Something True

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Thank you to all my friends and colleagues at Linn-Benton Community College and to all the friends, near and far, who make my life so rich. Thank you to Jane Dystel and Miriam Goderich for opening the doors of the publishing world for me. Thank you to Scott Rosenfeld for believing in this manuscript and polishing it so that it shines. Thank you to my parents, Elin and Albert Stetz, for supporting me and supporting my love of writing since I was a little girl. Thank you to my wife, Fay Stetz-Waters. Because of you, I get to live the best romance ever. Finally, thank you to Portland for being as magical in reality as it is in this story.

I
t was late June, the kind of warm summer evening when hopeless romantics make bad choices about beautiful women. The twilight was all watery, yellow-blue brightness, and Portland glowed with the promise of warm pavement and cool moonlight. It was, as it turned out, a dangerous mix for Tate Grafton, who stood at the till of Out in Portland Coffee trying to make out what her boss had done to the change drawer.

“How is it possible,” she called without looking up, “that you are eight dollars over, but it's all in nickels?”

Just then, the wind chime on the door tinkled. It was because of that evening light that came from nowhere and everywhere at the same time and filled the city with a sense of possibility that Tate did not say, “Sorry, we're closed.”

The woman who had just walked in wore her hair pulled back in a low ponytail and had the kind of sleek magazine blondness that Tate was required, as a feminist, to say she did not like. And she did not like it in magazines. But in real life, and in the dangerous twilight that filtered through the front window, the woman was very pretty. She did not carry anything. No laptop. No purse. Not even a wallet and cell phone clutched in one hand. Nor did she have room in the pockets of her tight jeans for more than a credit card. Tate noticed.

The woman stood in the doorway surveying the coffee shop, from the exposed pipes, to the performance space, to the mural of Gertrude Stein. Right down to the cracked linoleum floor. Then she strode up to the counter and asked for a skinny, tall latte with Sweet'N Low.

“I'll, um…” Tate ran her hand through her hair, as if to push it off her face, although the clippers had already done that for her. “I'll have to warm up the machines. It'll be a minute.”

“I'll just take what's in the airpot,” the woman said, still surveying the shop.

Tate filled a paper cup and squeezed a biodegradable corn-plastic lid on it. The woman drew a bill from the pocket of her crisp, white shirt. Tate shook her head.

“On the house. It's probably stale.”

She was about to go back to counting the till when the woman asked, “How long has this been a coffee shop?”

Tate considered. “It opened as a bookstore in 1979. Then it closed for a few years in the early '80s, opened back up as a coffee shop in 1988, and it's been running since then. I think. I've been here for nine years.”

Too long
.

“‘Out in Portland Coffee.'” The woman read the side of her cup.

“Out Coffee,” Tate said. “That's what everyone calls it.”

“Any other businesses in the area?”

“There's Ron's Reptiles, the AM/PM, the Oregon Adult Theater.”

Across the street, the theater's yellow letter board advertised
HD FILM! STRIPPER SPANK-A-THON WEDNESDAYS!

From the back room, Maggie, the boss, called out, “They're all perverts.”

The woman nodded and turned as if to leave. Then she seemed to reconsider.

“Are there any women's bars in the area?” She glanced around the shop again, her eyes sliding past Tate's, resting everywhere but in Tate's direction.

“There's the Mirage.” Tate gave her directions.

“Is it safe to walk?”

“As safe as anywhere in the city.”

As soon as the woman left, twenty-year-old Krystal—Maggie's surrogate daughter or pet project depending on who you asked—popped out of the back room, where she had ostensibly been studying.

“I heard that,” she said. “As safe as anywhere in the city.” She hopped up onto the counter next to Tate.

“Get off the counter.” Tate ruffled Krystal's short, pink hair.

“Is my butt a health code violation?”

“Yes.”

“Well, anyway,” Krystal said, swinging her legs and kicking the cupboard behind her, “I heard that. She practically asked you to walk her.
Is it safe?
” Krystal imitated a woman's soprano with an added whine. “
Hold me in your big, strong arms you sexy butch.
”

“Ugh.” Tate rolled her eyes. “Why is she still here?” she called to Maggie in the back room.

“She's part of our family, Tate!”

