Borrowing a Key, Stealing a Man

Tabitha sat in her car at the curb, engine idling, one hand resting on the steering wheel while she checked her phone. No new messages. She sighed, then smiled despite herself.

Saturday morning. Cabin weekend. Fresh air, bad coffee, a fireplace that smoked if you looked at it wrong. All she needed was the key.

Charlotte had texted her the night before, far too cheerful for a Friday evening: You're finally going to meet my boyfriend tomorrow!

Tabitha had rolled her eyes and replied with a thumbs-up emoji.

Charlotte's dating life had never really interested her. Her sister had always fallen hard and fast, drifting from one intense attachment to another. Men, women, artists, finance types—it all blurred together for Tabitha. As long as Charlotte was happy and not calling at three in the morning in tears, Tabitha stayed out of it.

Besides, Tabitha had her own things on her mind.

Jill.

They had met online, one of those rare connections that didn't feel ****. A few dates. Drinks that turned into long conversations. A kiss or two that lingered just enough to promise more. Tabitha hadn't asked yet, but the plan had been forming all week: the cabin, the quiet, the weekend away from the city. A step forward. To Jill, it would be spontaneous, romantic. At least, that was how Tabitha had planned it to be.

She checked the time. If she grabbed the key and got going, she could be on the road by noon. She'd have to swing by Jill's place and surprise her, but if everything went how she hoped, the pair would be eating supper in front of the fire.

Tabitha killed the engine and stepped out of the car, tugging her jacket closed against the morning chill. The building rose above her, all stone and glass and money. She headed inside without breaking stride.

The doorman smiled when he saw her. "Morning, Ms. Walsh."

"Morning," she replied easily, flashing a grin. "Here for my sister."

"Of course. Elevator's free."

She nodded her thanks and crossed the lobby, boots echoing softly on the polished floor. Even though it had happened years ago, she still remembered helping her sister unpack when she'd moved into the building. They'd been young, Tabitha only just out of high school, Charlotte just a few years older. Money, of course, hadn't been an obstacle in securing such an opulent apartment. While their parents had lacked in many things, financial resources had never been one of them. Still, when she met the parents of her friends, Tabitha often felt jealousy of the approval in their eyes, the kindness in their words, the warmth in their acceptance.

Still, without her parents she'd never be able to have the lifestyle she enjoyed. Working part-time in the city as a barista, while still enjoying her own apartment, her own car, a cabin she shared with her sister. The same jealousy she felt when she met her friends' parents, Tabitha had seen in her friends' eyes when they talked about their struggles. Over the years she'd learned not to complain, nor to brag. She held her cards close, that way her friends didn't push her away.

The elevator ride up was uneventful, giving her just enough time to rehearse the conversation she expected to have. Grab the key. Tease Charlotte about the boyfriend. Leave before things got weird.

She stepped out on Charlotte's floor and walked down the hall. There were so many things Charlotte and Tabitha had in common. They both enjoyed the same music, the same movies, the same books. They'd even shared a crush on the same neighbourhood girls growing up. But there was one thing Tabitha had never been able to understand about her sister: Men.

When she was younger, she'd tried. She really had. To gain her parents' approval, to fit in, to prove it to herself that she wasn't what those mean kids had called her. Dyke. Rug muncher. Lesbo.

She hated the names. But she hated how she felt when she denied who she was much more.

And so she'd grown to embrace her sexuality. Tabitha was a lesbian. She liked, no, she loved women. Her sister didn't have the same struggles. Bi girls could hide in a straight crowd so much easier, picking their battles, picking their loves. Women like Tabitha stood out. It was obvious she would never be Molly Homemaker, at least not for some man.

She raised her hand and knocked.

The door opened almost immediately.

Charlotte stood there beaming, her hand linked with a man Tabitha had never seen before.

So this was the boyfriend Charlotte had been going on about.

Tabitha took him in at a glance. Shorter than she expected, balding, pudgy. Neatly dressed, though, but the clothes looked worn, like this wasn't their first day in action. He had the look of someone trying very hard to stand up straight.

Then something strange happened.

For just a second, a faint, crawling awareness swept over her skin. The hair on her arms stood up, sharp and electric, like static before a storm.

Tabitha blinked.

What the hell was that?

She shook it off as quickly as it had come, dismissing it as nothing. Bad sleep. Too much coffee. Anticipation, maybe.

She smiled.

Her gaze locked onto the man's, and warmth bloomed instantly, naturally, as if it had always been there. Relief, too. Happiness. The quiet certainty of someone who belonged with her.

Without hesitation, Tabitha sidled up to him, wrapping her arms around him, resting her chin on his shoulder. Next to him, she fit perfectly. Familiar. Right.

She squeezed his arm, thrilled to have him there, thrilled to be standing between him and her sister, thrilled at the thought of the weekend ahead. The cabin. The drive. Just the two of them.

She turned to Charlotte, her smile wide and sincere.

"Charlotte," she said easily, "I want you to meet my boyfriend, Roy."