A Life in Plain Sight — Chapter One — The Door

A Life in Plain Sight begins with Steve, a thirty-five-year-old man whose small, fine-boned body and naturally androgynous presentation mean strangers routinely perceive him as a beautiful woman—a fact Steve has lived with for years without allowing it to complicate his certainty about who he is. Intelligent, literal, funny, intensely curious, and comfortably isolated, Steve has built a perfectly functional life around work, family, hobbies, and the conviction that not unhappy is good enough. His older sister Brittney and her wife Liz aren't trying to tell Steve who he is, but they can see how thoroughly he has mistaken safety and routine for actually living. In Chapter One, their affectionate family ambush pushes him outside that carefully controlled life for one drink at Blush, a lesbian bar where Steve expects to be obviously out of place. Instead, he enters a vibrant social world of women with wildly varied presentations and discovers something far more unsettling than rejection: nobody finds his presence strange at all. The room sees Steve exactly as strangers so often do, accepts that first impression without question, and welcomes him as though he belongs. Steve sits down for the drink he promised Brittney, unaware that this tiny concession is the first step into new friendships, love, family, and a much larger confrontation with the difference between the life he has successfully maintained and the life he might actually want.

---

A Life in Plain Sight

Chapter One — The Door

“You’re going to a lesbian bar.”

Steve kept chopping the onion.

He was halfway through the second one, working through it with the quick, economical rhythm of somebody who cooked often enough that a knife was a tool rather than an event. His apartment kitchen was small, generic in all the ways apartments were generic—builder-grade cabinets, beige walls, a refrigerator that had come with the place—but Steve had made the working parts of it his. The knives were sharp. The cutting boards were scarred but clean. A heavy skillet heated on the stove beside a tray of marinated chicken, and the counter held three little prep bowls because dumping spices directly from jars over a hot pan was how people ruined dinner and then blamed the recipe.

Behind him, Brittney said, “Yes.”

“No.”

“Steven.”

“Brittney.”

Across the kitchen table, Liz snorted.

Steve pointed the knife at her.

“Don’t encourage her.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You made a sound.”

“I’m allowed to make sounds in my own house.”

“This is not your house.”

Liz looked around Steve’s kitchen.

She had made herself thoroughly at home anyway, one ankle crossed over the other beneath the table, beer loose in one hand, her posture carrying the absolute confidence of a woman who had married into a family and considered the paperwork settled. Her soft-butch presentation tonight was clean rather than severe: a dark skirt with a simple top, sleeves pushed casually toward her elbows, a substantial watch at one wrist and small silver hoops catching the kitchen light when she turned her head. The heeled ankle boots under the table were unmistakably feminine without making the rest of her presentation any less Liz. Nothing about her looked accidental. Nothing about it asked permission.

“Then why am I eating your food?”

“That’s not how property works.”

“It is in Puerto Rico.”

“You were born in Massachusetts.”

“Racist.”

Steve stared at her.

Liz stared back.

Brittney lasted perhaps three seconds before she started laughing.

Steve returned to the onion.

His sister was leaning against the counter beside him, close enough to be annoying and entirely unconcerned by the knife. At forty, Brittney still had the same expressive face Steve remembered hovering over him when he was a kid: every thought arrived there half a second before she decided whether to say it. Tonight she had come straight from whatever she and Liz had been doing before invading his apartment, feminine without looking as though she had dressed for an occasion—soft knit dress, sheer tights, heels she had already kicked off beneath the table, earrings that moved when she laughed. Her nails were neat and polished. Her makeup had survived the evening better than Steve thought makeup reasonably should.

He noticed these things because they were there.

Also because Brittney had once spent forty-five minutes explaining why cheap dresses twisted after washing because manufacturers cut the fabric off-grain, and Steve had made the tactical error of finding the explanation interesting.

This was why he had originally suggested dinner at Brittney and Liz’s place. There were tactical advantages to being able to leave.

Unfortunately, he'd also made the mistake of mentioning that he'd been experimenting with a new chicken recipe, which had resulted in Brittney inviting herself over before he'd actually finished the sentence.

Liz had apparently come with the marriage.

Not that he minded.

Mostly.

“Anyway,” Brittney said, “you’re going.”

“I’m not.”

“You need to get out.”

“I am out.”

“You’re chopping an onion.”

“I went to the grocery store.”

“This is exactly what I mean.”

