Barring Complications

by Blythe Rippon

  Lana shifted in her chair and grinned at her. “Well, Genevieve, fair is fair. Can I ask you a personal question?”

  She was pretty sure her eyes held the same reservation that Lana’s had earlier. “Sure.”

  “If gay marriage becomes legal, are you looking to tie the knot?”

  Yep, that was the question she was dreading. With a shrug, she said, “No viable candidates so far.”

  “Really? You haven’t met Ms. Right yet?”

  “Not yet. If I do meet her, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

  “Thanks so much for stopping by, Genevieve. We wish you all the best. Good luck on this case, and everything else going forward.”

  They shook hands warmly, and Genevieve turned to wave at the camera.

  Chapter Eight

  At the Harbour Club that Friday, Genevieve waited longer than usual for Tori to come out of her dressing room. She nodded at a woman she thought was a member of the White House Counsel, and began rolling her shoulders in what she hoped was a convincing impression that she was stretching, not waiting for someone. Someone whose name was etched on a gold placard just a couple feet away from her.

  It had been a long week of travel and interviews. The nights had often found her staring at the hotel ceiling and wondering what the hell she was doing during these swim dates. Some nights she fell asleep happily, convinced they were communicating with each other, relearning each other, reconnecting. During others she tossed and turned, convinced that no meaningful communication had happened between them and she was wasting her time. Toning her shoulders, perhaps, but otherwise wasting her time. Tori certainly hadn’t given her any signs that she cared.

  When Tori emerged from her dressing room, Genevieve instinctively took a step toward her, only to watch in surprise as Tori turned sorrowful eyes to her and quickly walked to the pool without waiting. She frowned, but followed.

  Tori was already swimming by the time she got into the water. She stretched a bit more, and waited for Tori to finish her first lap so that they could start the next one together. She pushed off from the wall at the same time Tori did, but before she was even halfway down the pool Tori was executing a perfect flip turn against the wall ahead of her.

  Okay, fine. She could swim faster too. But try as she might, Genevieve was no match for Tori in the pool. She never caught up to her, their water breaks never aligned, and she completely failed to catch Tori’s eye. Whatever was wrong, Tori seemed afraid to make eye contact.

  Determined to get some kind of answer, she left the pool before Tori and strode into the locker room. She was leaning against Tori’s door when a very winded Supreme Court justice walked up to her. Genevieve raised her eyebrows but didn’t move. Tori tried to reach around her for her door and Genevieve could see her eyes were filled with tears. Unsure how to ask what was wrong without actually asking what was wrong, she stood there at a loss, hoping they might find some way to communicate.

  Tori sniffled and looked away.

  The swimsuit grew cold against Genevieve’s skin. It took great effort to suppress her shivers and she swayed this way and that, hoping to get Tori to look at her.

  Finally, Tori grabbed the towel that had been wrapped around Genevieve’s waist and dried her face on it as she walked away toward the locker room exit.

  Genevieve had no idea where she was going, and she felt impotent against the edict that they not talk to one another. Sighing, she walked into her room. After her shower, she didn’t bother going upstairs to the café. She wouldn’t find what she was looking for there.

  Later that night, alone in her living room with her thoughts and a glass of pinot noir, she YouTubed her interviews from the week, double-checking her work. Or, more accurately, searching for yet another reason to feel bad. She wasn’t a big fan of watching herself on television.

  On the whole, she was pleased. She’d been charming in her Cleveland interview, and downright sexy in her Indianapolis one. But something bothered her about the Madison interview, and she reviewed it in her mind as she brushed her teeth and took out her contacts. The interview was still playing in her head as she slid under her comforter. It wasn’t until she turned off the light that it hit her why Tori was so distant and distraught.

  * * *

  The next week found her on another stage set in Atlanta. At the end of the interview, when the anchor asked if she was planning on getting married, she answered, “No plans so far.”

  “No one’s swept you off your feet yet?”

