Meet Cute Diary / Знакомьтесь, милый дневник (by Emery Lee, 2021) - аудиокнига на английском

Step 1: The Meet Cute The moment Fate brings you together and you connect with this person—even if just for a moment—in a way you never connected with anyone before. Saturday, May 26 MeetCuteDiary posted: It all started with an ice cream shop. The sweetness was already coating the air, the sugar coursing through my veins, getting me high. I’d never been to the shop before, but a friend had recommended it as the tastiest place in town, and I needed to know for sure. But then I noticed him. He walked in with a group of female friends flanking him, and I didn’t think much of it as they sat at the table directly behind mine. Of course, I hadn’t gotten a great look at him, and it’s not like I came to an ice cream parlor looking for love. I finished my sundae and pushed my chair back, ready to go. But just at the moment that I tried to stand, he leaned back, stretching out his arms and bumping into me. I whipped around, eyes widening as I met his, and finally got a good look at him—tall, dark hair, a jawline so perfect he might as well have been the inspiration for the David. “Oh, um, sorry,” he said, rushing to brush a strand of hair out of his face. My breath caught in my throat, but I managed a quick, “No, it was my fault.” He smiled back at me, and I could tell he was nervous, but I wouldn’t call him on it. After all, I was nervous too. When we parted ways, I didn’t think I’d see him again. As I made my way down the street, I heard the sound of harried footsteps behind me. When I turned around, there he was, a concerned expression on his face and his breathing hard. “Hey, um, you forgot your wallet,” he said, his face flushed from running. He held it out to me, and I accepted it with shaky hands. I laughed. “Sorry about that.” “It’s okay,” he said. “Actually, I’m glad I got the chance to see you again. I was wondering if maybe you’d want to get coffee with me?” And we’ve been dating ever since. Anonymous Bbsdate replied: This is the cutest MCD post ever! I’m so happy for you guys! Unrulycatmom replied: Congrats, you two! Jdbarry replied: I can’t wait to have a meet cute like this one day! So sweet! Load more comments . . . The rideshare smells like weed, which, given I’m in Denver, Colorado, on my way to a college barbecue, I have to admit is a bit too stereotypical, even for me. My brother, Brian, sits by the opposite window, animatedly talking to our driver like the real social butterfly he is. Me? I’ve got my eyes trained on my phone, reading through the DMs sent after my latest blog post. I shoot back little heart emojis and tons of thanks to my many adoring fans. Just enough to show them I still care since I’m going to be preoccupied with family time for the rest of the day. Mountains fly by outside the window, and I have to keep myself from gawking at them because wow, literally everything’s beautiful out here—the trees, the mountains, the vast majority of the guys I’ve bumped into since I got dropped off. It’s funny because I’m in this strange land that’s so different from where I come from, but it’s also kind of comforting. There’s no one here to remember who I used to be, to tell me I have to live like I did for the past sixteen years of my existence. I’m barreling down the highway of my new life with no one to pull that back-seat driver BS. And even if I don’t pass, there’s a part of me that’s starting to get swept up in the magic just a little bit too. Like maybe all I needed was a change of scenery for my real life to begin. So when Brian invited me to tag along to this college bro-fest, I hesitantly agreed. I mean, hanging out with my brother and all of his frat brothers isn’t exactly my definition of a good time, but I’m stuck here for the summer while my parents make the great move from Florida to California, and as annoying as college guys are, I can’t exactly find fuel for my blog locked in a closet all day. I mean, I’m basically the queer Superman, putting on a secret identity that makes me even hotter just so I can go around saving people with my ultra-secret project. It’s called the Meet Cute Diary, a blog designed to bring love to trans kids in need. In a lot of ways, it’s the single most important thing in my life. I lock my phone and slip it into my pocket, glancing toward Brian to make sure he’s not peeking over my shoulder. He leans forward in his seat and makes some dad joke about the retreating mountains, while the driver forces out a fake laugh as he guides us off the freeway. From the highway, I can almost pretend I’m still in Florida, but the second we take the exit, the looming mountains and greenery steal my breath. This tiny little car feels even smaller with trees and rock formations staring down at us. Brian taps a hand against the back of the passenger seat, which is pulled all the way up, a tiny trash bag hung around the headrest. “I’m telling you, man, that play was the worst one I’d seen all season. Like, completely amateur.” Ugh, is he talking about sports? Gross. When we were kids, Brian and I were really close. We’ve only got a three-year age gap, and we used to share everything—toys, music, friends. Then he got a car and a booming social life, and soon I got out of his way so he could impress all his new friends. And really, it makes sense. He’s the athletic type, conventionally attractive, really personable. Straight. Cis. He was the second person I came out to. I told him just before Christmas this past year, thinking it might be easier since he lived halfway across the country. And really, he took it rather well, albeit a bit . . . overzealously? He kept sending me links to books about trans people and trans actors getting roles and just about any article that vaguely related to transness at all. It was all kind of ridiculous, but I’d rather he be a bit too invested in my transition than outright reject it. And in a way, I feel like things between us have gotten better than they were when we were kids. Maybe it’s just me. It kind of feels like everything’s better now that I’ve grown into who I am. When the car stops in front of what looks like a frat house, Brian shoves open the door and hops out like he’s about to run a marathon even though he’s got a long metal tray in hand. I roll my eyes before sliding out after him. I blink back against the overbearing sunlight, and Brian laughs, slapping a hand against my shoulder as he says, “Don’t worry. It’s just sun. It won’t kill you.” Which is bold of him to say since my sun aversion is largely his fault. My current “bedroom” is a closet, which I told Brian is child abuse, but it’s not really the space or even the lazy metaphor that bothers me. I basically end up oversleeping every morning since no sunlight filters in, which means I lose out on valuable Denver time and even more valuable social media time with all my old Florida friends. And really, this week that I’ve spent in Denver is also the first week I’ve spent openly trans, and it’s stifling to be locked inside all day. I wanna let my hair down, or at least what’s left of it since I chopped most of it off for my transition. We hit the smoky backyard and are immediately greeted by a loud as hell group of college students. Brian passes off the tray to some guy in a baseball cap, who opens the lid with an eyebrow raised. The crowd’s pretty white, so I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve never seen onigiri before, but Brian stayed up pretty late last night making them. He’s been on a cooking kick for the past month or so since he started dating a white girl who likes “exotic cuisines.” It’s all part of that straight-girl fixation on jocks who “embrace their feminine side” by cooking and taking care of animals, but definitely not by wearing dresses or makeup. Maggie comes up and kisses Brian’s cheek. I’ve never seen her in person before, but she’s pretty in that tall, thin white girl way, with waist-length brown hair and acrylic nails. Brian introduces me to the group, saying, “This is my brother, Noah.” A Black girl with gorgeous dark skin and a badass fro claps Brian on the shoulder and says, “Oh, a real brother?” And Brian flushes, his eyes going wide as he jumps in to defend my manhood or whatever. “Yeah, of course he’s my real brother. Why would you think he’s not real? He’s totally valid—” “Brian,” I say, using a cough to cover the laughter bubbling up in my chest, “pretty sure she means not a frat brother.” Brian lets out a rush of air and says, “Oh, yeah, of course. Biological brothers.” The girl laughs, and Brian awkwardly shuffles me away to introduce me to the rest of the party. I don’t know what he’s expecting out of it since it’s not like I intend to remember more than like two names. The highlight of today is supposed to be the free hamburgers, which aren’t even ready yet. Sigh. Once Brian releases me from my social prison, I drop down into a lawn chair and pull out my phone. In an ideal situation, this would be the part where I stumble into the love of my life, but instead I’m brainstorming new ideas for the Meet Cute Diary. It all started as this way for me to explore my wildest fantasies as a trans boy living in a conservative city. Every