Erin Najbreit

Several hours later, we pull into the garage of Genevieve’s house. I don’t get a great look at it, being sandwiched in the trunk of her car, but I do get to enjoy the peculiar soreness and deep muscle-ache that comes from being stuck in one position for far too long. I try to shake off the pins and needles in my leg as the trunk opens up, Genevieve laughing and offering me a steadying hand as we enter into the house proper. The kitchen we come into is a nice and tidy space, blues and whites tiling the floor and walls, the countertops polished to a sheen that I could style my hair in.

“So you you nailed this girl and she thought she was entitled to a piece of your family fortune?” Genevieve says in disbelief. “But… how did she even come to a conclusion like that?” She brushes her hand over a countertop and turns to face me, cocking her head to the side. Still playing cute, but I don’t mind.

“I was still in college back then. We’re all stupid in college,” I say. “I’ll let you in on a secret—back then, I thought I was entitled to some of my family fortune. Ah well. Just like Sarah, I learned that lesson quick.”

I laugh bitterly at my little joke, and Genevieve touches my arm. She shoots me a quick frown.

“You must be hungry after all those hours in the car,” she says. “How about I whip up something for the two of us to eat?”

“That sounds great,” I say, and then, after a moment’s consideration: “I’m looking forward to it!”

Genevieve beams and leans forward to kiss me on the cheek. I feel the heat of her lips brushing against the side of my face, two pinpricks of warmth that stirs up feelings inside—my instinct is to repress, push it down, and I tense—but then she pulls away. A moment passes, something flashes through her eyes, she turns towards the fridge. I let my emotions sweep me away, she’s a fine person to feel something for, she’s Erin’s colleague, I’m not using her, she came to me…

I hook an arm around her shoulder, pulling her in to me, I need this, her eyes widening as I kiss her.

The warmth that blossoms as my lips meet hers is one that loosens the tension deep in my gut and brings something else up, something bright and flaming, I want more, I hold her close to me, when I hear Genevieve murmuring something between her lips.

“What?” I say, my lips parting from hers for a second.

That’s when I see her, standing at the entrance to the kitchen.

Her dark hair tumbles waterfall-esque around her slender neck, her slim figure clad in a sheer blouse that would never fly outdoors in this Boston winter. She wears light rimmed glasses perched on a small, elegant nose, her flashing black irises clearly taking after her mother’s. She has an arm folded across her chest, and Erin Najbreit raises an eyebrow at me.

“Not going to say hi to me? I see that you’ve already had the chance to greet my girlfriend,” she says, and I stagger back, letting Genevieve go.

Girlfriend? What? Geneveive’s lesbian? And… and Erin is too? I don’t know why I feel a twinge of disappointment at that, but I do, and then I feel my temperature rise. Why didn’t Genevieve tell me? All those hours in the car, and I thought I was flirting with her, thought that…

“She’s your girlfriend?” I say, sputtering at the mouth.

“He’s not very good at greetings,” Genevieve laughs, wrapping an arm around Erin.

“Evidently,” Erin says, looking awfully content, cradled in Genevieve’s arm.

I feel a pang of jealousy, and then I remember why I even came to this house in the first place.

“Genevieve, would you mind leaving the two of us alone?” I say. “Erin and I have some things we need to talk about. Sensitive things.”

“Maybe you missed it the first time, but she’s my girlfriend. If you can trust me, you can trust her,” Erin says, half-glaring at me. “And besides, she already knows everything that I do about you, as you probably gathered over the last few hours. There’s a reason why I asked her to pick you up. Father’s increased surveillance on me—on all of us, I think—and so Genevieve’s place is one of the few that I can go to without arousing suspicion, and Genevieve’s one of the few people who can do things for us while arousing a minimal amount of suspicion. She stays.”

I’m about to interject when Genevieve pats Erin on the shoulder.

“It’s fine, Erin,” she says. “You two should catch up and say what needs to be said. I’ll be waiting in my bedroom. You can fill me in on the details later.”

With that, she leaves a peck on Erin’s cheek, and then, turning to go, she winks at me. What am I supposed to make of that?

Erin takes it in stride. She approaches me, pulling out a barstool by the counter.

“So you wanted to talk,” Erin says. She nimbly gets on the barstool, sitting cross-legged on the wood surface. “Let’s talk.”