  “I didn’t say that. We’re taking things slowly right now.”

  The following Friday, when they met in the locker room, Tori studied her for a long time and Genevieve tried to read the sea of emotions that flitted across her face. She thought she saw regret and hope mixed with relief.

  They swam slowly, together, all fifty laps.

  So. Tori watched her interviews.

  Usually Genevieve fell asleep pondering ways to improve on talking points she had long ago perfected. But when sleep took her that night, she was contemplating other ways she might subtly communicate with Tori through her interviews.

  * * *

  It didn’t occur to her that Tori wasn’t the only one who watched her interviews.

  On Saturday morning, she was awakened from a deep sleep by the sound of Bethany ringing her doorbell nonstop. At least, she assumed it was Bethany. No one else would be hitting the bell to the rhythm of “Deep in the Heart of Texas.” She slipped on a robe, rubbed her eyes, and stumbled down the stairs.

  Bethany breezed in the moment she opened the door. “Who is she and why am I the last to know?” She stalked through the living room and sat down at the breakfast table in the kitchen.

  “Good morning to you, too,” Genevieve mumbled, closing the door.

  “I brought you coffee. Not that you deserve it.” She glared at Genevieve before sipping on a Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf to-go cup sporting a scrawled “HC” on the lid. Genevieve hoped there wasn’t whipped cream in there. She was going to have a hard enough time managing Bethie without the sugar high.

  “Black?” she asked, nodding toward the other cup.

  “Like your eye’s gonna be unless I get some answers.”

  “Charming.” She sat down and put the cup under her nose. Baby steps.

  “Spill it,” Bethany instructed.

  Glancing at her cup, she said, “But you just paid for it.”

  “Oh, you think you’re so clever, G-spot. Going down to Atlanta where you thought no one would find out.”

  “If you think I did something with some woman in Atlanta, you’re gravely mistaken. I did no such–“

  “Bull hooey. I never said she was in Atlanta. Who is she?”

  Genevieve swallowed and tried to come up with a good answer. She must have made a face, because Bethany began to laugh. And once she started, she couldn’t seem to stop. Her laughs turned into guffaws, and then she snorted and slapped the table. For a moment Genevieve thought hot chocolate might come out her nose. Nonplussed, she sat there trying to figure out what the hell was so funny.

  Eventually, Bethany wiped the tears from her eyes and managed to speak. “Well, shit, G.”

  “Is there nitrous oxide in that hot chocolate or something?”

  “Lord, no. Sorry.” Bethany wiped her eyes again and a few more giggles escaped. “Okay. I’m better now. Really.”

  “Lies. You’re worse than you’ve ever been.”

  “Ooh, she comes out swinging!”

  Genevieve drank her coffee and said nothing. She didn’t have to; Bethany had drawn her own ridiculous conclusions.

  “Fine. Don’t tell me. I already know. There’s only one person who would get to you like this, and make you be so evasive.”

  “Oh?” Genevieve raised her eyebrows.

  “It’s obviously Roxie. You spent some quality time with her and discovered she’s more than a perky pair of store-boughts.”

  “Yes, that’s it. I’ve fallen head over heels for a t
wenty-two-year-old stripper.” The coffee was kicking in. “Completely swept off my feet. We’ve already reserved the caterer and picked out the save-the-dates.”

  “Ooh, do they have a pole on them? That woman does amazing things on a pole.”

  “She does?”

  Bethany gave her a funny look.

  “Right. Of course she does. Every night, in fact. But we opted for the corset photo instead. Didn’t want to scandalize her grandfather.”

  “Prude.”

  “So you watched my interview?”

  “No, but the people who run I Fought the Law and the Law Won did.”

  Of course they did. I Fought the Law was a very popular blog in the legal field. Mostly it contained posts about that year’s bonus tiers at big firms, and who had just made partner. Occasionally it offered analyses of recent legislation or cases. But most importantly, it wasn’t above salacious gossip. Whether or not they admitted it, every lawyer in the country had visited the blog at least once, and most frequented it—even the creepy law firm partner in the dark corner of every law office with the sign on the door that read, “Don’t bother knocking. Just go away.”