time I saw the potential for a real-life meet cute, I’d write it down, clean it up, and add a Disney-worthy ending. Then I’d post the thing as an “anonymous user” on this trans-centered blog, and people would swoon and root for the imaginary me who found the love of his life at a taco bar or a library. And yeah, it started out as this culmination of my unchecked imagination and desperate need for affection, but now? God, it’s become this hub of trans chatter, a blog with over fifty thousand Tumblr followers cheering on all these trans people in their quests to find love. And as much as I love the attention, there’s something magical about knowing so many people have gathered together behind this belief in true love for people like me, especially when I’m only half-sure I believe in it myself. “Yeah, Noah’s staying with me for the summer.” I look up to find Brian and Maggie looking at me, Maggie with this little smirk on her face. She may not be sitting in Brian’s lap, but if they got any closer, I’d need a crowbar to pry them apart. “Why are you talking about me?” I ask. Brian raises an eyebrow. “Because you’re staying with me for the summer?” “Do you like trivia, Noah?” Maggie asks. “We go every Tuesday if you want to join us.” I do not, in fact, like trivia. I find it to be a complete and total waste of time, and if Brian weren’t dating Maggie, I’m positive he’d agree with me. But I could meet cute guys at trivia, and there’s potential for them to be the intellectual type, which I’m totally down for. “Sure,” I say. Brian’s got something like relief on his face. I know he’s been eager to get Maggie and me to be friends, so I’m not gonna break it to him that she doesn’t seem like anyone I’d spend an excessive amount of time with. I’ll let him have this moment. Brian gets up to grab them both a beer, so I get up to not be left alone with Maggie. The food’s done, so I snatch up a paper plate and make my way to the cheeseburgers while I work out how to approach this potentially life-changing moment. The burger’s burnt, but I start shoving the whole thing into my mouth anyway. Free food is free food. Turning back toward the group, I slip on something, and everything slows, my eyes widening as my body hurtles toward the ground like a magnet. And then a pair of arms surrounds me, catching me like a parachute just before I hit the ground and carefully guiding me back to my feet. I whip around, my arm brushing the guy who caught me. He’s actually pretty cute—bright blue eyes, a little bit of dark stubble on his chin, dressed in a letterman’s jacket. “Whoa, you okay?” he asks. I nod because my voice is caught somewhere in my throat. He smiles, and for a second, I can pretend he’s flirting with me. I mean, I’m cute as hell, and he’s probably thinking about how Fate must have been working overtime to bring us together. His eyes rove over me once, like he’s trying to drink me in, memorize every line of my body so he’ll never forget this moment that we spent together. This is the part where he’ll say he doesn’t usually go to college parties, but he’s glad he made it to this one. I’ll laugh shyly, extending my hand as I introduce myself, and he’ll be enraptured, his hands trembling as he returns the gesture. Then he says, “Be careful next time. You almost ate it.” “Yeah,” I say, but he’s already walking away. And really, his face is already fading from my mind, but God, that could’ve been the perfect meet cute. Why couldn’t he just talk to me? But then, I also know how this works. I’m a gay, triracial trans guy who only passes when the sun aligns with the moon just right and the Earth tilts upside down. Dudes like me don’t just get to stumble into the perfect little meet cute. No, if we want meet cutes, we have to make them ourselves. Sunday, May 27 MeetCuteDiary posted: After he helped me get my footing, he said, “Are you okay?” I nodded, my heart racing. He really was the most beautiful guy I’d ever seen—one of those hot lumberjack beards and sparkling green eyes. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I can be clumsy sometimes.” And he laughed, a glint in his eye as he said, “It’s fine. I’m just glad you didn’t make a joke about falling for me.” I laughed too. He stuck his hands in his pockets and said, “You know, I can’t believe we haven’t met before.” “I just moved here.” “Oh, well, would you like someone to show you around sometime?” I smiled, warmth spreading through me. “I’d love that.” And we’ve been going out ever since. Anonymous Bubblebabe replied: This is beautiful! Love this meet cute! Kissmelikeyoumissme replied: I want a relationship like this! Fungeonparty replied: Thank you for sharing your story! This was so reassuring to read! Load more comments . . . “God, Noah, that’s so corny.” I roll my eyes but otherwise try to keep my face still so my face mask won’t crack. “Yes, that’s the point of the Meet Cute Diary.” Becca laughs, but I can tell she’s already going over the story with her editor eyes, even through my phone screen. Becca and I have been best friends since middle school, but I only let her in on the big bad Diary secret recently. She was the first person I ever came out to back in freshman year, but I still couldn’t bring myself to tell her about the Diary. It’s not as terrifying now that I’m actually out and I don’t live around those Florida bigots anymore, but opening up to her was a huge first step in accepting that I’m really, truly trans. In a way, the Diary’s the most intimate exploration of myself, the kind that’s only meant to be shared with ten thousand strangers who will never know me in real life. But I had no choice but to tell her a few months ago after the thing blew up. It was impossible for me to answer all the messages I got, respond to comments, and churn out worthwhile blog posts. Now Becca’s my official meet cute location scout and editor, finding the perfect places for me to stage my potential meet cutes and combing over all the crap I cough up and working her magic, which has the Diary’s readership rising month to month. It isn’t even considered a disruption to our monthly spa date, a new tradition we made up to keep our lives connected while we’re miles apart. And so far, it’s working, I think. She’s in her bathroom, feet soaking in her tub, and I’ve got this lavender mud face mask I picked up at Target. It’s not the same as seeing each other for eight hours a day at school or her digging through my lunch box every day because my parents make killer Puerto Rican pastries and her parents microwave their tea water, but it’s a start. “He was really cute,” I say, checking the time on my phone to make sure I haven’t left the mask on too long. Almost as cute as the guy from the ice cream shop with his curly dark hair and the sound of his voice as he passed me my wallet. Actually, I barely remember what his voice sounded like since I never actually made it to the door, and it was pretty loud in there, but I can dream. “Well, I think you said more actual words to this guy than you did at the ice cream shop, so it’s already a step up.” And I suppose that may be true, but what I really loved about the ice cream shop meet cute was the tension in the air, the aesthetic backdrop, the setting. So much cuter to think I actually found the love of my life surrounded by my favorite dessert than at some sweaty frat party, though I guess it doesn’t really matter either way since they were both only “reality-inspired.” “I guess the fans will choose which story is true love,” I say. “The ice cream shop meet cute’s already one of my most popular stories. Clearly he was my soul mate.” “You know real relationships take actual work, right?” Becca says. “You’re never gonna find a real soul mate if you keep living vicariously through the blog. You have to look at actual, you know, real life.” “The blog is real life,” I say, because it’s my life. It’s the single greatest thing I’ve ever made and probably ever will. It’s the entirety of my life’s work and my hopes and dreams all perfectly packaged to share with a world of strangers. “No, it’s fantasy. It’s not like everything just cruises after the meet cute.” “Which reminds me!” I sing, picking up my phone to look for the file. I knew Becca would say something like this, so I’ve been working on the perfect solution. See, Becca constitutes the more cynical side of our duo. Even when we first met over a science project, she was a take-no-nonsense, get-the-work-done kind of person, and I respect that even if it’s just not the way I prefer to do things. I like to believe in happy ever afters and hidden magic because, well, the world kind of sucks, and sometimes, the hope for a fairy-tale romance is all we’ve really got. Meanwhile, Becca’s always been a bit skeptical about finding the perfect romance ever since her parents got divorced back in seventh grade, but she’s not her parents and neither am I. Once the file’s sent, I look to my phone and meet her eyes. She looks studious for a moment as she skims the note before finally breaking out into a fit of uncontained laughter. “What the hell is this garbage?” she says between laughs. I roll my eyes. “It’s my twelve steps to the perfect relationship! You know, because it doesn’t just end with the