Les be honest, p.1
Les Be Honest, page 1
LES BE HONEST
A Lesbian Romantic Comedy
Sarah Robinson
Contents
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
Short Story: Waxing Poetic
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Mini-Epilogue
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About the Author
Also by Sarah Robinson
To The Lesbian Bar Project and few remaining lesbian bars in the United States—don’t give up. The safe spaces you provide are unparalleled and so desperately needed.
Special dedication to Jo & Coach for creating my favorite safe space at As You Are DC.
Author’s Note
Dear Reader,
This book is inspired by the opening of my favorite bar and safe space, As You Are in Washington, DC—one of fewer than twenty-five lesbian bars in America. They had to fight their way to opening and now continue to provide an inclusive, safe space that listens to the needs of each and every person who walks in the door. It’s the first bar I’ve ever been to that felt like a friend’s living room—fiercely protected, deeply safe, and wholly genuine.
This brought me to discovering the docuseries and awareness campaign called The Lesbian Bar Project in 2020:
“In the 1980s, there were roughly 200 Lesbian Bars in the United States. Today, there are fewer than 25. As these bars disappear, filmmakers Erica Rose and Elina Street established The Lesbian Bar Project to celebrate, support, and amplify the remaining Lesbian bars. The Lesbian Bar Project believes what makes a bar uniquely Lesbian is its prioritization of creating space for people of marginalized genders including women (regardless if they are cis or trans), nonbinary folks, and trans men. As these spaces aim to be inclusive of all individuals across the diverse LGBTQIA+ community, the label Lesbian belongs to all people who feel that it empowers them.” - www.lesbianbarproject.com
We need more spaces like this in America, and we need people to advocate for their creation and continued support. If you love this book, consider helping to spread their message. Visit their website. Check out their merch. Follow them on social. And go find your closest lesbian bar and support them in person.
In solidarity,
Sarah Robinson
Chapter One
“I honestly don’t understand how sour edible panties didn’t take off,” I said to my best friend and former roommate for the last decade, Rachel Blumenthal. “It was a one-in-a-million idea—if Shark Tank hadn’t turned down my application…”
Rachel shot me a look as she placed the last box down on top of the stack of other moving boxes stacked against one wall of what would soon be my living room. “There was zero chance Mark Cuban was going to invest in that, Yasmeen. He’s vegan.”
I sighed and plopped down on the sectional couch, still in pieces and pushed against the opposite wall. Eventually I’d put the entire thing back together, but moving day had been exhausting enough just getting all my things from our former row home in Washington, DC to this new, larger apartment in Arlington, Virginia.
I’d crossed the bridge and become a Northern Virginia girl.
The irony wasn’t lost on me given how often I make fun of people who can’t stick it out in the big city—not that Washington, DC was that big of a city to begin with. But still, it wasn’t Virginia. Shudder. Despite the location, I had to admit…the price was right and the size was even righter. Real estate on this side of the bridge was significantly cheaper than in the city, and, frankly, that’s what I needed right now.
That, plus a new idea for a business that would actually take off this time. The thought reminded me of the unreturned voicemail from my father on my cell phone about joining the family business, but I quickly squirreled that away to the area of my brain where childhood guilt permanently resides.
“I can’t believe we’re not going to be roommates anymore,” I sighed, my voice stretching out like a whine. “And Mila’s gone and started her own family. You and I are just…here.”
“Speak for yourself, Yas,” Rachel replied as she dropped onto another unconnected part of the sectional couch and tossed her feet up on a spare ottoman. “At least I’m still in DC.”
I shot her a look, my eyes rolling back as far into my head as I could without getting them stuck. Was that even a thing? My grandmother had been insistent that it was, and I’d never been tempted to test her wisdom—may she rest in peace.
“Okay, but you got stuck with Macavity, so…” I gave her an evil grin, referring to Mila’s cat who had refused to move with our former roommate Mila thanks to their frenemies bond with Rachel.
“The world’s worst consolation prize,” Rachel joked, though there was absolutely truth to it.
I still couldn’t believe that the three of us had gone separate ways after over half a decade sharing the same roof.
Rachel had that environmental lawyer money and so she’d gotten her own place near Barrack’s Row in Washington, DC. when we’d all split. She’d offered for me to move in with her, but it felt like time to start fresh. We were in our mid-thirties now, and I couldn’t still have a roommate when I hit forty. Not that that was anytime soon since I’d just turned thirty-three last spring.
Please God, let time slow the fuck down.
Our other roommate, Mila, now lived on the East Coast half the year, splitting her time between Washington, DC and New York City, and then spent the other half of the year filming her television pilot in Los Angeles, California. Fancy as fuck, but I’m not jealous at all. Nope, not even a little…but maybe the smallest smidge. Plus, Mila had a wife and a toddler who kept her pretty busy, so I was trying to be understanding of the lessened communication from her and that it wasn’t just about her going all Hollywood on us.