“I also went to Home Depot.”

Brittney looked at Liz.

Liz nodded gravely. “Big day.”

“Oh, fuck both of you.”

Steve scraped the onion into the pan.

The sound changed instantly: dry knife against board became a sharp hiss, followed by the warm smell of onion hitting oil. He stirred once, spread everything evenly, then wiped the edge of the cutting board with his thumb before setting it beside the sink.

The chicken had been marinating since that morning. He'd found the recipe at eleven-thirty the previous night while trying to determine why the garbage collector in a programming language he didn't even use behaved differently under memory pressure on ARM processors.

That investigation had somehow led to a discussion of Korean fried chicken.

Which led to gochujang.

Which led to a cooking blog.

Which led to the realization that the woman writing the blog was using entirely too much sugar in her marinade.

So he'd fixed it.

This was a perfectly normal way to spend a Friday night.

Brittney disagreed.

Brittney was wrong.

“What’s wrong with Blush?” she asked.

“Nothing is wrong with Blush.”

“Then go.”

“No.”

“Why?”

Steve turned around.

The wooden spoon remained in his hand. He was dressed exactly as he normally dressed at home: T-shirt, shorts, socks, no shoes. At five-six and barely a hundred and five pounds, even that required more attention than he liked. Men's clothes had an irritating tendency to assume that short men were also built like compressed refrigerators. Anything broad enough in one place swallowed him somewhere else. Anything that actually followed his frame had a habit of looking—

Well.

People had opinions.

Steve had learned to have different ones.

“Because it’s a lesbian bar.”

“Yes.”

“And I’m not a lesbian.”

Liz coughed into her beer.

Steve narrowed his eyes.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That was a fucking suspicious cough.”

“I swallowed wrong.”

“You weren't drinking.”

Liz picked up her beer and took a deliberate sip.

“There. Better?”

“No.”

Brittney had developed the expression she got when Steve was being particularly difficult.

He knew the expression well.

It was approximately eighty percent affection and twenty percent contemplating fratricide.

Technically sororicide wasn't applicable, despite what apparently half the population of Massachusetts believed on sight.

He had looked it up once.

Not because it bothered him.

Because he'd wanted the correct word.

There wasn't one.

English was stupid.

“Steve,” Brittney said.

“I'm listening.”

“No, you're cooking defensively.”

He looked down.

He was stirring the onions rather harder than necessary.

“That isn't a thing.”

“It is now.”

“They were sticking.”

“They weren't.”

“You're a nurse, not an onion specialist.”

Liz lifted her beer. “She's got you there.”

“Thank you.”

“Still going to Blush.”

Steve closed his eyes.

The onions smelled fantastic.

His sister was an asshole.

These things could both be true.

“Explain to me,” he said, turning the heat down, “why you think sending your thirty-five-year-old brother to a lesbian bar is a productive use of anyone's evening.”

Brittney smiled.

That bothered him immediately.

Not a big smile.

A little one.

A private one.

Steve pointed the wooden spoon at her.

“No.”

“I haven't said anything.”

“I know that face.”

“You know every face I have.”

“Exactly. That's the face where you know something you think I don't know.”

Liz became fascinated by the label on her beer.

Steve looked between them.

It was particularly irritating because together they looked like exactly what they were: a married lesbian couple entirely at ease in their own skin and in each other’s company. Brittney’s femininity was warm and obvious. Liz’s was quieter, cut through with the masculine vocabulary of her soft-butch presentation without surrendering femininity to get there. They fit beside one another without looking like opposites, counterparts, or somebody’s stupid idea of which one was supposed to be the man.

Steve had never thought of them that way.

They were Brittney and Liz.

His problem was that both of them currently knew something.

“Oh, fuck off. Both of you.”

Brittney laughed.

“I'm serious.”

“So am I.”

“About what?”

“Going out.”

“I go out.”

“You go to work.”

“I go other places.”

“Name three.”

“Home Depot.”

“That was already one.”

“The grocery store.”

“Already one.”

“Brittney's house.”

“I am Brittney.”

“I know. I've known you for thirty-five years.”

“Thirty-five years and you still don't know how lists work.”

“I write software. I know how lists work.”

“Then name three places you voluntarily go where nobody is paying you, selling you something, or related to you.”

Steve opened his mouth.

Nothing useful happened.

The onions hissed quietly behind him.