meet cute.” Becca groans. “Noah, I meant you have to commit yourself to a relationship and put in the work to stay with the person, not wait for”—she squints at the screen—“The Trip, aka The Fall Part One.” She bursts out laughing again, but I just ignore her. She can be as skeptical as she wants, but where she’s all about facts and logic, I’m the love expert, and there’s no doubt in my mind I’ve struck gold. “It’s all about monitoring the steps so you know your relationship is on the right track,” I say. “That way I can cut it off early if it’s doomed to fail anyway.” “This is literally the opposite of what I meant.” “Well, then maybe you should be more specific next time.” She sighs that I’m too tired to keep calling you out, so whatever, do what you want sigh, but the way she looks at me now is just painful. I know she’s worried about me being out in the world on my own. Well, out in the world, and out to the offline world for the first time, but I’ve assured her I’m okay. Things are different now. Sure, my parents were a little awkward when they dropped me off in Denver and kept driving for Cali, and yeah, my brother’s a bit of a jock and a frat boy, and I don’t think he even knew what the word “trans” meant until I told him it applied to me, but things aren’t all bad. Really, they aren’t. I’m finally away from our old high school—a place so conservative that the only trans girl who ever came out was bullied into a suicide attempt before dropping out during my freshman year. A place where prayer and God came before all things, and that God was even less convinced of my existence than I was of his. And sure, we’re doing the long-distance thing, but I still have Becca. She’s still my best friend, and even while I’m on a quest for love and she’s doing some super elite, online college program with the University of Colorado this summer, I feel pretty confident she’ll never be able to completely replace me. I’m too damn special. And every time she opens her transcripts, she’ll see Colorado and hopefully think of me, so there’s that. “Noah.” “What?” I ask. “Did you see this note?” My phone lights up with the link she sent me. I click on it and find some account called KissyKissyBangBang—which is surprisingly not a porn bot—reblogged the most recent Meet Cute Diary story with: this whole blog is a pile of bs. none of these stories are real. stop buying into it. Which, I mean, okay, I get all sorts of hate on the Diary blog, but this one is different. Really different. They included a link at the bottom of their spiel, and just like that, I’m looking at an entire blog called DebunkingMCD dedicated to finding all the plot holes and inconsistencies in the Meet Cute Diary stories and “proving them false.” I can feel my face mask cracking as stress lines form across my forehead. “Noah, are you okay?” But I’m not hearing anything Becca’s saying. I’m scrolling, endlessly scrolling, heartily reading each and every post. And they’re good. Really. They point out errors in the timelines, locales, everything. It’s like this person has been following every post over the past year just to have enough ammo to prove none of it was real. And if that wasn’t bad enough, they have a whole section for shitting on me, calling me a teenager who’s probably never even been on a date. Saying I can’t possibly know a thing about love, and I’m pathetic for being invested in trans romance. They even go so far as to link posts about psychology and how these relationships could never work out. “Noah!” I freeze, my voice shaky as I say, “Yeah.” Becca’s voice is gentle when she speaks next, like she knows any one word could be enough to break me. “It’s gonna be okay. It doesn’t matter what this person posts as long as people disregard it, and they will. They love the Diary.” And I’m nodding along because she’s right. She has to be. This Diary is a beacon of hope for trans people across the globe. I can’t believe the entire thing is being unraveled all because some troll had too much time on their hands. The Diary is important, and people will see that. They’ll ignore this troll and rally behind the Diary. They have to. Monday, May 28 DebunkingMCD posted: It’s honestly embarrassing watching all of you buy into this Meet Cute Diary crap. There aren’t that many trans people in the world, and I promise you they aren’t all getting happy endings. Why don’t you look at the actual FACTS for once? I’ll keep collecting more of them on my blog for people who actually care about logic and reason. Danidani replied: Stop being a hater! You’re wrong about the Diary. Everyelliotistrans replied: Are you sure though? Did you talk to the mod about it? Toorealtofeel replied: I always knew there was something fishy about that blog. Thanks for putting it straight. Load more comments . . . Tuesday morning, Brian starts his job at some summer camp, and I head to town to find coffee. He doesn’t live that far from the city, but I catch a rideshare anyway because I can’t be bothered to walk. Becca sent me a list of tastefully aesthetic coffee shops in the area, so I pick one at random and head out. I need something to keep me busy while Brian’s not around so I don’t spend my whole day checking in on the Diary. Just between Monday night and Tuesday morning, I lost almost a hundred followers. I keep telling myself that they were all bots anyway, and Tumblr’s finally cleaning some of those out, but really, no one believes that. The line at the shop snakes out the door, and I consider turning around and going somewhere else. The truth is, though, it’s really a nice day out, and this place has the perfect vibe for my Instagram. I want to make sure I’ve got enough adorable shots in Denver to convince everyone back home that my life has been nothing but rainbows and sunshine since I left. Someone holds the door open for me, and I step over the threshold. The smell of coffee beans wafts over me, and I inhale deeply because damn, I love the smell of coffee. I’m so far away, I can’t even read the wide, handwritten menu behind the counter, so I pull out my phone and look the place up on Yelp instead. It’s got great reviews, you know, if I trusted people on the internet to dictate my life choices. I flip on the selfie cam so I can swipe my hair out of my face. When my parents told me we’d be moving to California in the fall, and I wouldn’t be returning to my school, I hadn’t even thought about what any of it meant. It just felt like a sudden brush of freedom—a chance to live my truth. So I blurted out that I was trans, and while I sat there in their stunned silence waiting for them to respond, all I could really think about was how soon I could start transitioning. The thing is, I hadn’t even known what the word “trans” was until freshman year, when that girl had taken the dive and put herself on the line by coming out. Sure, there was a part of me that always felt a little different, but everyone does, right? It was only after learning about another trans person that I even started looking up the terms, searching myself, and researching transition. And really, it all felt like some distant dream I could never achieve until I realized I’d be leaving Florida behind for good. That was only three weeks ago, but in that time, I cut off most of my hair and bought half a new wardrobe. The problem is I’ve never had less than shoulder-length hair before, and I don’t really know how to style it, so it just kinda lies in a poof around my head. I’m almost to the register now, and I can just make out the cute cashier standing behind the counter. He’s got dark skin and the deepest brown eyes I’ve ever seen, and this pair of hipster glasses lying comfortably on his face. I wish I could do more for my hair, but it’s fine. I’ve got this. I step up to the register, and the cashier says, “Morning. What can I get for you?” His name tag says Ben. Cute, clean, simple. I like it. “Hi,” I say with a smile, “can I get a medium vanilla latte with no whipped cream?” “Absolutely. I aim to please.” I grin. