“I think maybe you’re at capacity, babe.”

  “One…more…book…oof!” She pushed the hardcover so hard it cut through the side of the box.

  “Right, well, good luck with that. What do you like on your pizza?”

  Genevieve looked up and grinned, a trickle of sweat dripping down her temple. “There’s something I never thought I’d hear you ask.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I get it. But if you don’t answer, I’m getting Hawaiian.”

  “That’s disgusting. Who puts pineapple on a pizza?”

  “You don’t see me judging how you pack boxes.”

  Genevieve raised an eyebrow at her.

  “Okay, fine, I’m judging you.”

  “At least you’re honest. I—”

  Genevieve’s cell phone rang. She started frantically sweeping books this way and that. “Shit! I have no idea where it is!”

  Victoria rolled her eyes but started searching and finally located it underneath a pile of unassembled boxes. She noticed Michigan Department of Corrections on the screen as she handed it to Genevieve, who tapped it, held it to her ear, and waited.

  Victoria started to leave, but Genevieve put a hand on her arm.

  “You can stay if you want.” Much louder, she said into the phone, “Yes, I accept the call. Amelia! Hi! I’m glad you got my message to call. How are you?”

  Victoria organized some of the books on the floor while she listened.

  “Good, I’m glad it’s working. If anything changes—if they stop giving you your hormones—let me know right away. Listen, I wanted to let you know that the decision came down in your case. Amelia, you won.”

  Victoria half expected to hear screams of delight through the phone, but instead she heard only silence.

  “Amelia?” Genevieve asked, “Are you still there?”

  After a beat, her tone changed. “Hey, it’s okay. I know. I know… No, of course it’s okay to cry about this. It’s been such a long journey for you.”

  Genevieve kept comforting Amelia, and her own eyes filled with tears as the call progressed. “Someone from our legal team will fly there next week to meet with you and help you schedule everything. I’m so sorry it won’t be me, Amelia. But I’ll come see you when I can—just for a visit. I’m so happy for you.”

  As soon as Genevieve hung up the phone, she started crying. With tears streaming down her face, she collapsed against Victoria.

  “I wanted to fly there and tell her in person,” she choked out between sobs. “But I also wanted to tell her as soon as possible, and I couldn’t get on a plane today, and… I know I’m making the right decision, giving all this up. I feel better already—fewer headaches, and they’re less intense. And Amelia doesn’t need me anymore, if she ever did, and I—”

  “Shh, it’s okay, darling,” Victoria said, stroking her back. “This isn’t an irreversible decision—you can always go back to litigation.”

  She held Genevieve for a while, kissing her hair and murmuring words of comfort until Genevieve could speak again. “I know I can go back,” she said, her voice cracking. “But I won’t, and that’s okay. It’s good—it’s really good. It’s just hard.”

  “It is hard. But you’ve got me, and I’ll help you.”

  “I know,” Genevieve said, pulling back far enough to look at Victoria. “You already have.”

  “I have?” Victoria said.

  “Yeah,” Genevieve wiped her own tears off Victoria’s cheeks and neck. “I just used your sweater as a Kleenex.”

  “Glad I could be here for you. Now and always, right?”

  “Right. But I’m not eating pizza with pineapples on it.”

  “I’d never put you through such an ordeal. What else would you like, then?”

  “Vegetarian, please. And, Tor, can we maybe put a pin in packing for the night?”

  Victoria looked at the mess surrounding them. The moving truck would be there in two days, and they’d barely put a dent in packing up Genevieve’s townhouse.

  “Of course,” she said with no regrets. “Let’s just watch crappy TV and have pizza and beer tonight.”

  “Who are you, and what have you done with Victoria Willoughby?” Genevieve put her arm around Victoria and led her into the kitchen and away from the mess.

  Well, out of sight, out of mind, at least for the evening.

  Victoria kissed her and settled in for a thoroughly domestic night at Genevieve’s place.

