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  “Hey sexy,” Pen shouted into the phone. “You message the redhead yet?”

  “As a matter of fact, I’m chatting with her now. And her name is…” I had to look it up. “Carla.”

  “It only took you five minutes to find her name. I can see you’ve formed a strong connection.”

  “Screw you, Pen.”

  “Nah,” she said with a confident sigh. “I’ll let one of these lovely ladies swilling top-shelf vodka take care of that for me.”

  Carla had stopped her monologue about her favorite hotels in Paris and asked when we could meet up. I hedged a little in my response, and while I was typing I said to Pen, “Try not to break any hearts tonight.”

  There was the clink of glasses from her end of the line and I heard her order a martini. Pen always drank martinis when she was after the more sophisticated, professional lesbian. She used to prefer younger women, but said she got tired of the twentysomethings. They were apparently too loud and enthusiastic. Now she usually went for the slightly older women she called “cougar adjacent.”

  “You know I’m always very clear with my intentions.”

  “Have you practiced your line?”

  “It isn’t a line, it’s a disclaimer.” She sipped her drink noisily, knowing how much it annoyed me when people ate or drank while on the phone. “By the time I try to warn them off they’re already on the hook.”

  “Fine, have you practiced your disclaimer?”

  Pen took on a faux-serious tone, like an overeager actor in a dramatic scene. “I’m not going to fall in love with you. I’m not going to call you tomorrow. I probably won’t remember your name. I’m not saying this to hurt you, I’m saying it to make my intentions clear. I can give you the night of your life, but I can’t give you anything more than that. If that doesn’t work for you, let’s stop this now with no one hurt.”

  Every time I heard her say it, I put myself in the shoes of the listener. I could see the intensity in those emerald-green eyes. The heat and the sorrow there. I could feel the mingled sting and thrill the speech would evoke. Pen was like a jaguar, a beautiful hunter whose prey came willingly. As far as I knew, no one had any objections to what she had to offer. It wasn’t my thing, but, if they were looking for no strings attached, they hit the jackpot with Pen.

  “You’re such a romantic.” My tablet pinged with Carla repeating her request for a date. I chewed on my bottom lip, told myself not to be so nervous, and told her I’d love to. “Have fun. Can’t wait to hear about your conquest at work tomorrow.”

  “Not at work. I’m doing showings tomorrow. Drinks after?”

  Carla’s next message was full of heart-eye emojis. I couldn’t help but beam. “I might have a date tomorrow night.”

  I expected a gasp of surprise, but I guess Pen wasn’t as shocked as I was that I could get a date with this ridiculously beautiful woman. “Even better. Meet me for drinks after and tell me all about it.”

  “You’re assuming I won’t go home with her.”

  “Please! You aren’t a first-date lay. That’s why I respect you so much.”

  Carla suggested dinner rather than the coffee or drinks options I’d thrown out.

  I told you I’d let you take me to dinner, remember? The Source. Seven o’clock. Make us a reservation.

  Pen and I said our goodbyes more quickly than usual. Someone was winking at her from the other side of the bar and Carla’s suggestion left me choking for air. While The Source wasn’t the most expensive restaurant in Washington DC by far, it was well outside my price range, especially for a first date. Divorce is an expensive process and I’d only managed to keep my house by moving Alex in to help with the bills. Once they were gone it was a struggle to keep up. I was only recently getting back on my feet. I made a decent living, but not The-Source-for-a-first-date decent.

  I almost made up some excuse to cancel, but there was her profile picture staring at me with its suggestive grin and ample cleavage. It wasn’t like I was broke. I could afford a meal at a fancy restaurant for a date with that woman. I wasn’t unattractive exactly, but I’d never dated anyone who was so obviously out of my league. I could live the fantasy for one night and then steer her toward other options in the future. This was probably an attempt to make good on her opening line. And she seemed to like me. We’d been chatting for over an hour.

  I took a deep, calming breath and spoke aloud as I typed, “Sounds perfect. Can’t wait to see you there.”