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” Um, yes? You could totally be my boyfriend. But I just say, “That’ll be it. Thanks, Ben.” He smiles, and I feel my heart speed up. This is the part where he asks me how I knew his name, and I make some joke about being able to read his name tag, and then we’re laughing, holding up the line, and he slips me his phone number on the edge of my cup. He says, “Can I have a name for the order?” “Noah,” I say. He scrawls it out on a little paper cup before sliding it down the line. “That’ll be four twenty-five.” I pass him my credit card—well, the credit card my parents sent me off with—and watch as he swipes the plastic without another word. Finally, he looks up at me, a soft expression on his face, and I realize this is the moment when he tells me I remind him of someone from his childhood. We’ll talk a little about our hopes and dreams, and before I know it, he’ll be asking me to meet him out back after his shift because he can’t bear to part ways. He says, “Your card got declined.” “I—it what?” “Do you have another payment method?” he asks. I shake my head. “Can you try it again?” He whistles, swiping the card one more time before shaking his beautiful head and passing it back to me. “Sorry, no go. Do you have another card?” And like, no, I don’t. I only got this one a couple weeks ago because my parents felt bad sending me off into the wilderness with no money to my name. But then I see the opportunity Fate has presented me. I can tell Ben I don’t have any money, that I’m alone in the world with no way to pay, and he’ll grin and say, It’s on the house. I can’t turn down a smile like yours. “I don’t have anything else,” I say. Ben winces. “Sorry, man. I’m gonna have to take the next customer.” I don’t say anything as I step out of the line and make my way to the door. So, maybe things aren’t going to work out with Ben. It’s fine. Honestly, I don’t even really want to write about him in the Diary. I think it’s best we go our separate ways. I pull out my phone and dial my mom. I haven’t actually spoken to either of my parents in a few days. I imagine they’re busy trying to close on the house or whatever. The line rings for a few seconds before my mom finally picks up with a, “Yeah, honey?” “My credit card isn’t working. Did you pay it off?” The line is quiet for a moment, and I can hear some distant garble in the background, probably a car radio. “Yes.” Her voice cuts out again, and I realize that’s the point when she would usually address me by name. She’s been doing that less since I came out, probably having trouble remembering Noah since it sounds nothing like my deadname. “I paid off the card, but I’m not sure how you managed to spend almost four hundred dollars in one week.” I freeze, standing in the middle of the sidewalk. The streets aren’t particularly busy, but the callout still makes me feel like I’m on display. “Well, I’ve had to take rideshares everywhere, and then, you know, expenses.” “The card was just supposed to be for food. Brian said most things are in walking distance, so can’t he just drive you to the rest?” The truth is, I’d been doing a lot of stuff on my own, partially because Brian didn’t want to spend a hundred percent of his time with his little brother, but also because I was hoping to find my meet cute, which is obviously still a work in progress. And frankly, I’m not a fan of walking. Besides, Becca picks the meet cute locations, and I’m not gonna tell her to stop sending me cute spots just because they’re a couple miles away! “Brian’s been busy,” I say, “and I have been buying food.” “I read the names of the vendors. There was a bookstore, an ice cream shop—” “Ice cream’s food!” I say. My mom sighs, and I’m actually glad I called her and not my dad. He’s always been stricter when it comes to my spending habits. “Okay, well, we can’t afford to be paying a second mortgage so you can get ice cream. I froze the card.” “Wait, what? What am I supposed to do now?” I ask. She chuckles. “Be responsible and get a job? I’m sure your brother won’t mind dropping you off.” Which, yeah, okay, maybe, but definitely not what I had in mind for my summer plans. “I have to go,” my mom says. “We’re getting to the house, and I need to speak with the Realtor. Maybe ask your brother for some money if you think that’ll help.” But I know Brian’s not gonna give me money. He’s worse than my dad and only about a fifth as wealthy. “I love you. Call me if you need anything.” I’m about to say I need money when the call ends. I know I brought this on myself by being too ambitious with the Diary posts. It’s not cheap stumbling into cute guys at every aesthetic boba, ice cream, and coffee shop in town, but that’s not what I want to think about right now. Hell, it’s like ten a.m., I haven’t had coffee, and I’m stranded. I dig around in my massive pockets—they’re probably my second favorite part about transitioning—and pull out my wallet. I’ve got a couple bills in there and an Arby’s coupon, which I’m not even sure why I have. I check my Starbucks app, but I’ve only got like two bucks on there, which isn’t nearly enough for a latte. I turn back down the street and start walking, hoping I’ll stumble upon a Dunkin’ or somewhere with cheap coffee that just so happens to be hiring teenagers. It’s pretty ridiculous that my mom expects me to get a job in a city without a car. I mean, I doubt there are that many places hiring out here, even if we are pretty close to the university and some decent shops, and frankly, I don’t want to rely on my brother driving me to work. That’s a no-go. I keep walking until I find a coffee shop advertising a one-dollar special. I slip in, pay cash, and choose a small side table under a tall bookshelf. It’s not the cutest, but it’ll do. Once I get my cup with a little foam flower floating at the top, I hold it up just long enough to snap the perfect selfie. Okay, to snap fifteen bad selfies and one I like. Going against my own best interest, I open the Tumblr app and check the Diary’s follower count. Damn. I’m already down another two hundred from this morning. Whoever this troll is, they didn’t come to play, and they’re killing off my followers like flies. I go back to their blog to torture myself a little more. It really is convincing, using the smallest details I wrote into the stories to pinpoint exactly where they were supposed to take place and adding details about each location that seemingly refute the stories. Plus they’ve got sources and statistics about how many trans people even live in Miami—where they traced every early story to—and about how next to impossible it is for there to be that many meet cute stories. And honestly, it pisses me off. I’m not the first blogger to get targeted by some rando with too much time on their hands and a working Google search bar, and they’re right that the meet cutes aren’t real, but they’re stories. What kind of loser do you have to be to spend your time debunking every cute story you come across on social media? And even if they aren’t real, they give people hope. Isn’t that what matters? As my anger starts to burn hotter than my coffee, I give up on saving my day and text Brian to pick me up, saying, Mom stalled my credit card. Come get me. I’m at orientation. Text me the address, and I’ll get you when I’m done. So I do, and I find myself sitting out on the curb hating my life for the next three hours. DebunkingMCD posted: Since you guys still don’t believe me, here are some more links for you. Only 0.6% of the population is trans, the city of Miami has less than five hundred thousand people, and only 6% of that population is between the ages of fifteen and nineteen. That leaves a hundred and eighty people to potentially be featured in over a hundred stories posted on this blog. Are we really supposed to believe one in two trans people in Miami is having the ultimate love story? Byawndone replied: Wow, I never thought of it that way. I guess that doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it? Bdpwsqr replied: These are just numbers! Maybe some people had multiple meet cutes? And some people are closeted! Ilybromine replied: Ugh, I knew this blog was too good to be true. Load more comments . . . I can’t bring myself to write in the Diary. It’s probably just shooting myself in the foot since really, I should be online proving to people that love is real, but I can’t work past the churning in my stomach. I just want to go to sleep forever, or at least until my mom restores my credit card. I completely forget about agreeing to trivia until Brian’s knocking on the closet door like, “Noah, we’re supposed to leave in like five minutes, and I need my shoes.” So I suck it up, using some water to restyle my frizzy hair and spraying on some light cologne so it at least smells like I tried. We slip into the car without speaking, and Brian turns on some classic rock station before pulling out onto the street. After a few minutes, he says, “So, besides losing your only source of income, how did today go?” Since I came out to him, there aren’t a whole lot of secrets between us, but he doesn’t know about the Diary. Like, sure, he knows that I blog and spend the better part of my life on the internet, but he doesn’t know any of the details, and I intend to keep it that way. Besides the fact that he’d think it’s pointless and immature, I just don’t want people to know about it. It’s my thing, and a little bit Becca’s thing, but no one else’s. I shrug. “It was fine, I guess. How was orientation?” “Pretty chill. I’m friends with a few of the people who work the camp, so I just took the counselor position to stay busy over the summer. Mom making you get a job?” I nod, watching the mountains out in the distance. God, are they beautiful. It’s so easy to pretend I never actually lived in Florida, and if I didn’t hate the outdoors so much, they might even be great Diary fodder, but as it stands, I’ll at least need to earn enough cash to continue my usual meet cute scouting if I’m going to keep posting and stand a chance against the troll. “It’s about time, considering you’ve never worked a day in your life.” I roll my eyes. “Do you want to work at the camp?” Brian asks. “I can get you a job. If I tell them you’re my si”—he freezes before finishing—“bling, I’m sure they’ll be fine with it.” I smirk, turning to him. “Nice save.” He sighs. “I’m sorry.” And I know he is, but it sure is funny to watch how