The apartment suddenly seemed annoyingly available as evidence. The neat living room beyond the kitchen. The couch he had spent too much time researching before buying. The television. A couple of books stacked on the end table because he had not yet decided whether buying another bookcase constituted admitting defeat. His laptop sat closed on the desk. A pair of sneakers waited precisely beside the front door.

There was nothing wrong with any of it.

Liz took another drink.

He pointed at her without looking.

“Not one fucking word.”

“I am drinking my beer.”

“Judgmentally.”

“You're very sensitive tonight.”

“I am being ambushed in my own kitchen.”

Brittney's grin widened.

Steve turned back to the stove.

This was ridiculous.

His life was fine.

That was the part Brittney seemed constitutionally incapable of accepting.

He had a good job. He made good money. His apartment was clean. He cooked. He had hobbies. He talked to Brittney all the time, whether he wanted to or not.

He had friends.

Probably.

There were people at work.

Some of them had been to his apartment.

One had helped him move a couch.

That counted.

He wasn't unhappy.

He wished people would stop treating not unhappy like he'd confessed to a terminal disease.

“I'm fine,” he said.

Brittney didn't answer.

That made him look at her.

She wasn't smiling now.

Not upset.

Just watching him.

The teasing had gone out of her face so completely that for a moment Steve could see the nurse in her—not because she looked clinical, but because Brittney knew how to pay attention when something mattered.

And that was worse.

“Don't,” Steve said.

“I didn't say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“No, I wasn't.”

“You were thinking something.”

“I'm usually thinking something.”

“Debatable.”

Liz choked on her beer.

Brittney turned on her wife.

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing, baby.”

“Oh, now you're staying out of it?”

“I've been out of it.”

“You called him a hermit twenty minutes ago.”

“I said he has hermit tendencies.”

“Thank you,” Steve said. “That's completely different.”

Liz pointed at him. “See? He gets me.”

“I regret marrying into this family.”

Steve and Liz answered together.

“No, you don't.”

There was a beat.

Liz looked at him.

Steve looked at Liz.

Brittney looked between them.

Then Liz reached across the counter and bumped her fist against Steve's shoulder.

“Damn right.”

And that was that.

Because that was how things worked.

You could be irritated. You could argue. You could tell somebody they were being an asshole. Brittney could announce that Steve was wasting his life because he'd spent Friday night reading about memory allocation and chicken.

Nobody was leaving.

Nobody ever meant that.

Steve checked the chicken.

The marinade had gone dark and glossy in the heat, caramelizing along the edges. He tipped the pan slightly, spooned the juices back over the top, and watched Brittney try not to look interested.

“Twenty minutes.”

Brittney got up and opened his refrigerator.

Her stockinged feet made almost no sound on the kitchen floor.

“Hey.”

“I want wine.”

“Ask.”

“Can I have wine?”

“No.”

She took the bottle anyway.

“Why do I bother?”

“Because Mom raised you right.”

“Mom raised you right too.”

“Five years later. She was tired.”

That got him.

Steve laughed despite himself.

Brittney kissed the top of his head on the way past.

He immediately ducked away.

“Jesus Christ.”

“You love me.”

“Debatable.”

“No, it isn't.”

No.

It wasn't.

---

Dinner should have ended the conversation.

It did not.

The kitchen had changed shape around the meal. The prep bowls were stacked beside the sink now. The chicken sat mostly demolished on a serving platter between them, its lacquered surface streaked with sauce. Roasted potatoes had disappeared even faster. Wine had replaced Brittney’s earlier determination to steal his mustard, while Liz had retained her beer and apparently declared open season on everyone else’s plate.

Steve had badly underestimated Brittney's commitment to being annoying.

By the time Liz was stealing the last piece of chicken off his plate, Brittney had returned to Blush three times.

“No.”

“You haven't even heard my latest argument.”

“You haven't made an argument. You've issued a directive.”

“Fine. My argument is that you'll have fun.”

“That is speculation.”

“You like women.”

Steve stared at her.

“Yes.”

“Blush has women.”

“Lesbians.”

“Those are women.”

“Thank you, Brittney. I'm glad nursing school covered taxonomy.”

Liz made the mistake of laughing with food in her mouth.

Steve waited while she recovered.

Brittney continued.

“You don't have to hit on anybody.”

“Excellent, because that would be creepy.”

“Why?”

Steve put down his fork.