  Epilogue

  When the car stopped, Tori removed the blindfold and Genevieve blinked. A neon sign reading Do Re Me glowed in the window of the building next to them, right near a handwritten poster taped to the door with the words Closed for a private event scrawled on it.

  “I thought we’d celebrate your birthday with song and dance,” Tori said.

  Genevieve turned to study her and smiled at the pride written all over her face. “Karaoke?”

  “We have the whole bar to ourselves. Two bartenders, a blank stage, and over eleven hundred songs to choose from.”

  Genevieve trailed her finger around Tori’s jaw. “You’re adorable.” Tori softened under her touch, and her expression took on that hazy quality Genevieve associated with their bedroom.

  “Oh, no, you don’t. We’ve got hours of partying before that happens.”

  Tori bit her finger, and Genevieve briefly pondered the wisdom of what she was saying. They could, of course, skip the party and just go home—their new home with the boxes in every room—where they would surely arrive at some kind of birthday present Genevieve found satisfying.

  “Now who’s thinking about sex?” Tori leaned closer to her until their lips were nearly touching. “I can always tell, you know. Your breath changes.”

  “How so?”

  “You taste like freshly cut grass—sharp and sweet at all once.”

  Considering Tori had once used those words to describe how other parts of her tasted, Genevieve lost all sense of restraint, crushing her mouth against Tori’s and slipping her tongue inside. Tori laughed and pushed her away.

  “Darling. Don’t get ahead of yourself. I promise that your birthday will be unforgettable, in many ways. Let’s go inside, and you can have something to look forward to all evening.”

  Genevieve nodded dumbly and allowed Tori to grab her hand and drag her out of the car and toward the bar. By the time they reached the door, Genevieve’s legs almost worked.

  The bouncer opened the door for them and held out a bucket. “Cell phones, please.”

  Genevieve paused. “Are you joking?”

  “No ma’am. Whoever organized this party instructed me to collect everyone’s cell phone as they entered.”

  A quick glance at Tori confirmed it. “Why on earth?” Genevieve asked.

  “I could say it’s because I want people to be present in the moment and not distracted by their devices, but mostly I don’t want videos finding their way online. I’m changing, but I’m not an entirely new person, you know?”

  “Who all did you invite? Because Bethany knows you’d turn her to stone if she posted something as benign as your name online.”

  “Can you just surrender your phone and go inside, please?” Tori dropped hers into the bucket, which already contained at least twenty cells.

  Genevieve shrugged and complied. In the darkened building, the ceiling was designed to look like a starry evening sky, with tiny dots of light barely illuminating the bar to her right and small round tables to the left. She stubbed her toe on a barstool and tumbled into Tori’s back. “Damn!”

  In a flash, the room was illuminated, and a bunch of people shouted, “Happy birthday, Genevieve!”

  Once she blinked away the stars from her eyes, Genevieve spotted most of the staff from HER, Jamie and some of his HRC staff, Penelope, Bethany, Tara and Sonya, and Tori’s brother and sister-in-law. Craning to look past them, Genevieve spied four of her closest friends from Chicago, whom she hadn’t seen since she’d moved to DC, and, behind them, Heather and Crystal.

  Tori placed a gentle hand on the small of her back and whispered in her ear, “I love you, babe.”

  While Jamie dazzled the room with a stirring rendition of Michael Jackson’s “Black or White,” Genevieve made the rounds, greeting people and thanking them for coming. Bethany placed a martini in her hand as she was mingling with her staff. By the time she’d reached her friends from Chicago, her first glass was empty, Tara had replaced it with another one, and Penelope was doing her best to sing “Jessie’s Girl.”

  It had taken almost a year, but Genevieve had finally found something Penelope didn’t effortlessly excel at. What she lacked in singing prowess, she made up for in queering a straight song, much to the entire room’s delight. Bethany chose “Every Breath You Take,” and managed to make it creepier than the original.

