“Luckily, you aren’t obligated to entertain me, Toni. Teach. Write. I’ll book a room and head that way.” Greta held up her phone with her booking app. “Go on. I have this.”
“Do you want me to drive you to your hotel? Or get you a taxi or…” Toni looked at her like she was a vulnerable lamb now.
“I live in New York, Toni. I can handle flagging a cab.” Greta didn’t want to offend Toni.
At first, Toni gave her a surly look and then after a moment settled on, “Fine. I don’t mind driving you, though.”
“I appreciate it.” Greta smiled, but she didn’t back down either. “I’m going to have a cup of herbal tea or something while I book a room.”
“Fine. If you have any troubles, call me.” Toni looked like she wanted to say more, but she pivoted and left.
There was something both endearing and frustrating about women who were overprotective. Greta often wondered if they’d be so contrary if she were taller. She seemed to evoke a protective vibe in both men and masc lesbians. If not for the fact that Greta was Toni’s editor, she would find it utterly charming. She didn’t mind it in relationships or in friendships. As a professional, though, she wanted to be treated like an equal, despite her diminutive height.
Once she watched her author exit and knew Toni likely wasn’t returning, Greta booked her hotel, and then she opened another app. The app was designated with a stylized S. K. S., nothing anyone would identify if they weren’t a member. The Sappho’s Kiss Society was a members-only group, vetted and open only to those who completed the requisite interview and background checks, and who were capable of paying the hefty membership fees.
Although she was not closeted, Greta kept her private life private these days. The world was far more tolerant of lesbians than it used to be, but the reality was that she didn’t broadcast her life.She would feel the same regardless of her orientation. The fact that she was the editor for aNew York Timesbestselling historical lesbian novel meant the question had been subtly and not-so-subtly raised more often the last few months. Until such time—in the distant future—as the idea of actual dating was again practical, Greta didn’t feel like addressing it. Those who had been around publishing a few years knew that she’d been engaged, but only a few people had met Tasha in person. No one reallyknewher, though.
Greta wasn’t even convinced she truly knew her ex, despite Tash’s periodic texts to check in on her. They had a wall between them that meant Greta still couldn’t say they could be real friends.
Half the people in my life are reticent about sharing their lives. Or maybe it’s because of a flaw in me.…
In her early post-breakup-with-Tash days, Greta had tried several other apps, including the obvious ones like Tinder and Bumble. Those were a little too far outside her current needs, although she could see why they would likely work for a lot of people. Lately, she had started using Sappho’s Kiss Society, which catered to her interests more efficiently. SKS was not just a membership group—complete with meetup events—but an app for queer folks seeking other queers and willing to pay for privacy. Greta’s profile was pretty sparse. Her profile photo was shadowed, although her full-body photo was clear. She just wasn’t going to put herfaceon there too obviously.
Her interests were narrowly drawn: tattooed and athletic lesbians, one night only, no couples, no surprises, no contact afterward. She liked what she liked, especially for one-nighters.
Her profile was under “Marie,” rather than Greta. That simplified things if she ever ran into someone in public, too. If they addressed her as Marie, she knew where and why she’d met them. If they said “Greta” or “Ms. Clayborne,” that meant she knew them from her professional life. The major upside of the app was the only way toeven see paying app users was to buy a rather expensive year’s subscription. Discretion mattered, and this app catered to those with that need. All the measures weren’t perfect, but it did lessen the odds of her work life and her intimate life intersecting.
Greta turned on the setting to update her location in hopes of finding an interesting person in her proximity. Once the app registered that she was in Washington, DC, Greta scrolled through her potential matches until a woman with a lithe swimmer’s body stared up at Greta from the screen. “Lee” was the name listed—although at this point Greta assumed that most people’s names were as real as the one she gave. Hookup apps were not designed to tell many truths.
Lee’s photo highlighted an undercut that looked overdue for a trim, tailored trousers, and a button-up Oxford. In her full-body photo, she had a leather jacket slung over her shoulder, two crooked fingers holding the collar of the jacket. She smirked at the camera like she had done something wicked a moment ago. Angular features. Arrogant posture.And active online right now. That cocky smirk meant it was a safe bet that Greta wouldn’t want to spend time with her socially, but for a fling, Lee was perfect.
Greta clicked on the “create connection” button on the woman’s profile, and then she waited. When her phone buzzed with a notification, she was pleased to see that Lee had reciprocated the connection.
A moment later a message alert buzzed.
Lee:Hey. What’s up?
Marie:In town for the night. Looking for a coffee connection.
Lee:What sort of coffee?
Greta grinned. There was always a chance that someone would misconstrue the message. Words were tricky, even as an editor.
Marie:Depends. At Union Station. Headed to hotel soon. You?
Lee:Are you asking me to come meet you?
Marie:Yes.
Lee:So direct…
Marie:I know what I like.
Lee:Flattery will get me into the taxi.
Marie:Should I stay where I am? Or go to my hotel?
Lee:Preference?