flustered he looks after he misspeaks, like finally I’m the cool brother, and he’s the awkward one trying to keep up with my moves. “I think I’ll get a job on my own,” I say. “No offense, but living with you and working with you seems a bit extreme.” He smiles. “Yeah, I get that. Just let me know if you need help or anything.” I smile back. “You’ll regret that.” We end up at a brewery that serves overpriced burgers and like two hundred different beers. They all look the same to me, so I don’t bother counting. Maggie’s already waiting for us there with a few guys and the Black girl from the barbecue. She gives Brian a quick peck on the cheek, and I wonder if they’re toning it down because I’m there. I could remind them that I’m sixteen and not easily corrupted by PDA, but then, I really don’t mind them keeping it PG. Maggie takes down all of our names, and we huddle around the table as she shouts, “Okay, if you know the answer, come tell me—but not too loudly—and I’ll write it down. I don’t want other teams stealing our points.” It seems pretty redundant since I can barely hear what she’s saying two feet in front of my face, and frankly, I’m not particularly eager to get any closer to her than I already am. I wait until Brian decides to order something before ordering too since I can’t pay and I know he won’t leave me washing dishes. The questions fly by, and I try to think about the first few, but I’m terrible at trivia, and I don’t even know what the emcee is talking about. I just keep checking my phone, watching my follower count crash and burn worse than the emcee’s shitty jokes. My DMs are loaded with some pretty nasty messages too. Some people call me a liar, some people call me an abuser, and some people call me things so vulgar, I skim over the words because it feels dirty to even acknowledge that they’re there. And yeah, there’re a few positive messages, a few people asking me to refute the claims against the Diary, but my mind fixates on the attacks. I know I shouldn’t respond to them and fuel the fire, but I kind of want to curse a few of them out to get some of this rage out of my system. “Oye, enough with the phone,” Brian snaps, reaching to pluck my phone out of my hand. I swat his hand away before he can touch it, but I guess he wins this round anyway since he got my attention off the Diary. “Stop being a nag.” “Live a little,” Brian says. “Your blog friends can wait.” “They’re called followers, which you would know if you weren’t born at the dawn of the millennium,” I say. Brian splutters. “So, how are you liking Denver so far, Noah?” I turn to see Maggie smiling at me. She’s got the thinnest lips on this side of the Pacific, but she makes it work with a touch of lip gloss. “It’s nice.” I don’t want to say it’s too cold for a summer and that I really wish I could be in Chicago or somewhere everything is under a mile away. Really, I don’t know why Brian even wanted to go to school out here. Sure, our old principal, Ms. Cabrera, was a UC Denver alum—and really, everyone loved her, between the motherly nature and spot-on character impressions—but I still don’t think any of the praise she had for the school outweighs the weather and lack of people of color. “He’ll appreciate it even more when he gets a job,” Brian says. He twirls the straw in his water, which is weird because I don’t think I’ve ever seen Brian exhibit a nervous tic before. He must really be into Maggie. Sigh. “Oh, you’re getting a job?” she asks. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. If she’s that important to Brian, it’s probably better I don’t chase her away with my biting wit and grade-A sarcasm. “Yeah, you know, gotta carry my weight.” “My favorite bookstore is hiring, coincidentally. You should check them out,” she says. I stare back at her blankly because working at a bookstore sounds boring as hell, and really, if I didn’t want Brian getting me a job, the last thing I need is a hand-out job from his girlfriend. She doesn’t seem to realize that my look isn’t one asking her to continue because she digs into her little Kate Spade purse and pulls out a business card. “They’re small, and they mostly sell local books, but the owner’s really nice. It might be a good gig for you for the summer.” I take the card because Brian’s watching, and I slip it into my pocket. I can’t say I’m planning to pursue the offer, but I can try to be polite about it. “Is that the one that does all those readings and stuff?” Brian asks, and it’s so vague I’m not sure if he’s actually familiar with the place or just thinks it makes him sound more impressive. “Yup, that’s the one,” Maggie says. She drops me a wink and says, “Once you’re working there, you should totally get me a discount.” I smile at the joke—at least, I hope it’s a joke—and turn back to my phone. I’m down just over a thousand followers from this morning, and my stomach feels uneasy. Yeah, the Meet Cute Diary really isn’t faring very well. I’m gonna have to find some way to stop that troll before the whole thing goes up in flames. Step 2: The Hand of Destiny The moment Fate pushes you together despite all reason, and you realize this isn’t something you can just walk away from. Inbox (36) Hannahm3421 asked: Dear Noah, will the next Diary story be up soon? I had a really rough night last night and went to read a new post only to see I’ve read all the most recent ones. I know someone had said some bad stuff about the Diary, but people are still submitting, right? Wednesday morning, Brian heads to work and I’m stuck on the couch googling potential jobs while Becca goes to the dentist. She says the receptionist there is super hot, but I also don’t know what she thinks will come out of trying to date a girl who’s probably at least a few years older than us. But then, Becca’s always been more on the “window-shopping” side of dating, so maybe she doesn’t mind that. Either way, it’ll be at least an hour before she texts me all the details, so I’m on my third search page in the hopes of actually being productive. I mean, I could “hit the town,” like my dad used to say, but no one really hires that way anymore. The problem is—well, there’re a lot of problems: my age, my lack of a college degree, my zero experience, and my lack of special skills. I set my phone to the side, and for a moment, even consider turning it off. Every second I have my phone in my hand is another second I feel obligated to skim my inbox and see all the rough messages coming through. I replied to a couple of the positive ones, thanking them for their support, and I put out a statement telling my followers not to believe the troll, but otherwise, I don’t know what to say, and every message just makes me feel guiltier for not having an answer. Becca and I are supposed to brainstorm a plan to fix everything once she gets some free time, so, for now I kind of want to pretend nothing exists—no work, no Diary, and definitely no trolls out to ruin my life. Then I think about that little business card Maggie handed me last night. Well, the troll thing made me think of Maggie, and then I got to the business card. It’s a whole chain reaction. Anyway, I really hate the idea of owing her a favor, but if it’s a simple job I can get just long enough to earn some quick cash, that’ll give me time to work out the whole situation with the Meet Cute Diary. Or, even better, it’ll distract me long enough for the problem to go away. I get up and dig through my pile of dirty laundry to find the card tucked away in my pants. I start by pulling the place up on Instagram. I don’t know how long they’ve been around, but the place looks a little old-timey, with lines of moss along the outside, and there’s a little patio caf?, so I can hopefully get some free coffee once I work there. The place is called Sur La Page Books, and I type it into Google to look for any obvious scandals or life-threatening standoffs. Once they clear that, I decide to give them a call and see if they hire teenagers. The phone rings a couple of times and a deep voice comes through on the other end with, “Hi, what can I do for you?” Which seems like a wanting introduction, but I say, “Hi, I was wondering if you might be accepting job applications?” “Um, yeah, sure, I guess,” the guy says. “I don’t know what the official process is. Just gimme a minute.” I stand by as the guy puts the phone down, the sound of footsteps and muffled chatter drifting through. A few moments pass before he comes back and says, “Hey, sorry, so we actually don’t take applications, but if you wanna come in later, you can do an interview.” “Later? As in today?” “Yeah, can you do one p.m.?” I glance at the clock on my phone. It’s just after noon. I don’t have the fare for a ride, but it’s probably only about a twenty-minute walk, so if I leave soon, I can get there on time. I mean, this is a pretty sudden offer, and I’d take it as a sign if I ever saw one. “Sure,” I say. “Cool. I’ll let her know you’re coming.” The line dies before I can ask who she is and what exactly I should be wearing to such an interview, but it’s fine. If Fate is pushing me to get this job, then I might as well go with the flow and check it out. I don’t own anything remotely dressy since my wardrobe renovations, but I fake