Children’s drawings decorated the walls, and a large quilt made from various flags—Anne didn’t recognize any of them but the rainbow one—hung behind the desk. Light from ocean-facing windows poured into the small room, illuminating the small sign that readSanta Monica LGBTQ Community Center.
A woman sat behind the desk, focused on the papers in front of her.
“Hello,” Anne began, trying not to let her nerves jangle the greeting into a question. “I’m looking for Julia. Julia Ramirez? The director?”
At the sound of Anne’s voice, the woman looked up, adjusting her glasses. She was relatively masculine—was “butch” still a word people used?—and heavyset, with cropped silver-and-black hair. “Oh. Yes, that’s me. Hi there. I’m Julie.”
“We spoke on the phone yesterday. About volunteer opportunities? You told me to come down when I had some free time. And I have time today.” That was an understatement. Anne had nothing on her calendar for Friday other than not drinking. “So here I am.”
“And you are?”
“I’m a lesbian,” Anne said.
Julie’s eyes widened, and she let out a loud and generous laugh that filled the room.
Anne’s cheeks scalded with fresh embarrassment. Wrong answer, apparently. She gripped her purse strap.
“Me, too,” Julie informed her, smiling kindly.
Oh, that was—Annefeltit. Something inside her chest squeezed hard in recognition.
“But that’s not what I meant. What’s your name?”
“Anne Lowell.”
“Anne Lowell.” Julie’s voice had a lilt to it, a note of delight. Yet, despite that, Anne didn’t feel she was being mocked. “Welcome to the center. How’d you hear about us?”
“From one of your volunteers. Arthur Emmerman? He’s my—well, ‘friend’ isn’t really accurate, although I guess we’re sort of—he’s my ex-husband’s husband. I got divorced after my husband came out. Although I didn’t know I was gay then.” Anne pressed her lips together. “God. I have no idea why I’m just telling you all this. I’m sorry.”
“Hey, you’re family.” Julie waved a hand in cheerful dismissal. “Family can’t be strangers. Take a seat, why don’t you? The chair on the right’s better. The other one, you’ve got about a twenty- maybe thirty-percent chance one of the legs is gonna give right out. I wouldn’t risk it.”
Anne complied, taking the recommended chair. “I take it ‘family’ means something besides the usual definition. Do we—” She’d said it:we. “Do we use that term differently?”
Julie peered at her over the desk. “How long have you been out, Anne? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Almost a week,” Anne admitted. It sounded a little better than “since last Monday.”
A low whistle. “Wow. And you’re already jumping right into volunteering. Well, you’re a woman who doesn’t like to waste any time, aren’t you?”
“I’ve already wasted plenty of time. That’s over with.”
Julie didn’t answer. As she looked at Anne, she blinked a bit too fast, long lashes beating.
Anne knew that look. Countless men, innumerable times. Only now it was on the face of a woman who had to be, what, ten years younger than Anne? That was different. Gratifying, honestly.
“So,” Anne said after a long pause, “will you tell me what ‘family’ means, or do I have to throw myself on Google’s fickle mercy?”
“Right, right,” Julie said, still staring. “No, yeah, sorry, of course. Family means you’re one of us. Part of the community. Means you belong.”
Just like that? No questions asked? All Anne had to do was walk into a room, and suddenly she was part of a family?
“I don’t know you,” she blurted out. “And you don’t know me. I don’t belong here. I’m an outsider. I’m sixty years old, I’ve lived my entire life acting like a straight person, and I don’t even knowhow tobea lesbian. I’ve never been a part of a community. Any community. Look, Julie, you seem like a nice person who doesn’t need to hear all of this, and I really did come in here just to get some more information on volunteering, so maybe we could—”
“Lemme ask you something,” Julie interrupted. “When you were in high school, or maybe college, did you have a close friend? Another girl. Someone different from your other friends, someone you wanted to be around all the time, someone who made your stomach do flip-flops whenever she looked at you?”
Anne felt it on her left cheek: the warm press of Missy Campbell’s mouth, the puff of breath, the soft slide of her lipstick. “Yes,” she said, startled. “I did, but—”
“Was there ever an older woman you admired? A teacher, maybe? You thought about her a lot, couldn’t wait to see her every day, wanted her to think you were more special than all the other girls?”