They were just having fun, that’s what Zanne had told herself the first couple months, as she paid last-minute prices for Gaby to fly down from San Francisco to see her one weekend after another. She was due some fun after the dry spell of the last few years, only the occasional hookup to remind herself she still had some pull. But then, to her great surprise, she’d been excited, not panicked, when Gaby said she was relocating to LA for the summer. Next thing she knew, Zanne was clearing space in her closet for a row of colorful dresses and dumping her tank tops and boxer briefs into the bottom drawer of the dresser to make room up top for bras and panties. And now, this interview. Compared to your average lesbian hookup, their relationship was progressing normally, even cautiously, but for Zanne this was supersonic.

Gaby hadn’t moved in exactly, but most of her things were at Zanne’s place, minus a couple of boxes parked in her parents’ garage in Simi Valley. Dr. and Mrs. Paxton weren’t pleased their twenty-two-year-old daughter had taken up with an older woman. That much was obvious when Zanne met them at their home one Sunday for brunch. They weren’t the first parents to grimace at the sight of her walking up their driveway. She knew what they were thinking—they didn’t believe Gabriela was bisexual; this was just a phase she’d outgrow; soon she’d be off to medical school, too sleep-deprived to date anyone, male, female, or otherwise; even so, surely she belonged with someone younger and less obviously...(did people still use the word?)...butch. What kind of name was Zanne anyway, when her mother had given her a perfectly lovely one? Why shorten Suzanne to a bark, a grunt that rhymed with van or man, so sharp and abrupt?

Zanne hadn’t been back to Simi Valley since.

The Uber rounded the bend in the road and Zanne waved. She opened the door for Gaby, who slid out of the back seat. Zanne touched the flash of waist where Gaby’s blouse pulled free from her skirt. She lived in tank tops and cutoffs that skimmed her curves, but today she wore a bland skirt and blouse combo that said here for the interview. Gaby smiled and batted Zanne away, retucking.

“I hope it’s okay,” Gaby said, looking down at her outfit, as if this were a Halloween party and she’d come dressed as normcore.

“You’re perfect,” Zanne said, kissing her.

Zanne punched the code into the number panel, and the gates parted to admit them. Gaby stood up straight. Even Zanne, who spent more time here than in her own apartment, who kept a spare change of clothes in a drawer and shoes under her desk and had her packages shipped to this address, felt her spine lengthen like it had the first time she visited.