  Chapter Five

  The Source was owned by Wolfgang Puck and had all the glitz and glamour that came with a celebrity chef. It was located inside the Newseum, a sprawling, modern structure of concrete and glass dedicated to the freedom of the press and the First Amendment. I’d been to the museum once with Pen to see Rise Up, an exhibit on the media coverage of the LGBTQ-rights movement. We’d had a drink in The Source’s ultra-trendy bar but hadn’t stayed to eat. I’d been impressed by the restaurant. Or perhaps intimidated was a better word.

  That first visit had been on a cold Sunday afternoon and tourists dominated the clientele. This time couldn’t have been more different. I strolled through crowds of businessmen in expensive suits, their ties loosened despite the early hour. They laughed in that throaty, carefree way that only rich men can and I tried my best to act like I fit in. I’d changed from my business suit to a low-slung dress in a rich purple that made my grey eyes glow almost blue. I knew my clothes looked the part, but my nerves were totally showing.

  Traffic into DC can be difficult to judge, so I’d taken my dress to work and changed in the back-hall bathroom. I’d waited until everyone else had left so I wouldn’t catch any flak from Art. Only Penelope knew about my date and I’d sworn her to secrecy. If it went terribly, no one else needed to know. If it went well, no one else needed to know that either. The upshot to staying at work rather than taking the time to go home, was that I was really early to the restaurant.

  I rounded the corner from Sixth Street to C Street NW right at six thirty. I liked to be early, but a half hour was a little excessive. I pushed through the heavy glass door and glanced over at the bar. I could chip away at the time by sipping a glass of wine and fiddling with my phone, but I didn’t want to be tipsy when Carla arrived.

  “Welcome,” the bubbly host said. “Do you have a reservation?”

  “I do,” I replied, faking the confidence I wished I felt. “But I’m pretty early.”

  “That’s not a problem. What’s the name?”

  “Kieran Hall. Table for two.”

  “Good evening, Ms. Hall. It’s a pleasure to have you dine with us tonight.” He seemed really nice, even when he was looking at his computer screen rather than me. “Oh. It looks like your other party has already arrived. Would you like to join them?”

  Panic filled my chest. What was she doing here already? I checked the clock over his shoulder and it definitely said six thirty. Was I late? Were we supposed to be here at six, not seven? Was Carla sitting at the table, thinking I’d stood her up? She was probably starving and embarrassed. I pulled up our last conversation as I jogged up the floating metal staircase behind the host. I’d order the first thing I saw on the menu so we didn’t have to wait too long.

  The main dining room was on the second floor, completely open with the entire exterior wall glass, looking out on the summer sun, just beginning to lower in the sky. The surrounding buildings reflected the sun back at me, throwing sparkling shadows into my vision. Carla sat at a table at the far end near the kitchen. To my immense relief, she didn’t look angry at all. In fact, she was smiling and laughing with the server, who had just brought her a plate of food.

  My relief changed to confusion in a heartbeat. As we got closer I could see that she also had a full glass of wine, with a bottle sitting near her. Apparently she hadn’t waited to order until I arrived. I scrolled through the chat as we walked and saw that yes, we had agreed on seven o’clock. It had, in fact, been her suggestion.

  “Kieran!” She
chirped as the host deposited me at the table. She didn’t stand, but held out her hand, knuckles up, to me. “You’re just as stunning in person as your profile.”

  I wasn’t exactly the type to kiss the back of a woman’s hand, so I took her fingers in mine for a moment. I held on longer than I had intended. Her skin was like silk and the pale white of heavy cream. She slid her fingertips across my palm, locking me with those doe eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, the waiter pushing in my chair as I sat. “I didn’t realize I was late.”

  “Nope,” she said, popping a dumpling into her mouth. “You’re early.”

  I bit my tongue to keep my annoyance from showing. If I was early, why was she already eating? I wouldn’t necessarily call myself old-fashioned, but I did expect my date to wait for me before starting dinner. The waiter asked me what I’d like to start with, noting that my date had the lobster and golden beet dumplings. Not only had she already ordered, but she’d selected the most expensive appetizer on the menu. I chose the first thing I saw and he poured me a glass of wine from the bottle at Carla’s elbow. I didn’t miss the sour look she threw at him for pouring without asking her. I was still too nervous to start drinking, so I ignored it in favor of water.