it—somewhat clean black jeans, a T-shirt under a vest. I’ve never done a job interview before, and all I’ve really got for reference is Queer Eye, but I also don’t have a whole lot to work with, so I cut my losses and move on. Then I pull up a r?sum? I made in my computer class freshman year, change the contact info, and print it out before racing out the door. It takes me a half hour to walk to the bookstore, and I’m sure that has very little to do with the fact that I’m extremely out of shape. It looks like it did in the Instagram photos, except it’s a bit bigger in person, stuck between two vacant retail spots that look like they’ve been that way for a long time. When I first step over the threshold, a little bell chimes, and the guy from the phone calls out, “One sec!” My first impression is that there’s way too much junk in this place. Boxes upon boxes of books line the floors, cheesy book puns line the walls, and a soft cinnamon smell drifts around me. I hear footsteps before I see the guy as he navigates the massive stock of books. Then I freeze. It’s Ice Cream Shop Guy. I silently thank the meet cute gods. “Hi, anything I can help you with?” he asks. He looks a little different than he did when I ran into him at the ice cream shop—his hair is a little messier, his clothes a little dressier, no group of friends flanking him—but his eyes are just as dreamy. He doesn’t seem to recognize me, but maybe he’s just playing it cool, trying to slow his breathing while his heart races at the very sight of me. I follow his lead. “Yeah, I’m here for the interview.” “Oh,” he says like he’s surprised I’m the guy from the phone. I know the feeling. And my voice tends to be like three octaves higher in person. I haven’t quite unlearned that habit yet. “Gimme a sec. Amy’s in the back.” He jogs back through the stack of books, and I wonder if I should’ve read more before coming. I mean, they didn’t really give me a whole lot of time to prep for the interview. If anyone asks, my favorite author is Fitzgerald because I really love fruit, especially when it’s angry. That is what it’s about, right? Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten all my knowledge of The Grapes of Wrath from VeggieTales. A woman shouts, “Sorry!” And then I see her jogging up to meet me. She’s short, chubby, her hair in a little pixie cut around her head. “Hi, you’re here for the interview, right?” “Right,” I say, passing her my r?sum?. She smiles and takes it without really looking at it, then shakes my hand. She’s one of those middle-aged white ladies who dramatically overenunciate everything and use their hands to illustrate I don’t even know what. “I’m Amy,” she says. “What’s your name, hon?” “Noah.” “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Noah. So, all I’m really looking for is someone to kind of keep watch of the shop. I’ve got lots of stuff to do behind the scenes, and I can’t leave Drew at the register all day without a break. Apparently it’s a felony or something.” She laughs, and I force a smile. Drew, huh? “Anyway,” she says, “it’s not a whole lot of work. You just have to run the register and help customers find stuff if they’re looking. The whole shop’s organized alphabetically.” I glance around at the scattered books because I highly doubt it’s organized at all, but I don’t interrupt. It’s a miracle this lady is even considering me at this point. “Anywho,” she says, “what do you think? You like books?” I nod. “Yeah, Fitzgerald’s great.” She laughs, clapping me on the shoulder. “You read classics? You struck me as more of a manga kid.” I blink. “Wait, that counts?” “Yes, of course it does.” She chuckles, steering me farther into the store. “We’ve got a whole section for it. Those kids come in here, and they are hungry. What kind of stuff do you like?” “All of it,” I say, my mind gravitating toward the massive stack of manga I packed up before the move. It’s all in California by now, probably collecting dust in some Public Storage. Growing up with Japanese grandparents, I’d always been into anime and manga and those corny action shows with the specialized martial arts, but I mostly shoved them away in grade school when everyone started calling me a weeb or asking me to be their waifu or whatever. It was like, how can I even enjoy this part of my culture when people have turned it into a fad and a joke? But I never really gave up manga. It’s just the one place I can still find storytelling that acknowledges that part of my heritage. Of course, every teacher and librarian I’ve ever met made it very clear that anything with pictures didn’t count as a “real” book once you passed the age of, like . . . six. So books with pictures, inverted text direction, and Eastern storytelling conventions? Definitely not. And frankly, while manga’s always been a huge inspiration for me storytelling-wise, I can’t remember the last time I really talked about it. “I started this new series about a girl who’s running from this curse—” “There’s this real popular one. Kids come in here wanting to talk about it for hours, and, well, I just don’t understand,” she says, waving her hands through the air. “Some academy thing. Boca something?” “Boku No Hero Academia?” “Yes, that’s the one! You read it?” I shrug because, yes, I read it, but she doesn’t need to know the extent to which I read it. “Lovely! I have a couple questions for you, just to see how well you’ll do here.” “Sweet, I’m ready!” I say. “Let’s say a customer comes in with a return, but they don’t have their receipt,” Amy says. “What might you do in a situation like that?” “Return the book?” “No, no,” she says, shaking her head. “If they don’t have a receipt, we don’t know that they bought the book from our store. So what might you consider doing in a situation like that? Feel free to take some time to think it over.” I pause, weighing the situation. Truthfully, I know nothing about working retail, and frankly, capitalism is a scam, so if this person wants to return the book, who am I to say no? But obviously Amy’s looking for a specific kind of answer here, so I need to tread carefully. Finally, I say, “I could ask them where they bought the book?” Amy sighs. “Sure, but if they’re returning it to our store, we already know the answer. So what if they stole it or something? We’re not just gonna give them a refund, right?” “So I should . . . call the cops?” Amy’s eyes widen. Drew peeks over at us from behind the counter, holding in laughter. Finally, Amy sighs again, placing a hand on my shoulder as she says, “Noah, you seem like a nice kid, but I’m thinking maybe you’re not cut out for working retail.” “I—oh.” Amy dismisses herself to the back room, and I stand there frozen for a moment, shame washing over me. Well, at least I don’t owe Maggie that favor now. A whistle cuts through the shop, and I look up to find Drew waving me over. Of course, I could just leave the shop and save myself any further humiliation, or I could take this as the Hand of Destiny, Fate pushing us closer together as long as I can seize it. I creep up to the counter and say, “So, you saw that, huh?” Drew chuckles, leaning forward against the counter. “I take it that was your first interview.” “For a job? Yeah,” I say. “I’ve done personal interviews, but only online stuff.” “Oh, what kind of stuff?” he says. And I pause because I didn’t expect him to ask me about it, so I didn’t think mentioning it would be a big deal. But of course it’s all Diary stuff that I can’t really bring up in casual conversation, so I look out at the stack of books and rush to change the subject. “Isn’t this place supposed to be alphabetized or something?” He winces, following my eyes through the shop. “Well, yeah, it’s supposed to be, but there are a few new releases that came out this week, so we’re kind of swamped. Is there something I can help you find?” I shrug, tilting my head toward him. “I guess I’m mostly just enjoying the scenery.” He smiles, and wow, it’s super cute, and exactly the kind of response I was hoping for. Perfect white teeth against perfect pink lips. I imagine he’s a great kisser. This is the part where he talks about his passionate love for books, and then he says some cheesy line about that not being all he’s passionate about, and before you know it, we’re making out on a stack of books, getting papercuts in awkward places. “You okay?