  Genevieve had once before attracted the attention of the bloggers who ran I Fought the Law. She had won an employment discrimination case for a lesbian client who had been fired from the Illinois Department of Transportation. When the verdict came down, and her client was given her job back as well as damages, she had grabbed Genevieve by the lapels and planted one on her. It had been a very public case, so the kiss was thoroughly documented by reporters and photographers. Overnight, half the lawyers in the country had not only learned Genevieve’s name, but that she had been slipped the tongue. The blog post went so far as to posit that the reason Genevieve looked embarrassed when she pulled away was that she had been caught lingering before cutting it off. She never denied it.

  “So what did our anonymous blogger friends have to say about me?”

  “Oh, you know. They might have hinted it was Nic Ford. She seems to be the only new woman in your life.”

  “Of course. If two lesbians are working together, they must be sleeping together.”

  “Well if they’re wrong, honey, why don’t you correct the record? You can start with me.” Bethany smiled sweetly.

  “Oh, no you don’t.” Genevieve stretched. “You woke me up from a good dream. The least you can do is buy me breakfast.”

  “I bought you coffee.”

  “Small potatoes. It was a really good dream.”

  “Oh? And did your new mystery woman that you’re taking things slowly with—did she feature prominently? Nakedly?”

  “I’ll never tell.”

  “Fine. I’ll buy you breakfast.” Bethany sipped her cocoa, then spoke in a quieter voice. “Genevieve, be careful. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  Genevieve could see her censor herself, and wondered what she held back. She thought it might be the word “again.”

  Chapter Nine

  Genevieve stood in the doorway of her office, contemplating whether she wanted to bring her jacket with her to lunch. The weather was getting steadily warmer, and she probably wouldn’t need it for a quick trip to a sandwich shop. She had just decided to bring the extra layer anyway when her desk phone rang. She crossed her office and grabbed the receiver.

  “Genevieve speaking.”

  “Didyouseethenewpollnumbers?” Jamie Chance spoke so fast that her head spun.

  “Jamie, slow down. One word at a time.”

  “I said, did you see—”

  Her call waiting beeped.

  “Hang on, Jamie. I have another call.” She clicked over.

  “Holy shit, did you see the new poll numbers?” Nic Ford’s voice was so high that it took a moment to realize it was her.

  “Jesus, did the whole world suddenly decide gay people should get married?”

  “No, but the majority of Americans over the age of fifty did!”

  “Hang on, Nic, Jamie’s on the other line. He called right before you did.”

  “Wait, I just called to—”

  Genevieve clicked over. “Jamie?”

  “Was it the lumberjack?” he asked. She could hear his pout through the phone.

  “Jesus, you’re colleagues. Act like it.”

  “So you agree she has lumberjack qualities.”

  “Why do you have to take a beautiful moment and make it ugly?”

  “I’m not the one who makes it ugly. Have you seen how pretty I am?”

  “Okay, Narcissus, if you can tear yourself away from yourself—”

  “Is she on the other line?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, which one of us are you going to choose?”

  “What is this, kickball teams in gym class? I’m not choosing either of you.” She tossed her jacket on her chair. “We’re all meeting for lunch in thirty minutes. Here, at HER.”

  “Here, at HER? Did you honestly just say that?”

  “I’ll get us champagne.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Goodbye, Jamie.” She clicked back over.

  “Let me guess. The fruitcake,” Nic said.

  “Why do you two dislike each other so much?”

  “He’s a lightweight attorney, Genevieve, and you and I are heavy hitters.”

  “You know what? Let’s not. My office is ordering lunch, and the two of you are going to play nice. See you here in thirty.” She hung up before Nic could reply.