  Soon enough we fell into normal first date conversation sprinkled liberally, from her end, with flirting. It actually seemed to be going well. The edge of annoyance at her rudeness melted away in the glow of her killer smile. My excellent Taiwanese beef noodle soup helped, as did the wine. I took a hesitant sip and could tell by the smooth finish that it was far more expensive than what I normally chose.

  “He’s not good at refilling the wine, is he?” Carla said, her lush lips twisting into a frown.

  It was an odd complaint, given that she’d just put down her empty glass. I forced a smile, noticing for the first time how dull her hair was, like she’d torched it with too much hair color and cheap shampoo.

  “Ugh! It was such a terrible week at work,” she bellowed, slumping forward and plopping her elbows onto the table. “You’d think if they’d ride me as hard as they do, they’d pay me better.”

  “What do you do again?”

  Our entrees arrived as she answered. “Human Resources at this worthless financial company downtown. Maybe if they were better at their jobs, they could pay me what I’m worth.”

  Her dinner was an entire roasted duckling on a plate of drunken noodles. She tore into it before the waiter had set my chili-roasted cod in front of me. She continued through a mouth full of noodles, affording me occasional glimpses of her meal in the process of its destruction. “I’m sure you make twice what I make.”

  “Oh, I doubt it. We aren’t that…”

  “Don’t be so coy,” she said, propping her chin on her wrist as she chewed. “You’re a lawyer.”

  “What?” I said, choking on my water. “No, I’m not. I’m a real estate title agent.”

  Carla waved her hand dismissively. Most people didn’t understand what I did, but it was rare they thought I was a real estate attorney. “Whatever. I’m sure you make a killing with suits like that one in your profile picture.”

  An inkling of what was going on started to form in my mind, but the wattage of her smile made me give her the benefit of the doubt for now. I took a second sip of my wine and decided it wasn’t as good as the first impression. The excellent fish smoothed over a great deal of awkwardness. I rarely cooked fish because it was so difficult to get right. This fillet was perfect, flaky and silky smooth with just enough oil in the sauce to compliment the lean fish and bite of chili. We ate in silence that wasn’t comfortable per se but wasn’t awkward either. Not until she emptied her wine glass again.

  “Jesus, is that idiot ever going to come back to the table?” she asked after scouring the room with her gaze. Her eyes were less luscious in person. They were almost beady, in fact. “Is it too much to ask to have a refilled wine glass?”

  I’d had enough. I reached across the table and snatched up the bottle, emptying it into her glass. It had been sitting right there next to her the whole time. If she was so insistent on having her glass full, why didn’t she pour it herself? She glared at me as though I’d done something unforgivable when the waiter arrived to ask if we wanted another bottle.

  “We’d like it if you were attentive to your customers, but I suppose that’s too much to ask,” Carla said. She sniffed and turned haughtily away from him, showing me a razor-sharp line where her makeup stopped at the edge of her jaw. Her own skin tone was several shades off from her foundation. “But yes, we’ll have another bottle. Kieran is paying, after all.”

  “Am I?” I asked in disbelief, but Carla was back to attacking her duck, picking it down to the bone. The waiter and I shared a look of disgust. “We don’t need another bottle. I won’t be drinking any.”

  She looked like she would have argued, but he hurried away. I slid my barely touched glass toward her. At this point I could only hope she’d make it home safely, more for everyone else’s sake than for hers.

  “So tell me, Kieran. Where did you go to school? Georgetown? American? Or did you move here after college?”

  It was clear from her tone and how she clicked her teeth after the question that she wouldn’t like my answer. I rather relished her revulsion. I didn’t want her to approve of anything about me since I didn’t approve of anything about her.

  “I moved here with my ex-husband before college,” I said, waving off the dessert menu as politely as possible. “I have an associate degree in finance from Northern Virginia Community College.”