“Because they're lesbians.”

Brittney looked at him.

Liz looked at him.

Steve looked back.

“What?”

Brittney's mouth twitched.

“Nothing.”

“No. Absolutely not. You don't get to do that.”

“Do what?”

“That.”

“I am sitting here.”

“You're sitting there meaningfully.”

Liz muttered, “He's sensitive to sitting.”

“Thank you, Elizabeth.”

“Don't government-name me in front of my wife.”

“Your wife was at your wedding.”

“Still.”

Brittney leaned forward.

“Steve. Go have a drink.”

“At a lesbian bar.”

“Yes.”

“Why that bar?”

“Because I like it.”

“You've been there twice.”

“Three times.”

“Congratulations.”

“And because Liz and I know people who go there.”

That was new.

Steve frowned.

“Who?”

“People.”

“That's not an answer.”

“It is technically an answer.”

“It's semantically useless.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“You married a nurse,” Steve told Liz. “You could have stopped this.”

Liz shrugged. “I like her tits.”

Brittney slapped her arm.

Steve dropped his forehead into his hands.

“For fuck's sake.”

“What?” Liz said. “We're lesbians. Apparently that's relevant tonight.”

“I hate this family.”

“No, you don't,” Brittney and Liz said together.

Steve looked up.

They were both grinning.

Assholes.

He loved them.

Which was the problem with family.

It made murder complicated.

“All right,” he said.

Brittney stopped smiling.

Steve pointed at her.

“One drink.”

Her smile came back.

“One.”

“Sure.”

“Do not ‘sure’ me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you're already changing the terms.”

“I haven't changed anything.”

“I go there. I have one drink. I demonstrate conclusively that this is a stupid idea. I come home.”

“Absolutely.”

“And then you stop.”

Brittney tilted her head.

“Stop what?”

“This.”

“Define this.”

“Trying to fix my social life.”

Her expression changed again.

Only a little.

Steve almost missed it.

Almost.

“I'm not trying to fix you,” she said.

He frowned.

“I said my social life.”

“I know.”

Something sat there for half a second.

Then Liz reached over and stole the last roasted potato from Brittney's plate.

Brittney gasped.

“You fucking bitch.”

And the moment was gone.

---

An hour later Steve stood in front of his closet wondering how the hell he'd lost control of his evening.

The apartment was quiet again.

Not empty exactly. Steve liked quiet. There was a difference.

The dishes were done. The counters were wiped. The kitchen had been restored to the condition it had been in before Brittney and Liz arrived, except for the faint smell of garlic and gochujang still hanging in the air and the wineglass Brittney had somehow abandoned on the coffee table despite Steve explicitly pointing toward the sink.

One drink.

That was all.

This was not a date.

It was not even socializing, technically.

It was field research.

No.

That sounded worse.

Proof of concept.

Also worse.

Fine.

He was going to a bar.

People went to bars.

Men went to bars.

Men definitely went to—

He stopped.

“Don't.”

The empty apartment did not answer.

“Not doing that tonight.”

He pulled out a button-down.

Looked at it.

Put it back.

Too fitted.

That was the problem with buying shirts that actually fit him.

On a hanger it was an ordinary men's button-down: narrow collar, clean placket, dark fabric, nothing remotely remarkable about it. On Steve, the side seams followed his waist instead of dropping straight from his ribs, and the result communicated something he had absolutely not authorized.

He pulled out another.

Too—

He stared at it.

Too what?

It was a shirt.

He put it back.

Black jeans.

Fine.

Dark blue shirt.

Fine.

Boots.

Fine.

None of it was especially masculine. None of it was especially feminine either. That was deliberate, though Steve would have described the decision as buying clothes that fit rather than having a presentation strategy.

The black jeans were slim because anything wider overwhelmed his legs. The dark blue shirt fit his shoulders properly and drew in slightly at his waist because apparently manufacturers believed a thirty-five-inch chest was evidence of criminal femininity. His black leather boots had a narrow, clean profile rather than the heavy work-boot shape he sometimes bought and almost never wore because they looked ridiculous at the end of his thin legs.

Individually, every choice made sense.

Collectively—

Steve dressed, checked the mirror, and immediately became irritated.

There was nothing wrong with what he was wearing.

Nothing.

The jeans fit.

The shirt fit.

His hair—

His hair was doing that thing.

