Chapter 33: Midair Power Play
The internship offer arrived like a life raft, thrown into turbulent waters. It was a prestigious accounting firm, the kind Stephanie’s father would have approved of in another lifetime. She’d applied on a whim, a desperate grasp for normalcy after the severance. When the call came, her shriek of joy rattled the potted plant on Veronica’s windowsill.
“I have a job!” she’d yelled, leaping onto the bed where Veronica was buried in torts textbooks. “Well, an internship. But it pays! It’s real!”
Veronica had caught her, laughing, the weight of Stephanie’s body a familiar comfort. “Of course you do, chouchou. You’re brilliant.” The celebration was mandatory. They needed it.
Now, the bass from the sound system vibrated up through the sticky floorboards of The Lavender Hour, into their bones. Veronica nursed a dark rum, her eyes scanning the crowd over the rim of her glass. She was still in her court clothes—a tailored emerald green pantsuit, her afro a majestic crown—feeling both overdressed and utterly in her element. She was a sentinel.
Stephanie, however, had melted into the scene. The dress was black, sleeveless, and so sinfully tight it seemed poured onto her. It plunged in the front and dipped in the back, clinging to every curve, culminating in the lush, impossible swell of her backside. She’d left her hair down, a river of brown silk that shifted against her thighs as she moved. She was radiant, buoyant with cheap vodka and validation.
“This is amazing!” Stephanie shouted over the music, her French accent lilting. She spun, laughing, her dress flaring for a second. “I feel like a person! A person with a future!”
“You are a person with a future,” Veronica corrected, but her smile was genuine. She let Stephanie pull her onto the dance floor, into the crush of bodies.
They danced. Stephanie, loose-limbed and joyful; Veronica, more contained, a protective orbit around her. The attention was immediate. Women’s eyes trailed Stephanie, lingered. Veronica watched them back, a silent challenge in her green eyes.
The first touch happened during a slow song. A woman in her forties, sleek silver hair and sharp eyes, swayed close behind Stephanie. Her hand, holding a cocktail, “accidentally” brushed the small of Stephanie’s back, then slid lower, a deliberate, cupping squeeze over the curve of her ass.
Stephanie froze. The joy on her face flickered, replaced by a startled confusion. She turned her head, meeting the woman’s unapologetic smirk.
Before Stephanie could speak, Veronica’s hand was on the woman’s wrist, fingers like steel cables. “The hand,” Veronica said, her Jamaican accent low and crystalline, cutting through the synth-pop. “It belongs to you. This,” she nodded toward Stephanie, “does not.”
The woman’s smirk vanished. She tried to pull away, found she couldn’t. “We’re all having fun here, darling. No need to be possessive.”
“Fun isn’t groping strangers,” Veronica said, releasing the wrist with a slight push. “Find a consenting one.” She turned Stephanie away, tucking her close, her body a shield.
“Thank you,” Stephanie mumbled into Veronica’s shoulder, her earlier buoyancy dampened.
“Don’t thank me. It’s basic decency.” Veronica’s jaw was tight. She hated how the dress, which made Stephanie feel powerful, made everyone else feel entitled.
They went back to their table, the atmosphere slightly fractured. Stephanie ordered another drink. “Maybe it was an accident?”
Veronica just looked at her.
“Okay, fine.” Stephanie sighed. “It’s just… this is supposed to be our space, right? Safe.”
“Nowhere is safe,” Veronica said, then immediately regretted her bluntness. She softened her tone. “But I’m here.”
The second incident was less subtle. A different woman, older, with a hard, practiced confidence, approached while Veronica was at the bar getting waters. She sidled up to Stephanie, her hand landing directly on Stephanie’s hip, fingers splayed.
“You look lost, sweetheart. Need some company?”
Stephanie recoiled, pressing back against the booth. “No. I’m with someone.”
“Doesn’t look like it.” The woman’s gaze was a physical crawl. “That dress is a hell of a statement. You can’t wear a canvas like that and not expect people to want to paint.”
“The statement is ‘fuck off,’” Veronica’s voice came from behind her, cold and precise. She set the waters down with a sharp click. “Can you read? Or do you need me to interpret?”
The woman turned, sizing up Veronica’s height, her suit, the utterly unamused set of her features. She held up her hands in mock surrender. “Easy, counselor. Just admiring the artwork.”
“It’s not for sale. It’s not for rent. It’s not for your fucking admiration without an invitation.” Veronica slid into the booth, deliberately putting herself between Stephanie and the rest of the room. “The view’s closed.”
After she slunk away, a long silence stretched between them, filled by the thumping music. Stephanie traced a bead of condensation on her glass. “I feel stupid.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to feel… I don’t know. Hot. Powerful. Now I just feel like a piece of meat in a window.”
Veronica took her hand, lacing their fingers together on the sticky table. “You are hot. You are powerful. Their trash behavior doesn’t change that. It just makes them trash.” She leaned closer. “You got the internship in that dress. You got me in that dress, if I’m being honest. Their opinions are worth less than the lint in my pocket.”
A small, real smile returned to Stephanie’s lips. She squeezed Veronica’s hand. “You always know what to say.”
“I’m a lawyer. It’s my job to build a case.” Veronica stood, pulling Stephanie up with her. “But this venue’s full of hostile witnesses. Let’s go. We have cheap wine and that terrible reality show waiting.”
They pushed through the crowd, Veronica’s hand a firm guide on the small of Stephanie’s back—a claimed, respectful territory. As they stepped out into the cool, grimy New York night, the neon sign buzzed overhead.
Stephanie shivered, linking her arm through Veronica’s. “I’m glad you’re my person.”
“Where else would I be?” Veronica said, hailing a cab. The city lights blurred past the window, a river of gold. Stephanie’s head found her shoulder, the scent of her shampoo cutting through the smell of street food and exhaust. The dress, for all the trouble it caused, felt like armor again in the dark of the cab, with Veronica’s arm around her. They were going home, to their own fragile, defiant kingdom of textbooks and second-hand furniture, and for now, that was the only future that mattered.