  She laughed, throwing her head back to reveal the beginnings of crepey, weathered skin around her neck. She tossed the menu back at our waiter without looking at him. “Crème brûlée and a decaf cappuccino. You’re so funny, Kieran.”

  “How is that funny?”

  “A community college. What a lovely joke.”

  “It isn’t a joke. I couldn’t afford a four-year college and I don’t need a bachelor’s degree for my job.”

  Carla ignored me in favor of her dessert. I suppose my educational defects made me no better than a piece of furniture to her. I finished my water and the waiter appeared to refill it. He pasted on a smile and asked Carla about the dessert.

  “I suppose it’s the best I can expect from Wolfgang.” She turned to me with a smirk that made me want to slap the teeth out of her mouth. “Savory chefs always try but they’re helpless. Crème brûlée is such a pedestrian dessert.”

  “I’ll be sure to pass along your impressions to our James Beard Award-winning pastry chef,” our waiter replied as he set down two checks, one in front of each of us. Carla’s was so long it hung over the end of its bamboo tray. I could’ve kissed him.

  “Kieran will pay both of these,” she said, sliding the tray back to him with the tip of two fingers.

  “No, she won’t.” I stood, slapping some cash down on my tray. “The change is for you. She can pay for herself.”

  He gave me a wink and an apologetic smile as I spun and marched out. Carla’s indignant spluttering followed me all the way to the stairs.

  Chapter Six

  I was so mad after dinner that I started walking north to clear my head. It didn’t work. I wasn’t crazy enough to walk alone all the way to Adams Morgan at night. I caught an Uber outside the National Portrait Gallery and rage texted Pen until we got to Ninth Street.

  Until a few years ago, Washington DC didn’t have any lesbian bars. Then two opened within a few months of each other and the whole world rejoiced. Or maybe that was just Pen, thrilled that she didn’t have to wait for the weekly ladies’ nights at the innumerable gay bars in Logan Circle to find a hookup. I’ve never been sporty like Pen who, until a series of knee and ankle surgeries over the last four years, played on a lesbian softball team in the city. Her favorite bar was A League of Her Own, but I wasn’t into the sports-bar theme or a wall of video games. Riveter’s, on the other hand, was high-class chic with all the velvet tri
mmings I adored. The crowd there was more refined and less white than League and the drinks were fancier.

  I was still steaming as I pushed my way into the crowd and the roaring bass. As late as it was, the plush entryway to Riveter’s was darker than the street. The walls were painted royal purple and the décor was a blend of steampunk and vampire-chic—heavy on dark accents and flickering light. Hidden speakers pumped a synth beat and Banks’s sultry voice. Pen was sitting at the quiet, secluded far end of the bar. She was on the phone, an untouched glass of Rosé in front of her.

  “Hey Kieran! Long time, no see.”

  Abby, Riveter’s sultry and sweet bartender, leaned on the rail in front of me and flashed a smile. Abby was the embodiment of joy in so many ways. She carried weight with an undeniable sexiness I could never quite pull off. She always had some quirky fashion accessory to draw the eye and her wigs were works of art. Today’s was cobalt-blue and swirled into a perfect beehive. The frames of her horn-rimmed glasses were the exact same blue, as was the splash of paint on her rose-pale wrist. Obviously, she’d been in a rush after leaving her studio and hadn’t removed all traces of her latest work in progress. Her earrings were a pair of twenty-sided dice she’d made herself. She would be an absolute fantasy if I was remotely close to her type, but she liked her women butch.

  “Hey Abby,” I said, settling in beside Pen. “Two dry martinis please.”

  “Comin’ right up!”

  Pen ended her call as Abby stirred the drinks in a chilled shaker. “Sorry about that. You know, I’m not sure I’m going to like working for a Georgetown snob.”

  “All your clients are snobs. Everyone in DC is a snob.”

  “I’ll choose not to take that personally since I live in Woodbridge now,” Pen replied as Abby set the drinks down between us, smoke coming off the frosted glasses in the warm air. “Martinis? Your date went that well, did it? Thanks for buying me a drink.”