It was soft and had enough length to fall rather than stand where he wanted it, framing his face in a way that strangers routinely interpreted as intentional. He ran his fingers through it, trying to break up the shape.

Worse.

Again.

Better.

Maybe.

He stepped back.

A small, pretty woman stared at him from the mirror.

Not metaphorically.

That was simply what strangers saw.

Steve sighed.

“Yeah, yeah.”

This was not news.

At five-six and a hundred and five pounds, Steve had long ago accepted that God, genetics, or some bored cosmic bureaucrat had fucked up the paperwork.

His shoulders were narrow. His waist was small. His face was fine-boned enough that shaving did less visual work than Steve thought shaving ought to be contractually obligated to perform. Clothes followed the body underneath them, and his body had never been particularly interested in helping with the argument.

People saw what they saw.

He knew what he was.

Usually, when the discrepancy annoyed him enough, Steve compensated behaviorally. Lower the voice a fraction. Square the shoulders. Hands in pockets. Take up a little more space. A collection of tiny corrections he barely thought about anymore.

The problem was that deliberate masculinity on Steve sometimes had the exact opposite effect.

Brittney had once watched him lean against a wall with what he considered perfectly ordinary masculine nonchalance and laughed so hard she'd had to sit down.

She had refused to explain.

Asshole.

Steve adjusted the collar.

The shirt really was well made.

Single-needle stitching. Good placket. Somebody had actually bothered matching the pattern across the pocket, which shouldn't have been remarkable but apparently basic craftsmanship was now a premium feature.

He turned slightly to look at the side seam.

Clean.

No puckering.

The pattern alignment remained almost perfect through the waist.

He caught himself.

“It's a shirt.”

The mirror remained unconvinced.

Steve grabbed his jacket.

---

Blush announced itself in purple.

Purple neon washed across the wet pavement outside, turning the sidewalk into something more cinematic than the neighborhood had any right to be.

Steve sat in his car across the street.

He had been sitting there for seven minutes.

This was not hesitation.

It was reconnaissance.

There was a difference.

Rain had stopped recently enough that the street still reflected everything: headlights, traffic signals, the violet glow of the BLUSH sign broken into ripples whenever a tire cut through the gutter. The building itself wasn't what Steve had expected, although he wasn't entirely sure what he'd expected. There was no rainbow explosion, no velvet rope, no nightclub line curling around the block. Dark brick. Broad front windows softened by tinted glass. Purple light around the entrance. A steady pulse of music whenever the door opened.

People came and went.

Women, mostly.

Unsurprisingly.

But women turned out to cover considerably more territory than Steve's imagination had bothered supplying.

Two women walked toward the entrance holding hands. One wore a long wool coat over a dress, narrow heels clicking briskly against the wet sidewalk; the other had a cropped jacket, close-cut hair, a skirt, and heavy platform Docs that made the height difference between them almost disappear.

Another three spilled out laughing hard enough that one had to grab the wall. One was glamorous in the conspicuous, high-production sense—styled hair, lipstick Steve could see from across the street, jewelry flashing at her throat and wrists. Her friend beside her wore almost no visible makeup, a loose cardigan over a short dress and sneakers, while the third had an undercut, a carabiner clipped at her hip and the sort of immaculate manicure Steve had learned from Brittney was considerably more work than it looked.

A woman in a leather jacket held the door for someone in a tiny red dress.

A grey-haired couple came out a minute later, still arguing cheerfully about something. One carried both umbrellas.

Nobody appeared to be conducting lesbian inspections.

That was encouraging.

Or disappointing.

Depending on whether he wanted an excuse to leave.

He checked the time.

He could text Brittney.

Line too long.

There wasn't a line.

Parking sucks.

He was parked.

Closed for private event.

There were literally people walking in.

He could lie.

Brittney would know.

Worse, Liz would know, and Liz would never say anything. She'd just look at him next Sunday.

No.

Fuck that.

Steve got out of the car.

The damp night air hit his face, cool enough that he immediately zipped his jacket halfway. He crossed between two parked cars and headed toward the purple light.

One drink.

He would walk inside, order something, stay a respectable amount of time, discover that—as predicted—he had no particular reason to be there, and report his findings to Brittney.

Then this would be over.

Simple.

The woman at the door glanced up as he approached.