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “You look really happy.” “Oh, what? Yeah, I’m great. I’m just relieved the interview’s over.” I chuckle. He laughs, which is a very nice sound. Like wind chimes, or that Haley Reinhart cover of “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” Then he says, “Sorry it didn’t go so well. Do you like coffee? We have a caf? out on the patio that only operates once summer officially starts in June, but I can brew you something right now if you want it. Consider it a consolation prize since you came all the way out here.” Oh my God. He’s asking me out for coffee. “I’d love a vanilla latte.” He grins. “Classy. I’ll work on it. Watch the register?” “I got you.” I slip behind the register like they’re actually going to get any customers and just kind of bounce on my heels while Drew heads out back. I feel like it would be rude to be on my phone while I’m manning the counter, but I really want to text Becca and tell her how well this whole thing is working out. I mean, what are the odds that I’d stumble into the ice cream shop guy again? And now he’s in the back making me coffee, which is exactly the kind of creativity I need in a perfect partner. A few minutes later, Drew steps back into the room with a little paper cup. It doesn’t have the floral milk pattern I was hoping for, but I think it still counts for creativity. I mean, he made it, so that’s definitely a start. I happily accept it, smiling as I take a sip and choke. “You okay?” Drew asks, a sloppy grin on his face. I nod. “Yeah, it’s just hot,” I say, which isn’t entirely true. I mean, yes, it’s hot, but it’s also really bitter, like maybe he forgot that vanilla is an ingredient in vanilla lattes. But it’s fine. I’m not turning down free coffee, especially not free coffee brewed just for me by a gorgeous boy. “So, are you like a huge book nerd?” he asks. I giggle. “Not really.” “So why apply to work at a bookstore?” “I’m staying here with my brother for the summer, and I really need some cash,” I say. I take a look around at the clutter and hold in a wince. “His girlfriend recommended the job.” “You don’t like her?” I tilt my face downward. “I didn’t say that.” He smirks. “Didn’t have to. Your voice said it for you.” “I don’t dislike her. She’s just—I don’t know. Not really my type of person, I guess.” “Does it matter? I mean, she’s dating your brother, not you,” he says. I nod because I know he’s right, and if Brian likes her, that’s all that really matters, but it also sucks when someone you care about is all over someone you hate. Especially when that someone is slowly turning them into someone else. “I guess a part of me feels a little shut out, you know? Like if he gets close to her, that might mean cutting me out to spend more time with her.” And honestly, I can’t believe I just said that. I’ve never been big on opening up about my insecurities, but that one in particular isn’t even something I’ve voiced to Becca. I’m already overwhelmed by just how comfortable I feel around him, like he’s slowly prying me open and spilling my deepest secrets out on the counter. Drew smiles, but I think it’s supposed to be one of those reassuring smiles. “I’m sure you won’t get shut out. I mean, you’re family. You were around first.” I shrug. “Yeah, but first doesn’t always mean better.” And God, I really hate that. Thursday, May 31 MeetCuteDiary posted: It started at a bakery, the two of us locking eyes from across the room and my breath being swept away almost immediately. I hadn’t had the guts to talk to him, and I went home feeling hopeless, knowing I’d never see him again. So when I walked into the bookstore the next day, all tidily dressed for my interview, the last thing I expected was to find him standing there like Fate was pushing us together. As he paged through a book at the front counter, his body froze, his eyes rising to meet mine. “Hi,” he said. He paused for a moment, like his heart was beating too fast for him to think. “You must—are you here for the interview?” I nodded slowly. “I am.” He smiled. “Let me get the manager.” He turned to retreat into the back room, and paused, his hand idly drifting toward his curly, dark hair. He turned back slowly, his eyes wide as he said, “Regardless of what happens in the interview, would you maybe want to get coffee with me later?” I smiled. “I’d love that.” And we’ve been dating ever since. Anonymous Roseybride replied: This is amazing! I love that you two found each other again! Crystalsandgems replied: This is so cute! I want a love story like this! Thedemonsangel replied: This story is adorable. Too bad it’s probably fake. Load more comments . . . “Did he really ask you out for coffee?” Becca asks. I shrug. “He made me coffee. It’s even cuter. You included creativity on my list, right?” When Becca and I first decided to take the plunge into the dating scene, we also wrote each other up a Best-Friend-Approved Datemate Qualities list. I was super thorough with hers, making sure to include things like “must acknowledge that 1989 is a better album than Reputation” and “better not hog the popcorn on movie dates.” You know, the stuff that matters but might get overlooked in the heat of the moment. I just worry sometimes that she may have been a little lax with mine since she’s never taken that kind of stuff very seriously. We both swore we wouldn’t actually read them over until we’re certain we’ve found “the one,” and I’ve been trying to get Becca to spill for years now, but I’m a good friend who keeps my promises so the list she wrote for me is still tucked away in a shoebox under my bed. Becca rolls her eyes. “Popping a K-Cup into a Keurig is not creativity.” “It was a latte. It’s cute and it counts,” I say. “I think there’s a lot of potential there. I’d say we’re already deep into Step Two.” “Excuse me?” I roll my eyes. “My Twelve Steps to the Perfect Relationship? Step Two: The Hand of Destiny. It’s when Fate pushes you together despite reason. Do I need to make you a handout?” “Okay, Noah, no more romance books for you.” That’s kind of an overstatement since most of my romance experience comes from fan fiction and Wattpad, which Becca knows since she’s the one who got me into fan fiction in the first place. Really, most of my fandoms come from Becca. She’s just always been a lot better at screening media, and it’s more fun watching her critique whatever new show she’s watching while I hit on all the fictional characters than it is to sit in my room reading manga alone. Or, at least, it was back when we could still watch things in person. “I don’t need them. I’ll be experiencing the romance on the books,” I say, which is kind of regrettable. “Anyway, how was your day with Dentist Darling?” Becca rolls her eyes, but I can already see a flush creeping up her cheeks. “It was fine. My teeth were clean as usual.” “Okay, but did you at least get her number?” “No, I didn’t, because that would be weird, and I’d like to be able to go back to my dentist, thanks.” That’s fair, but while Becca always stresses that she thinks I’m throwing myself into the ocean of love without anything to protect me from the waves, she’s too scared to ever leave the damn dock. And of course, I could stress the whole You can’t find love if you don’t take a risk thing, but I know she’ll just say she’s perfectly fine with that. It’s like she can’t do anything without her parents popping up in the back of her head and chaining her down. “Look, let me handle my own love life,” Becca says. “Go get lost in fantasizing over guys you’ll never see again.” I ignore her comment and say, “I’m your best friend and the romance expert in our duo. Helping with your love life is kind of my job.” She groans. “Just let me figure things out over here, okay? You’re like a thousand miles away. It doesn’t make sense for you to try to steer.” And I can’t pretend that doesn’t sting, because I know distance is separating us, but that doesn’t mean she has to let it come in between us. Finally, I sigh, and say, “Okay, fine. So, the Diary. What do I do?” Becca sighs too, but it’s her long, painful sigh, the one that says I want to help you but I’m not a miracle worker. “I guess the best thing you can do is try to disprove the troll, right?” “Okay,” I say, “but how can I disprove a troll who’s right?” And really, really dedicated. They make new posts every few hours—probably have a whole queue full of them—and I’ve been mostly silent on the Diary since they started. I’m hoping the Bookstore Babe Meet Cute story will be enough to distract people for a while, but honestly, I feel like I’m just sticking a Band-Aid over a festering wound. Only a matter of time before the whole limb gets amputated. “We just have to pick apart some of the faults in their logic,” Becca says. “Like, for instance, they start by citing statistics on the number of people who live in Miami, right? But everyone knows Miami is a tourist trap. You can just say that people were visiting.” It’s not the worst plan, but it feels kind of feeble. It’s easy to lose people’s trust, but it’s not so easy to get it back. “Do you really think they’ll buy into it if I post that?” I say. Becca laughs. “Obviously not. I’ll post it from a separate blog. They’ll be more likely to believe it if it comes from someone not affiliated with the Diary.” “Sweet! Love you!” I say, and just like that, it feels like Becca’s back to solving all my problems, just like she always has. Step 3: The Invitation It’s the first step toward something intimate, the moment one person offers and the other says, “Yes.” Inbox (57) Emsayshey asked: hi noah. thank you for running the mcd blog. seeing other trans people talk about their love stories every day really keeps me going. it makes me feel like there’s a meet cute out there waiting for me, and i just have to stay alive long enough to find it. but the hate blog going around is really making it hard to be a diary fan. can you ask some of the anons submitting their stories to leave some proof so people will stop believing the haters? thanks! The next morning, I wake up to the sound of Brian slamming the