Still, I missed her and the life we’d had together.
“Have you heard from Mila lately?” I asked Rachel.
Rachel shrugged loosely. “Last time I FaceTimed her, she was breastfeeding Gracie while taking a shit on the toilet. I love boobs, but even that was a lot for me.”
I grinned and shook my head. “Have you ever been with a mom before?”
Rachel shook her head. “Naked Becky was my last try for a MILF, but you know how that went.”
Our former next door neighbor and her messy divorce was a story for another day.
“I think I’d make a great mom one day, but I don’t want to be the one who carries it. I’ll let my wife do that,” I commented, musing at the idea of my potential future partner. “It’s super hard to find Black sperm donors though, and I’d want a kid who looks like me a little bit at least.”
Not that I blamed Black men even in the slightest for not trusting volunteering their DNA over to organizations. Still, it was a frustrating dichotomy for us Black lesbians.
“Hey—” I began.
The quiet room suddenly felt like it was split in two by the loud and low bass roaring of what could only be described as the Lord Jesus Christ returning and smiting half of Washington, DC.
“They have sonic jets out here in Virginia, too?” I placed both hands over my ears and groaned.
“What?” Rachel raised her voice to a near yell.
“SONIC JETS IN VIRGINIA?” I screamed back, but the sound had passed by the time I got to ‘Virginia’ so now I was just screaming into the void. “Oh. I mean, I didn’t know they could hear them in Virginia, too.”
“You’re like less than a quarter mile from the Pentagon, and maybe three miles from the White House. You’re going to hear sonic jets, babe.” Rachel laughed and shook her head, but I just frowned. “Speaking of our beloved city, I should get home. I need to shower before my date tonight.”
“Is this person from the kickball team, too?” I lifted one brow, because Rachel’s hobby of intramural kickball had become more of a dating game show than an actual sport. “You know you’re going to have to find a new team soon enough.”
Rachel waved her hand as she stood and wove her way around the maze of boxes and scattered furniture. “No, this is one of my teammate’s exes. She’s not on the actual team, so it’s fine.”
I sucked my lips in between my teeth and shook my head. “Yeah, somehow I don’t see that going the way you hope it does.”
Rachel just shrugged, and I loved that she was naturally fearless in everything she did. “Maybe, but she’s taking me indoor skydiving, so you know I’ll try anything once.”
She stood up and grabbed her tote bag that was sitting by the front door with READ QUEER BOOKS in rainbow letters across the side that she’d purchased last time we’d visited Little District Books—a local queer-owned bookstore that only sold books by queer authors or about queer characters. She slung the bag’s handle over her shoulder and glanced at her pho
“Thanks for helping me move,” I commented again as I walked her over to the front door. “Text me when you get home.”
“Will do!” Rachel waved over her shoulder to me, but didn’t turn to look back at me.
There was a row of haphazard electric scooters parked at the end of my street and Rachel hopped on one, linked it to her phone, and headed for the metro. I didn’t trust those damn scooters as far as I could throw one—which was maybe an inch.
After she was out of sight, I returned inside and stared at all the boxes—seemed like a good day for ordering dinner in. I pulled out my phone and scanned the options on DoorDash in my new neighborhood. Definitely not as bountiful as DC, but it wasn’t terrible either.
I was about to click on the dessert section when my sister’s picture appeared on the screen—her incoming call refusing to be ignored.
“Hey, Nia. What’s going on?” I turned the call on speaker and started opening one of the boxes in front of me to keep my hands busy.
“Dad says you haven’t returned his call,” my older sister spoke into the phone like she was exhaling all the stress she had been holding inside into that one sentence. “Why do I have to be the middleman? Can’t you just call him back?”
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” I sidestepped an answer like the skilled baby of the family that I am. “He’s a lot happier with me when he doesn’t actually know what I’m doing.”
“Oh, god…” Nia groaned loudly and I heard her typing on a keyboard in the background. I glanced at the time on my cell phone, noting that she was nearing the end of her workday and there was nothing that was going to distract her from being Type-A productive. In fact, I’m pretty sure there has not been a single day at her job that she’s even considered clocking out before five o’clock. Typical elder sister syndrome. “Does that mean there’s something going on with you that would make him unhappy? You realize I’m the target left behind when you’re missing in action?”
Maybe it was the birth order part of things, but there was nothing Nia wouldn’t do for our family, and she cared for our father, my brother, and me more than she ever did for herself. Hell, it was basically the story of her entire life, including her career as an executive in the nonprofit world making a lot less money than she deserves. Outside of that, she lived alone and her life mostly revolved around taking care of us—a job that always varied depending on the day and the person in trouble at that moment.