She was probably somewhere in her thirties, broad-shouldered and striking, wearing a fitted black dress under an open denim jacket with the sleeves cuffed to show tattooed forearms. Her hair was cropped close at the sides and longer on top, deliberately styled rather than merely short. Gold hoops, dark lipstick, heeled boots. Masculine and feminine signals sat together without appearing to argue about jurisdiction.

Steve noticed because he was currently trying to determine whether she was security.

She looked him over.

Not crudely.

Just enough to register him.

Her gaze went from his face to his clothes and back again, and something in her expression settled with the easy speed of somebody who thought she had understood what she was looking at.

Steve braced himself for—

“Hey.”

He stopped.

“Hey.”

Her attention shifted briefly toward the door.

Steve remained where he was.

She looked back at him.

There was the beginning of a smile at one corner of her mouth.

“Door works better if you walk through it.”

Steve glanced at the door.

Then at her.

“Right.”

She pulled it open.

Warmth, music, conversation and amber-purple light spilled onto the sidewalk.

Steve stepped through.

The first thing that hit him was not the music.

It was the room.

Blush wasn't a dark box with a bar shoved against one wall. It had layers. The long bar curved through the front half of the room under pendant lights warm enough to flatter everybody beneath them. Purple lived mostly in the background—behind bottles, beneath shelves, along the edges of the room—rather than coating everything in neon. Beyond the bar were small tables and booths, then a more open area where the music mattered more. Farther back he could see pool tables under brighter lamps and the suggestion of another room beyond them.

It smelled like citrus peel, perfume, beer, damp coats and whatever somebody nearby was eating that had been fried within an inch of perfection.

And it was full of women.

Not generically.

Specifically.

A woman in a sharply tailored blazer and short skirt leaned against the bar talking to someone in a vintage floral dress. Two women in jeans occupied a booth with a third in a long flowing skirt, their table crowded with drinks and somebody's abandoned handbag. Near the pool tables, a woman in platform boots bent over a shot while her friend—heels, leather skirt, flannel shirt tied at the waist—offered advice that was apparently unwelcome.

Hair ran from waist-length curls to shaved sides to pixies to elaborate styling. Makeup ran from none Steve could detect to precise wings and saturated lips. Jewelry could be tiny and deliberate or impossible to miss. Dresses did not reliably mean femme. Boots did not reliably mean butch. He saw a woman in a skirt, heels and men's-cut vest whose whole presentation still read more masculine than Brittney ever had in pants, although Steve couldn't have explained exactly why.

That bothered the classification part of his brain just enough to be interesting.

Nobody was dressed as a category.

They were dressed as themselves.

More importantly, nobody stopped when Steve entered.

A woman glanced over, smiled automatically, and returned to her conversation.

Another shifted her chair so Steve could pass.

Someone brushed behind him and said, “Sorry, hon,” without looking twice.

Steve had prepared himself to be conspicuous.

Apparently he had failed.

He stood just inside the door, absorbing this.

Then somebody behind him wanted to come in.

Steve moved.

Obviously.

Standing in an entrance was how idiots caused traffic.

He headed toward the bar.

With every step, the problem became stranger.

He knew perfectly well what people saw when they looked at him. He had known for years. The cashier saying ma'am wasn't news. The waiter handing him the women's menu at some themed restaurant wasn't a spiritual experience. The occasional guy trying to flirt before realizing his mistake was mostly irritating.

But those mistakes usually corrected themselves.

There was a second look.

A voice.

An apology.

An awkward laugh.

A sudden little rearrangement of the interaction.

Here, there was no rearrangement.

The room accepted the first impression and kept moving.

A woman carrying two drinks stepped around him and smiled.

“Cute shirt.”

Steve looked down automatically.

Of course.

The fucking shirt.

“Thanks.”

She was already gone.

He looked after her.

That had not sounded like mockery.

It also hadn't sounded like surprise.

Steve continued to the bar.

There was an open stool near the end.

He sat.

The bartender looked over.

Steve exhaled slowly.

There.

He had done it.

He was inside a lesbian bar.

Nobody had challenged him.

Nobody had thrown him out.

Nobody had even appeared to notice the apparent contradiction he had spent the drive rehearsing explanations for.

Which was—

Fine.

Good.

Obviously.

Also mildly irritating.

He put both hands on the bar and looked at the bottles while he waited.

One drink.

That was the deal.

One drink, enough time to establish good-faith compliance, then home.

Brittney would be deprived of her argument.

