“Do you want mine?”

“Yes, but I refuse to take it. Now eat faster so I don’t start drooling.”

Morgan speared a bite of steak and waved it in the air. “You sure?

“No.” Emilia reached out and took the fork. Her fingers brushed Morgan’s. I really should have stopped at two drinks, she thought as she bit into the steak with Morgan’s hand still on the fork. It occurred to her, too late, what this must look like to everyone around them. Especially Morgan.

Shit, shit, shit.

Nobody spoke. She thought she saw Lillian and Stevie exchange a look, but that could have just been paranoia.

Morgan cleared her throat. “So, Ange, how does it feel to be thirty?”

“This is your big three-o?” Emilia hoped she didn’t sound as eager to move past the previous seconds as she felt.

“I officially no longer have to give a shit about what other people think.” Angie raised her beer.

“You should be proud,” said Lillian. “You own your own house, and you run your own business. That’s more than the rest of us can say.”

Angie noticed the frown on Emilia’s face and laughed. “Morgan didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“Angie has one of those the-truth-is-stranger-than-fiction stories. Are you familiar with Flannel Works?” asked Morgan.

“The world’s softest and most durable work shirt?” Emilia quoted the New England drawl of the popular advertisement. Her father had a drawer full of them, and she herself had at least two.

“Apparently Angie’s great-aunt bought up a bunch of their stocks when it first started. She knew the founder or something.”

“Which basically proves my theory that she was a secret lesbian,” said Angie. “She died two years ago, and since she didn’t have any kids, she left it to my mom, me, and my brother. No one had any idea she was loaded. She lived in a cabin up past Gardiner with a bunch of cats—I kid you not—and hardly spoke to the rest of the family.”

“Living the dream,” said Stevie.

“I bought this house because I’ve always liked it, and because it had a barn for the doggy daycare—”

“And now you have nothing else to live for.”

“Shut up, Stevie.”

“Wait. Your secret lesbian great-aunt, who got rich from the flannel shirt industry, left you enough money to buy a house that you have gone on to populate with more queers?” Emilia asked. Amusement overrode her earlier embarrassment.

“Yep.”

“That’s . . .”

“There are no words,” said Stevie.

“Happy fucking birthday works.” Stormy wrapped her arms around Angie’s head and planted a kiss on top of it. “You ready for cake?”

“Always. Do you need help?”

“With your own cake? Absolutely not. Stevie and I will get it. Stevie, come,” said Stormy.

“I am not a dog.” Stevie rose anyway, the white of her shirt vibrant in the twilight. Only a soft glow purpled the horizon.

Emilia leaned back on the bench and tucked her legs up underneath her. Morgan finished her meal, unmolested by any further attempts on her food, and then laid her arm on the wicker back of the bench. It didn’t touch Emilia, but she was acutely aware of it anyway.