  After a while, Genevieve started ignoring the performances happening on stage and immersed herself in the community of some of her favorite people. Will and Diane regaled her with stories of Tommy and Rebecca’s latest antics, which included a fiasco at the park involving a mud puddle, litter, and a stray dog.

  “Nothing says a successful morning with kids like a complete change of clothes before noon,” Diane said.

  “And how’s work, Diane?” Genevieve asked.

  “Pretty great, actually. Last week I got to do some translating for the secretary general of the UN—there were some activists here from Cambodia, and the secretary general doesn’t speak Khmer.”

  “What’s she like, the secretary general?”

  “God, so smart. A little terse, but I think she tries to listen more than she speaks, which is a refreshing change from the way American politicians operate. And Will just landed a great new project.” She put her hand on his back. “Tell Genevieve all about it, honey.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. “Uh, well, the DC City Council is starting work on a new revitalization project, transforming some abandoned lots in Bellevue into public parks. The city is going to program evening events, but they want the space to function as a playground during the day. It was a bit of a challenge to arrive at a design that accommodated the space constraints, play structures, and performance requirements for the evenings, but my firm won the bid.”

  “He’s so modest. It’s entirely his design.” Diane said, pride practically oozing out of her brilliant smile.

  As Genevieve listened to them brag about one another, and watched them touch each other in small, insignificant ways, she was struck by the contrast between their relationship and the one she and Tori were working on. Maybe someday, once they’d been together for fifteen years like Will and Diane, Tori would be comfortable bragging about her and holding her hand in front of their respective staffs.

  But they were definitely making progress, and the proof of it was all around her, drinking and dancing and having fun because Tori had gathered them together.

  Diane slipped her arm through Genevieve’s. “And you? How’s work going for you?”

  The gesture felt not just friendly but familial. Living an ocean away from her father, she hadn’t felt that kind of connection in a long time. In some ways, Tori’s family had taken to her more easily than Tori herself.

  Speaking of, where was Tori?

  Genevieve glanced around but couldn’t see her anywhere in the dimly lit bar. She refocused her attention on Diane and Will. “Good. It’s going well. My big priority has been a case about a trans woman in federal prison seeking access to the medical procedures related to her transition.”

  Genevieve glanced around again, thinking they’d probably had enough work-related talk and maybe she could go find Tori, but Diane tugged on her arm.

  “What’s the status of the case?” she asked.

  “The district-level decision came down last week, and we won. Now we wait and see if the decision will be appealed.”

  “If you’ve won already, will you have to wait for the appeal before your client can start her procedures?” Will asked.

  “Opposing counsel never filed for a stay of the decision, so we’re proceeding as if they won’t appeal. Amelia’s surgery is scheduled for next month, and we haven’t heard from them, which is a good sign. But it is possible that they’ll appeal, and she’ll have to wait for the new results.”

  “The law is so fascinating,” Will said. “I mean, your client won her case, but she’s sitting in a cell right now not entirely sure if that victory stands or if she has to win again.”

  “Yeah, there are ways in which the system feels unduly burdensome. Procedure often seems to matter more than substance. But I honestly can’t envision a way to improve things—there are just too many practicalities, and the same procedural rules that harm one client can benefit the next one.” She was about to say something about how Civil Procedure was her favorite course in law school, when the dim lights suddenly cut out entirely, and the room fell silent. She turned around and squinted toward the stage—the karaoke jockey was somewhere over there. Maybe he knew where the fuse box was.

  A single light at the back of the stage, pointed directly into the audience, nearly blinded her, but her vision adjusted and she could see a figure at the microphone in silhouette. Music started, and she immediately recognized the introduction to BØRNS’s “Electric Love.”

  “I love this song,” she said loudly, and everyone in the room laughed.

  Side lighting suddenly illuminated three other people onstage, and as they started singing backup and executing choreographed dance moves, haze billowed up from the floor around the lead singer. The lights changed again, and Genevieve almost dropped her drink.