Steve could spend the rest of the evening doing something normal.

Maybe look into that ARM issue again.

The bartender looked over.

“What can I get you?”

Steve ordered a beer.

She set it down.

He paid.

And just like that, he had fulfilled the terms of the agreement.

He was inside Blush.

He had a drink.

He had conclusively—

Someone laughed behind him.

Not at him.

A big, unrestrained laugh, followed immediately by another woman's voice.

“You cannot possibly believe that.”

“I don't have to believe it. I said it confidently.”

“That is not how facts work.”

“That's how Sales works.”

Steve turned before he could stop himself.

Five women occupied a table a few yards away.

The blonde currently defending Sales looked entirely too pleased with herself.

Across from her, a dark-haired woman in an immaculate jacket had the expression of an attorney contemplating whether homicide could be billed to a client.

Beside her, another woman was drawing something on a cocktail napkin.

Actually—

Steve squinted.

Was that a horse?

No.

A horse with wings?

The woman drawing it looked up suddenly and met his eyes.

Steve looked away.

Shit.

Great.

Excellent.

Now he was the weird guy staring at lesbians in the lesbian bar.

Perfect execution, Steven.

He took a drink.

Behind him, the conversation continued.

“Sales does not create facts.”

“Sales creates revenue, Victoria. Revenue buys facts.”

“That sentence is offensive on at least three levels.”

“Only three?”

A different woman spoke.

Lower.

Dry.

“Nat, if you explain capitalism to the attorney again, I'm leaving you here.”

“You can't. We're in love.”

“I'll recover.”

Steve smiled into his beer.

Okay.

That was funny.

“Excuse me.”

He looked up.

A woman stood beside him.

High femme. Dark hair. Beautiful enough that Steve's brain briefly stopped doing anything useful.

She indicated the empty space beside him at the bar.

“Are you using that?”

Steve looked at the stool.

Then at her.

Then back at the stool.

“No.”

“Great.”

She took it.

Steve moved his beer slightly to give her room.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

She looked toward the table.

The blonde—Nat, apparently—was now gesturing emphatically with both hands while the attorney looked increasingly offended by the existence of commerce.

The woman beside Steve sighed.

“I leave for thirty seconds.”

Steve glanced over.

“What happened?”

“Sales.”

He laughed.

She looked at him.

Not offended.

Interested.

Steve nodded toward the table.

“I'm a software engineer.”

Understanding dawned instantly.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Her mouth curved.

“My condolences.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m a project manager.”

Steve stared at her.

She stared back.

Neither spoke.

Then Steve slowly picked up his beer.

“So we're enemies.”

“Traditionally.”

“That's unfortunate.”

“Very.”

A beat.

From the table, Nat shouted:

“CHLOE, STOP FLIRTING WITH STRANGERS AND COME DEFEND CAPITALISM.”

Chloe didn't look away from Steve.

“I don't defend capitalism.”

Steve glanced toward Nat.

“Sales does.”

“Sales would sell capitalism a subscription to capitalism.”

Steve laughed before he could stop himself.

Chloe smiled.

Not broadly.

Just enough.

Then she looked at his beer.

“One drink?”

Steve blinked.

“What?”

“You have the posture of somebody serving a sentence.”

He looked down at himself.

“I do not.”

“You absolutely do.”

“I’m standing normally.”

“Very bravely.”

Steve narrowed his eyes.

Chloe took her drink from the bartender.

“First time?”

“Here?”

“No, Steve. On Earth.”

He stared.

She stared back.

Then the corner of her mouth twitched.

Steve laughed.

“Okay. Yes. Here.”

“Thought so.”

“How?”

“You keep looking at the door.”

“I do not.”

Chloe looked toward the door.

Steve followed her gaze automatically.

When he looked back, she was smiling.

“Oh, fuck you.”

“There he is.”

Steve paused.

Something about that landed strangely.

Not badly.

Just—

Comfortably.

As if they'd been arguing longer than four minutes.

Chloe picked up her glass.

“So why Blush?”

“My sister.”

“That sentence requires more words.”

“She thinks I need to get out more.”

“And you disagree.”

“Strongly.”

“Yet here you are.”

“I’m proving her wrong.”

Chloe considered this.

“How?”

Steve opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Looked at his beer.

Chloe waited.

That was annoying.

“I haven't worked out all the metrics yet.”