Kindhearted Maggie; something had happened in utero, and she had been born without the ability to understand sarcasm.

“Some family,” Tate said, winking at Krystal and pulling her into a hug.

“Did you like her?” Krystal asked, pulling away from Tate.

“Who?”

“The woman who was just here.”

“No.” Tate turned back to the cash register and rolled a stack of nickels into a paper sleeve.

“Why didn't you go after her, like in the movies? She probably thought you were cute.”

Like in the movies.
That was always Krystal's question: Why isn't it like the movies?

“I'm
working
,” Tate said with feigned annoyance. “She just wanted a coffee. Anyway, I just got dumped, remember?”

“So?”

In the quiet minutes between customers, Tate had been reading
The Sociology of Lesbian Sexual Experience.
Now Krystal pulled the book from behind the counter and flipped it open.

“‘The Alpha Butch,'” she read. “‘In this paradigm'”—she pronounced it par-i-di-gum—“‘the femme lesbian is looking for a strong, masculine—but not manly—woman who can protect her against the perceived threat of straight society.' That's you!” Krystal sounded like a shopper who had just found the perfect accessory. “I bet that's why she came in here. She saw you through the window and she was like, ‘I've got to meet this woman.'” Krystal closed the book and examined the woman on the cover. “You're way cuter than this girl.”

It wasn't hard; the woman on the cover looked like a haggard truck driver from 1950.

“Aren't you supposed to be studying for the GED?” Tate asked.

“My dad taught me most of that stuff already, when I was, like, a little kid.”

“Then take the test and go to college,” Tate said.

“I don't need to, 'cause my dad and I are going to start a club, and I don't need a degree for that.”

“Right.”

“She was pretty,” Krystal said. “Like Hillary Clinton if Hillary Clinton was, like, a million years younger.”

Tate took the book from Krystal's hands and pretended to swat her with it.

“I am not ‘Alpha Butch.'”

Nonetheless, Tate did steal a glance at her face in the bathroom mirror before leaving the coffee shop. The woman's perfect good looks made her aware of her own dark eyebrows and her nose, which jutted out and then took a hook-like dive. She looked older than her thirty-five years. She looked tired after the long shift. And she did not feel alpha anything, even with her steel-toed Red Wings and her leather jacket. She did not even feel beta, or whatever letter came next in Krystal's alphabet.

Still, a spring spent rebuilding the network of railroad-tie stair steps in the Mount Tabor Community Garden had defined the muscles beneath her labrys tattoo. She was tanned from the work. Her head was freshly shaved. And it was summer, one of those perfect summer nights that Portlanders live for, so warm, so unambiguously beautiful it made up for ten months of steady rain.

When Tate sidled up to the bar at the Mirage, her friend Vita, the bartender, leaned over.

“She's here,” Vita said.

For a second, Tate thought of the woman.

“Who?” she asked.

Vita shot her a look that said,
Don't pretend not to know when you've asked me about her every day for six months.

Abigail. Tate could see her legs wrapped around the body of the cello, her hips splayed, her black concert skirt riding up, her orange hair falling over the cello's orange wood.

Vita plunked a shot in front of Tate.

“On the house. She's with someone.”

Tate knocked the shot back, nearly choking as her brain registered the taste a split second after it hit the back of her throat.

“What the hell was that?” She wiped her mouth.

“Frat Boy's Revenge. Jägermeister and grape vodka. I made one too many for the baby dykes in the corner.”

Tate grimaced and cleared her mouth with a swig of beer. Then she noticed something: that indefinable feeling of being watched. She turned. At a table by the door, the woman from Out Coffee sat, one hand resting on the base of a martini glass, as though she feared it might fly away. She caught Tate's eye for a second, smiled, and then looked away with a shake of her head. When she looked up again, Tate raised her beer with a slight smile.

“God, you have it so easy!” Vita said, punching Tate on the arm.

Tate turned back to the bar. “She's not interested in me. Look at her.”

“
You
look at her,” Vita said, raising both eyebrows.

In the mirror behind the bar, Tate saw the woman picking her way through the tables, hesitating, looking from side to side as though puzzling her way through a maze.

“She's cute. Don't blow it,” Vita said in a whisper the whole bar could hear.