“Why can’t Demetrius pick up the slack?” I asked, referring to my older brother, the middle child and golden boy in the Kiani clan. “He’s the one working for Dad anyway. He gets a paycheck to deal with his bullshit.”
“Paycheck—something you really need to know more about,” Nia added. “You know Dad wants you to come on board at the firm. He said you could start off as an executive assistant, just get your feet wet in the field, you know? You could shadow an investigator and get involved in the security side once you feel ready—no rush.”
I rolled my eyes at the very thought of one day working in corporate security for government contractors and rich people Capitol Hill-adjacent. “Nia, the day I walk into a giant conference room full of White men in suits whose girlfriend meal-prepped them bland boiled chicken and unseasoned broccoli for lunch is the day I’ve given up all hope for happiness.”
She let out a low chuckle, and I could imagine her shaking her head. “I mean, they’re not all White.”
“Everyone we contract with is basically a Ted Cruz lookalike,” I countered, because while Kiani Security was a Black-owned business and made sure to staff BIPOC employees, there was still an abundance of government contracts we bid on that were basically white-washed. I mean, let’s be honest, the entire Hill was.
It’s not like I wasn’t proud of everything my father had built as a single father—another thing I tried not to think about because the guilt itched at me there, too. Not that I could blame myself for our mother passing away shortly after giving birth to me—an unnecessary c-section that led to an infection she just couldn’t fight and by the time I was six hours old, she was gone. I should blame the medical system and the disparity in care when it comes to Black mothers.
And yet, still, I can’t help but feel like I’m here…and she’s not.
It’s not not unrelated.
My father had been working as a Capitol Police Officer at one of the Senate buildings at the time, but in the aftermath of my mother’s death, he’d decided to leave the force and begin his own security consulting company. They’d started with physical security first, but eventually expanded into everything from private investigations, background checks, and, most recently, cyber and IT security.
I felt the familiar weight on my chest and my internal defenses kicked into gear—keep it light, keep it humorous, keep it at a distance where it can’t hurt me.
“Plus, Nia, it’s not like you work for Dad,” I reminded her with a barely joking lilt in my tone. “You ran the moment you graduated college. Why do I have to be the scapegoat?”
“Because, first of all, I actually graduated college, and second of all, I have a job, Yas,” Nia reminded me. “You’re living off the family trust and random dead-end jobs.”
I bristled at the completely true accusation. “Okay, but I live pretty frugally for someone with a trust fund. It’s not like I’m out here riding private jets all day. I pull my own weight.”
“I know that.” Nia sighed.
We both were more than aware that that trust fund was an incredibly thoughtful gift our mother put into place before Demetrius was born that she insisted her life insurance pay directly into if anything ever happened. She hadn’t known things would turn out the way they did, but that small step had set up all of her children to continue to thrive after she was gone. My father said it was even one of the things she spoke about on the way to labor and delivery—making sure we were all taken care of in the unlikely event when she wouldn’t make it through. She’d always been Type-A in that way—the exact opposite of me.
Nia’s voice sounded heavier when she continued. “Can you at least give him a call back so I don’t get the calls instead? Do it for me, Yas.”
“Fiiiine,” I replied, even though I was absolutely not going to do that. “We still down for bottomless brunch this weekend?”
“Absolutely not.” She said her goodbyes and hung up the phone. We were still going to do brunch, but Nia was a one-drink gal before she was at her limit—the woman hated not being in full control of herself.
I could respect it, just didn’t relate.
I shoved my phone in the pocket of my lightweight palazzo pants—which, remarkably, actually had pockets. Don’t get me started on how women are expected to carry everyone’s shit and yet are rarely given pockets in our clothes for just that.
The box I began opening was full of kitchen dishes and bowls, and I immediately lost all motivation to continue unpacking today. Instead, I checked DoorDash again and saw that the Peruvian chicken place I’ve been eyeing was a quarter mile from me.
Perfect excuse to go for a walk and explore the neighborhood.
A convenience store, a hipster-type coffee bar, and a bank later, I came to the end of the block and crossed over to the other side of the street. On that corner was a sports bar, and there were at least ten mid-twenties former frat boys on the patio section.
Ugh, I immediately missed my old haunts. The main queer-friendly bar in Arlington was a gay bar in Crystal City—admittedly, they have great karaoke—but damn, I missed the lesbians and trans folks from queer bars. There’s nothing better than a lesbian bar, which is one of the reasons why it’s super irritating that there are only a handful in the entire country. Like, literally less than twenty-five. If you think I’m joking, they made a whole docuseries about it.