“Project-management failure.”

“Engineering hasn't delivered requirements.”

“Classic.”

From the table:

“CHLOE.”

Chloe closed her eyes.

“What?”

“You're hoarding the tiny engineer.”

Steve looked at her.

“Tiny?”

Chloe looked him up and down.

It was not subtle.

Steve straightened.

She looked back at his face.

“Would you prefer enormous?”

“Average.”

“No.”

He stared at her.

She took a drink.

Steve felt something dangerous happen.

He liked her.

Not liked liked her.

Jesus Christ.

He'd known her for five minutes.

But she was funny.

And gorgeous.

And irritating.

Which, unfortunately, was a combination to which he had historically demonstrated poor resistance.

Chloe nodded toward the table.

“Come sit down.”

Steve looked over.

Five—

No.

Four women now, because Chloe was standing beside him.

Nat was openly watching them.

The attorney was pretending not to.

The artist had abandoned the winged horse and was apparently taking a picture of her drink.

Another woman—beautiful, dark-haired, spectacularly feminine—caught Steve looking and smiled at him with such immediate warmth that he almost smiled back automatically.

Almost.

Then he remembered where he was.

“I don't want to intrude.”

“You won't.”

“You're here with your friends.”

“My girlfriends.”

Steve looked at Chloe.

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

He looked at the table.

Back at Chloe.

“All four?”

“Yes.”

Steve looked at the table again.

Nat waved.

The attorney gave her a look.

The artist waved too, apparently because Nat had.

The fourth woman laughed.

Steve turned back.

“Huh.”

Chloe waited.

“That seems logistically complicated.”

There was a tiny silence.

Then Chloe barked out a laugh.

Not the polished little laugh he'd expected from looking at her.

A real one.

Loud enough that the table noticed.

Steve smiled.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That was definitely something.”

“No, it's just—” Chloe shook her head. “That's your question?”

“I have others.”

“I bet you do.”

“I mean, calendars alone—”

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“You really are an engineer.”

“I told you that.”

“You did.”

Steve looked back at the table.

Four women.

All dating Chloe.

All, presumably, dating—

No.

He wasn't reverse-engineering somebody else's relationship at a bar.

Boundaries.

He had those.

Chloe watched him.

“No pressure.”

And there it was.

Simple.

No coaxing.

No challenge.

Just an invitation.

Steve looked at his beer.

One drink.

He'd promised Brittney one drink.

He hadn't promised to drink it alone.

Technically.

He looked at Chloe.

“Fine.”

Her eyebrow rose.

“Fine?”

“One drink.”

“Your parole terms are very strict.”

“You have no idea.”

Chloe turned toward the table.

Steve followed.

Nat immediately moved a chair with her foot.

Not graciously.

More like she was kicking open a door.

“Tiny Engineer!”

“My name is Steve.”

Nat froze.

The attorney froze.

The artist looked up.

The fourth woman blinked.

Chloe, behind him, made a sound that might have been a cough.

Steve stopped.

“What?”

Nat recovered first.

“Nothing.”

There was something happening.

He didn't know what.

He already disliked it.

The attorney's eyes flicked briefly toward Chloe.

Chloe gave the smallest possible shake of her head.

Steve caught that.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Chloe said.

“That was definitely something.”

The artist leaned toward him.

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

Steve stared at her.

The attorney closed her eyes.

“Maddie.”

“What? We were talking about him.”

“We absolutely were not.”

“We could have been.”

Nat pointed at Maddie. “She's right.”

“She is demonstrably not.”

The fourth woman smiled at Steve.

“I'm Sofia.”

“Steve.”

“I heard.”

“Apparently everybody did.”

“Nat doesn't have an indoor voice.”

“I have an indoor voice.”

Tori looked at her.

“This is your indoor voice.”

Nat considered that.

“Fair.”

Steve sat.

Chloe took the chair beside him.

And somehow, within thirty seconds, Nat was explaining why Sales was the only reason software engineers had jobs, Steve was explaining why this constituted hate speech, Tori was demanding both of them define their terms, Maddie had decided the winged horse was actually a tax accountant named Dennis, and Sofia was laughing hard enough to put her drink down.

Chloe leaned back in her chair.

Watching.

Steve forgot about the door.

Not permanently.

Not meaningfully.

He just—

forgot.

For a while.

And nobody at the table seemed to think he was in the wrong place.