  Victoria Willoughby gripped the microphone in one hand, her lips almost touching it as she sang. Leather pants so tight that Genevieve wondered if she needed oil to get them on clung to every curve of Tori’s legs and hips. Her black top was cut in a deep V-neck that plunged past where a bra would be. The hand on the microphone had a black, fingerless glove, and her eye makeup was smoky and very glam rock. Her hair was teased to the point that it rivaled Bethany’s in volume. She was the perfect mix of Joan Jett and Sandy from Grease. It was simultaneously hilarious and beyond attractive.

  Genevieve spared a quick glance at Bethany, Tara, and Sonya, who were doing an admirable job as supporting performers, but her eyes quickly returned to Tori. As she sang, Tori threw her head back, snaked her body down the microphone stand and back, and pointed and beckoned to Genevieve. It was so over the top that the entire room was cracking up, but humor wasn’t the most salient part of Tori’s performance as far as Genevieve was concerned.

  Clearly, Bethany had remembered that one time Genevieve had mentioned that the androgynous voice of the singer was sexy and that she wouldn’t mind having sex to this song.

  When Tori sang the word taste, Genevieve hoped to hell that no one in the room was looking her way, because whatever kind of poker face she might have in a courtroom, she surely couldn’t mask how turned on she was. Her legs turned to rubber, and she wasn’t sure standing was such a good idea anymore.

  Tori slid the microphone out of its stand. As she continued to sing, she did a sinuous shimmy off the stage and walked slowly, purposefully toward Genevieve. Fumbling behind her, Genevieve’s hands collided with a chair, and she tumbled backward into it.

  Tori circled around her, slowly, as she sang the final verse. When she got to the last line, she slid a leg over Genevieve’s, straddling her. She threw her head back to sing the final word, then held the microphone up in the air, to uproarious applause.

  In the middle of the cheers, whistles, and laughter, Tori leaned down and gave Genevieve a long, sexy kiss. The world around Genevieve narrowed until everything was Tori and the way she smelled and the taste of her breath.

  “Get a room you two!” William hollered at them, and Tori broke away laughing. She wiped her lipstick off of Genevieve’s lips and headed back to the stage, microphone still in hand.

  “How about a round of applause for my backup singers, everyone?” Tori asked, working the crowd in a way Genevieve would have never in a million years imagined she could.

  The room went crazy, as the women onstage shared hugs and kisses with each other.

  “While we have everyone’s attention,” Tori continued, “now seems like an excellent time for cake.” She gestured to the bartender, who must have anticipated this moment; he leaned behind the counter and brought up a huge cake lined with candles.

  “As you can see, fifty candles poses quite the fire hazard,” Tori said, eliciting a chorus of laugher. “I’ve got extinguishers on standby.”

  “Oh, har-har,” Genevieve called out, inciting more laughter as the bartender put the cake on the table next to her.

  “Can we get everyone but Genevieve onstage, please?”

  One of the bar’s staff members brought out additional microphones, and someone else turned on all the lights so that as everyone sang “Happy Birthday,” they had an excellent view of the birthday girl.

  It was the most on-key rendition of “Happy Birthday” she’d ever heard, and someone even threw in some harmony.

  When the song ended, Genevieve closed her eyes and wished that Michigan wouldn’t appeal Amelia’s case. It took three attempts before she was able to extinguish all fifty candles. By the time she’d finished, Tori was at her side with a grin reserved for her.

  While Bethany served cake and guests mingled, Genevieve sat at a two-person table with Tori. “That was quite a performance.”

  Pride wasn’t something Tori wore often, but she knew how to wear it well. “We practiced a lot. Bethany did the choreo—theirs and mine.”

  Genevieve toyed with Tori’s fingers poking out through the glove that, upon closer inspection, was bedazzled. “Love the costume. You look ravishing.”

  “That was the intention.”

  “Now I understand why you had the bar confiscate all the cell phones.”

  “Well, it wouldn’t do to have the media—or Kellen O’Neil—know how great I look in leather.”