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CHAPTER ONE

ABEY

If you love someone, set them free.

Could I apply that to myself? Or how ’bout this: if our lives have been made up of a series of moments in time filled with love and chaos and wonder, would anyone mind if I deleted a minute? Just one. Specifically, this one…

“So, are you butch?” my date asked, looking at my chest, right at tit level, as she unfolded a paper napkin and placed it over her mini skirt-covered lap. “Or soft butch? Is that why you got involved in law enforcement?” Finally, and for the first time since the hostess had led us to our table and we’d sat, Kayla’s eyes lifted to mine.

I stared down at my outfit, a loose-fitting red and black flannel and black skinny jeans. Was I giving off that vibe? A butch vibe? Just ’cause I’d worn a flannel shirt? What kind of question was that? Who didn’t wear flannel? There was literally nothing more comfy, and mine was thin and soft. I spent forty bucks on the damn thing. It was probably the most expensive piece of clothing I owned.

“Sorry?”

We’d been in this restaurant in downtown Jackson for three minutes, and already, I regretted coming on this date.

The couple at the table next to ours clinked their tiny ceramic teacups in a toast, but other than that, the buzz of conversation around us was low. I peeked left and right. The topic of my sexuality wasn’t one I wanted broadcasted. I mean, obviously, I was gay. I was on a date with a chick, for shit’s sake, but c’mon.

She shrugged. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I just meant, like, who are you?”

She hadn’t meant anything by it? It could mean so many things. And how did my flannel shirt have anything to do with who I was or my job as a deputy for the Teton County Sheriff’s Department? Hadn’t she noticed the almost see-through black lace tank underneath? I’d left the flannel’s buttons open so she would. My boobs were practically screaming to get out of the damn thing.

I would admit, no one would refer to me as the foremost expert on lesbian lingo, but I was pretty sure there weren’t a lot of “butch” women walking around with their chests on display.

But my rack wasn’t the thing I’d hoped my date would notice about me.

Unfortunately, it was usually the thing women did notice, which was exactly the reason this was my first date in over two years. I didn’t want a hookup. I wanted more. Who didn’t?

Who didn’t want love?

“Uh, I don’t really know how to answer that question.”

I was just me. Just Abey. Why did she feel the need to categorize me? And now my date had me wondering if there was a website somewhere out there that listed all the different types of lesbians. Could somebody clue me in? Sitting across from an extremely feminine woman, with her flowing dark hair, a face full of makeup, and long pink fingernails, I frowned in confusion as it dawned on me that I was pretty clueless. Was what I wore a comment on the kind of women I was supposed to want? Did that transfer over to the bedroom?

“But what do you like, Abby?”

Her mispronunciation of my name burrowed into the back of my brain, like an itch. I scratched the back of my head, trying to dig it out with my fingernail. It didn’t work. I kept my nails short for my job. Convenience wasn’t often found when trying to load bullets into a gun with long daggers superglued to the ends of one’s fingers.

“Do you like femme girls, masculine girls—what’s your preference?”

“Um,” I mumbled, unsticking the one-page laminated menu from the table in the new Italian/Tibetan fusion restaurant in Jackson, Wyoming, the one that was supposed to be “to die for,” but was more like “might kill me by salmonella poisoning.” They should’ve served the complimentary tea with a side of hand sanitizer. The whole place was like a sticky, garlic-y hole in the wall.

Who drinks hot tea in the middle of summer anyway? Then again, who wears flannel in this weather? Did it mean I was butch?

“My name is Abey,” I clarified, trying not to seem bitchy, but jeez.

The whole conversation was making me uncomfortable, and she knew my damn name. We talked about it when she called me last night. She’d even commented that it was unusual. Was it too much to expect my date to pronounce my name correctly? Seriously, who was the “manlier” person in this scenario?

“It’s not hard,” I said. “It’s the first two letters of the alphabet: AB. Or if, like, you’re standin’ in front of a beehive, and one bee flies out, you’d say, ‘Oh look, there’s a bee.’”

She blinked once, but there appeared to be no recognition anywhere within her brain.

“That’s me,” I sang in a cutesy voice, “a bee,” and I wiggled my fingers above our table. She didn’t laugh, so I continued. “And I prefer women. I also prefer steak and potatoes.” If this chick wanted good food, we should’ve gone to José’s Diner back in Wisper.

Except I was the one who’d suggested going to Jackson. The city’s busy summer tourism made for better anonymity. I wouldn’t have been comfortable going on a date in Wisper. Too many prying eyes. But there were more than enough good restaurants in Jackson, and none of them had ever made me worry about food poisoning.

My date, cute Kayla, frowned in further confusion. We’d been set up by a friend of a friend who was friends with my friends, who I might’ve already decided to arrest.

Looking up from the menu and into her eyes that were lined with false lashes, all I saw was a watery blue void. Best to cut and run now. “You seem, uh, nice, Kayla, but I dunno if this is me.” I dropped the menu, and it stuck right back to the spot I’d just peeled it off of.