  She used the intervening half hour to research the new poll numbers. Gallup, CNN, and the Pew Research Center all agreed. For the first time ever, the majority of Americans over the age of fifty supported legalizing gay marriage. In the 18–35 age bracket, support was over seventy-five percent. The middle age group hovered around sixty-one percent. Disregarding age, three-quarters of all Americans believed that the legalization of gay marriage was inevitable.

  It was indeed reason to celebrate. When Nic and Jamie sat down in the conference room with their bento boxes, Genevieve raised a glass to the two of them. “Not that I think the three of us made this happen on our own, but we worked our tails off and I have to think we’ve helped in some way. To the changing tides!” They clinked glasses, grinning at Genevieve and only minimally glaring at each other.

  Nic put a piece of sushi in her mouth and started talking. It was a little hard to understand her muffled voice, but Genevieve was pretty sure she said, “If the majority of Americans over fifty think gays should be able to get married, that should mean the majority of the Court thinks so too!”

  “Tori’s forty-seven,” Genevieve said absently.

  They both stopped mid-bite.

  Genevieve shrugged and willed her face not to turn red. “Well, she is. Victoria’s only forty-seven.”

  Jamie seemed content to move on. “Even if over half of the nine justices think marriage equality should happen, that doesn’t mean they think the Constitution requires it, or that the Supreme Court can demand it.”

  Nic continued to stare at her, but Genevieve ignored it. “Jamie, what are you focusing your energy on now that our interview schedule is winding down?”

  He politely finished chewing before answering. “HRC is organizing the Run for Equality, and that’s taking most of my time these days.”

  “Oh, really? I’m running that. At least, I’m registered.”

  Jamie laughed. “What’s your mileage at these days? You don’t have much time left.”

  “Don’t I know it. My long run last Sunday was nine miles, so I’m almost there. I imagine if the race were tomorrow, I could finish it, though my time wouldn’t be spectacular.”

  “Are you going for a PR? I got a PR last year.”

  Genevieve could tell Nic was feeling shut out of the conversation. “Nic, do you run?”

  She shook her head and frowned.

  “Well, you could organize a bunch of NCLR staff to walk it together. It would be a nice show of solidarity with HRC and HER. A bunch of
our people are running or walking it.”

  Nic glared, but could find no polite way to refuse. “When is this race?” she asked.

  “Three weeks,” Jamie said. “We’ve got some bands lined up to play at miles five, eight, and eleven. We haven’t decided on our headliner just yet.”

  “Headliner?” Nic asked. “Like, a band?”

  “No, we usually set up a stage at the finish line and have someone super cool or inspiring there. Gives the runners something to look forward to. Last year it was Neil Patrick Harris.”

  Nic rolled her eyes. “Did he sing and dance?”

  “But of course.”

  “Who are you thinking of for this year?” asked Genevieve.

  “We’re pretty divided,” he answered. “Half of HRC wants to go with another celebrity—someone like Frank Ocean. The other half wants to have that little gay high school boy who got kicked out of his prom for bringing another boy.”

  “Why don’t you compromise and have our four clients?” Nic mumbled through another piece of sushi. “They’re minor celebrities at this point, and they’re significant symbols of the fight for gay rights.”

  They stared at her.

  “What?” she asked.

  Genevieve didn’t think it was her place to respond, so she turned to Jamie and waited for his reply.

  “That’s a really great idea,” he said reluctantly.

  Nic looked surprised, and Genevieve just sat back and smiled, happy they were getting along for the moment.

  Chapter Ten

  In keeping with their tradition of secrecy—a tradition Genevieve found a little pretentious and a lot annoying—the justices gave no hint of when decisions for particular cases would come down. Still, she was fairly certain they’d wait until the final week of June before revealing the decision on her case. It was a guessing game, but she, Nic, Jamie, and her four clients decided to wait until June twenty-fourth before arranging to be at the Court—that morning, and every morning thereafter until the decision came down.