“Hello.” The woman took the stool next to Tate's. She sat on the very edge, as though ready to flee.

Vita leaned in. She looked predatory. Her hair was teased into a rocker bouffant, and she had on more leopard print than Tate thought was appropriate work attire, even at a bar.

“Will you be buying this lady a drink?” Vita asked Tate.

“I'm fine,” the woman said. “I was just leaving.”

At that moment, Abigail appeared. Tate took in the sight: Abigail on the arm of Duke Bryce, drag king extraordinaire. Duke grinned, a big toothy grin, like an Elvis impersonator on steroids. Abigail clung to Duke's arm, a romance heroine hanging off the lesbian Fabio.

“Someone you know?” the woman asked.

“Knew.”

A moment later, Abigail released her lover and came over, an apologetic look on her face.

“I'm sorry. I didn't think I'd see you here. I mean, I was going to tell you about me and Duke, you know, earlier.”

Tate shrugged. The music had dropped a decibel, and a few of the other patrons turned to listen.

“I mean, I know you're still really upset about the breakup. About us. Really, I wasn't looking for anything. I just saw Duke one day and presto!” Abigail's giggle made it sound like she had suddenly been transported back to seventh grade. “I thought I wanted someone who understood my music.”

That had been the explanation when Abigail cheated on Tate with the oboist.

“But then I met Duke, and she's just so…brava.”

Duke was an alpha butch, Tate thought. She could take a picture and show Krystal.

“I just know it all happened for a reason, Tate.”

Tate was trying to think of a response to this when she was startled by a touch. The woman from the coffee shop had touched the back of her head. She ran her hand across Tate's cropped hair, then slid her fingertips down the back of Tate's neck. Then she withdrew her hand quickly.

“Who is she?” The woman's voice was much softer than it had been in the coffee shop, almost frightened.

Tate was still concentrating on the woman's touch, which seemed to linger on her skin. It had been six months since Abigail officially dumped her, but much longer since she had been touched like that. Abigail had never caressed her. Abigail seduced her cello, everyone in the orchestra agreed, but she had squeezed Tate. Tate had always come away from their lovemaking feeling rather like rising bread dough: kneaded and punched down.

Now Tate stumbled over her words. “This is…this is Abby. She's a cellist.”

The woman leaned closer to Tate, and Tate could smell a sweet perfume, like citrus blossoms, rising from her hair.

“What seat?” the woman asked Abigail.

This had been an important distinction that had always been lost on Tate.

“Third,” Abigail answered defensively.

“Oh. Only third.” The woman turned and, with a gesture even more fleeting than her fingers on Tate's neck, she pressed her lips to Tate's cheek.

Abigail mumbled something Tate did not catch and walked away, disappearing down the hallway that led from the bar to the dance floor. The woman straightened and crossed her legs.

“I'm sorry,” the woman said. She took a large sip of her drink. “I don't do things like that. I just don't like all those freckles.”

“Freckles?”

Tate had loved the beige-on-white-lace of Abigail's freckles. Plus, one couldn't hold someone's freckles against them. Or maybe, if one looked like this woman, one could.

“She reminds me of my sister.” The woman spoke quickly. “The freckles and that whole ‘I'm going to be nice to you, but I'm actually sticking the fork in' thing. ‘You can't tell me to piss off because that would make you look like a jerk, even though I'm the one who's ruined your life.' I know that routine.” The woman finished the rest of her martini in one sip.

Tate was still trying to figure out what to do with the feeling that suffused her body. The woman's touch, offered unexpectedly after months of abstinence and then just as quickly withdrawn, left her dizzy. She felt like she had just swallowed a bowl of warm moonlight. But she recovered her manners and held out her hand.

“My name is…”

The woman cut her off. “I don't want to know.”

Tate withdrew her hand, the moonlight cooling. But as soon as she withdrew her hand, the woman grabbed it, holding on as though she were going to shake hands but lingering much longer than any handshake.

“I didn't mean it like that,” she said.

She leaned forward, her perfect good looks furrowed by worry.

Behind the woman's head, Vita flicked her tongue between the V of her two raised fingers.

Tate widened her eyes, the only nonverbal cue she could flash Vita.
Embarrass me, and I will strangle you
, her eyes said. But she wasn't sure Vita was listening.