But maybe that was the problem. Maybe they’d lulled themselves into a false sense of security. A mutual commitment to support each other’s careers had been fine when they were twenty-two and both sending their CVs around fruitlessly in an economy that really wasn’t interested in twenty-two-year-olds. It had even been bearable when they were twenty-eight and Hanna had been working twelve-hour days for one of those financial services firms that are responsible for all the world’s problems, and Liza had been … well, she’d still kind of been sending her CV around, to be honest. Because it turned out that a maths degree and a desire—or at least a willingness—to use it to make yourself rich and other people richer was way more marketable than a degree in Art History and a vague notion that you’d like to do “something creative”.

Much as Liza hated to think about it, her podcast taking off had been what really kicked their problems into high gear. Murder Most Actual had started almost by accident, when she’d bonded with a then-co-worker over a mutual love of crime, true and otherwise. It had been a fun side project; something to do when Hanna was working weekends, which she did with increasing regularity. But people had liked it. Really liked it. Something about the just-two-girls-talking-murder vibe of the show had let them reach an audience that enjoyed true crime but found the more salacious or sententious series ethically questionable.

And just like that, Liza had commitments. Commitments which had started eating into the few evenings and weekends she and Hanna could actually be together. Commitments which meant she was spending more time with her co-host, Rachael, than with her actual wife. And while Rachael was extraordinarily heterosexual, that didn’t quite stop the jealousy. Especially when fans of the cast started shipping them.

It was around then that the fighting had started. Which, by itself, Liza could cope with—her parents had been great fighters because they’d both been stubborn as hell and convinced they were right about everything—but with the fighting had come the drifting, and the drifting she had way less of a handle on.

From back up the road, there was the sound of a door opening and closing, followed by footsteps, then Hanna’s voice. “Come back to the car.”

With the wind and the cold and the still being kind of pissed off, Liza couldn’t tell if her wife’s tone was conciliatory or not. “Just—can you not—why can’t you just—why do you have to try to fix everything?”

“I’m not trying to fix everything.” Hanna took a couple of steps forward, more cautious in the dark than Liza had been. “I only want you to come back to the car. It’s dark, and there’s a storm coming.”

“Don’t be melodramatic.”