,” Michelle said. “You and I should establish common ground so we can make TV references none of them understand.”

  Victoria was debating whether or not to confess that she preferred reading when her name boomed out behind her.

  “Get over here, Willoughby,” Alistair called. “Jamison has a question for you.”

  “Wow, how many have they had?” Michelle whispered.