door on his way out and immediately check the Diary. I’m still dropping followers, so I text Becca like Yo, did you make that post or what? but she doesn’t respond, so I read through some DMs that just make me miserable before finally crawling out of bed. I head to the kitchen to heat up some leftover arroz con pollo from last night. Part of Brian’s cooking kick involves actually embracing our cultural heritage—white and Japanese on our mom’s side and Afro-Caribbean on our dad’s—for the first time in his nineteen years on the planet. It’s nothing spectacular, but it’s nice to have something that at least mostly tastes like home while I’m so far away. My thumb opens the Tumblr app out of muscle memory, and I check my recent notifications to see more people commenting on the bookstore meet cute. Despite all the negativity, there’s still a good number of excited commenters, so I can’t be too upset. Then I feel my stomach drop as I remember the interview from yesterday. Yeah, that was pretty humiliating, and I can’t quite say I’m ready to brave the world of job hunting again just yet, but I’m also kind of sad about Drew. Well, about the fact that I’ll probably never see him again since I didn’t get the job. I’m just finishing breakfast as my phone rings, and my first instinct is to throw it across the room because my phone never rings. I mean, sometimes my mom calls, but I don’t recognize the number on my screen. I’m not even sure what area code that is, and knowing my luck, if I answer, I’ll end up on a permanent telemarketing spam list. So maybe it’s the hand of Fate that pushes me, causing me to stumble as I head out of the kitchen and race to grab my phone before it can hit the tile, accidentally answering the call in the process. “Hello?” the voice on the other end says, and I freeze. “Drew?” I say. “I—yeah. Noah?” “Um, hey,” I say. “How did you get my number?” “Oh, um, from your r?sum?,” he says. “That’s not creepy, is it?” And frankly, if he wasn’t a super hot guy I had two perfect meet cutes with, it might be, but as it stands, my heart pounds in my ears as I say, “Not at all. So, what’s up?” “Do you mind coming into the store? I kind of want to talk to you about something,” he says. And there’s a million and a half things that something could be. Maybe Amy changed her mind about giving me the job, or maybe he couldn’t sleep last night, images of me running through his head and making him lose his breath. Maybe it was all he could do to wait until this morning to finally place the call, to bring us closer together again. “Sure, I’m in.” This time around, I walk a little faster, excitement driving my every step. I get to the shop in just about twenty minutes and peek through the window to spot Drew standing at the register counting money. When I tap on the glass, his eyes shoot up, and a grin creeps over his face as he spots me. After slipping the money back in the register, he slides over to the door, unlocking it long enough for me to enter. “You got here faster than I expected,” he says. I smile. “Well, I was in the area, so it wasn’t a big deal.” “I can go make you some coffee if you want.” I smile as I plop down onto the carpet next to an open box of books. They’re from the local authors section, this particular title called The Blonde Conspiracy. “Thanks!” I say, and as Drew heads to the back to brew me a latte, I stare at the artfully illustrated book cover and wonder what it must feel like to have a published book sitting in a local bookstore. Before the Diary, I used to try writing new projects every time the inspiration struck, but I always abandoned them. They just never felt all that inspired, like they didn’t have any real life to them. Drew comes out with another cup of coffee and passes it to me. I smile again, noticing the little recyclable symbol on the bottom. I’ve always wanted a guy who fights for a cause, so this just feels like another sign. I take a sip, careful not to burn myself before saying, “So, why did you want me to come in?” “I kinda want to ask you something, if you don’t mind,” he says. I say, “Go for it,” before taking another sip. “Do you run the Meet Cute Diary blog?” I choke, coffee running from my mouth down the front of my shirt. Drew slips around the counter and returns with some napkins, but I’m still coughing up a lung. How the hell does he know about the Meet Cute Diary? “I’ll take that as a yes,” he says, flashing me a smile. “That’s super cool. I don’t think I’ve ever met a celebrity before.” I snatch the napkins away from him and use them to try to sop up the mess on my shirt. My eyes burn as I ask, “How do you even know about that?” “The blog?” He shrugs. “I’ve been following it for like six months, and I’ve seen the stories cross-posted on Insta too. And there’s that one person on TikTok who role-plays them. Hard not to notice a blog that cute.” Tears spring to my eyes. “You think it’s cute?” “Well, yeah. A bunch of people finding love on the street? It showed up on my dash one day, so I sent it to my cousin. She’s trans.” I nod along, but my mind is racing too fast to keep up with any of this. Drew knows about the Meet Cute Diary. Drew follows the Meet Cute Diary. “Anyway, there was this post about an ice cream shop like a week ago that sounded really familiar, and then one about a bookstore, and it sounded a hell of a lot like this place, and I didn’t want to come off too cocky by asking, but—” He shrugs again, leaning against the nearest shelf. “And, I mean, the mod’s name is Noah.” I’m shaking. Holy shit. Never in my wildest dreams did I think it would come to this. And really, all the times I’d thought about being caught by someone, I thought it’d be one of the bigots at my old school. I always worried they might find me out, figure out that I was trans and bolstering trans love instead of denouncing it all as a sin, and then I’d get expelled or suspended or prayed for at weekly school masses. But this is different. My heart’s pounding in my chest, but it’s excited, not terrified. It’s the moment my mask has been taken off and civilian identity revealed, but at the hands of a fan, one who’s ready to give me all the gratitude my mask has denied me for so long. Then he says, “Does that mean all the stories are made-up? I mean, given that all the ones with me in it had alternate endings.” And I’m deflating, the breath rushing out of me as a blush heats my face. “Yes,” I say. “They’re all made-up. Fake meet cutes.” He raises an eyebrow. “I mean, they’re cool stories, but why go through all the hassle if they aren’t even real?” That seems like an odd question to ask since we’re literally standing in the middle of a bookstore. But of course he wouldn’t understand. He’s probably had tons of girlfriends with super cute stories surrounding all of them. He’s a gorgeous cis white guy. He can get anyone he wants, and I’m sure he’s only ever considered when he’ll get married and start a family, not if. I could pick up any volume in this store and show him his happy ending. Of course he couldn’t understand why some of us are so desperate to make our own. “Sometimes people need help believing in love,” I say. “I try to give them that with the Diary.” I don’t tell him about my fantasies. We’re not quite at that level of our relationship yet. He grins. “That’s pretty great of you. I mean, trying to help random strangers like that. Most people wouldn’t bother.” And I smile because, wow. Becca’s the only person who knows about the Diary because even after changing my name and leaving home, something about it always felt taboo. Like maybe if I voiced my reasoning behind creating the Diary, everyone would just think that I was some kid in over my head making a big deal about nothing. But hearing those words now, especially from some guy I half used to fabricate my stories—well, it’s super sweet. But now he also knows it’s fake, and maybe he doesn’t know about the troll, but he also could, and he could feed them more info to really tear everything down. “Can I be honest with you?” I ask. He shrugs. “I’m not opposed to it.” “There’s a troll trying to prove that the Meet Cute Diary isn’t real.” He raises an eyebrow. “But it’s not real.” “I know, but people need to believe it is, you know? It’s that belief that trans people can actually have that fairy-tale romance. I don’t want them to lose that, but if they really convince everyone it’s fake—” “I’m sure people will just ignore it. The blog is so popular, and people practically worship you.” But I’m not so sure. I’ve already lost almost two thousand followers, and it’s only been a few days. “I know it probably doesn’t feel like a big deal to you, but there are so many people this is important for,” I say. “I mean, I’ve gotten messages from people saying the Diary’s the reason they haven’t killed themselves. I can’t just watch that go up in flames.” “No, I get it,” he says. “Trans cousin, remember?” I exhale. “So you won’t tell anyone it’s fake?” He nods. “Definitely not. Actually, I’m gonna one-up you on that. Tell me what I can do to help.” Which, the offer’s sweet enough that it’s already got my heart racing, but I just laugh, awkwardly turning my face away. “The truth is, the only way I know how to save the Diary is to somehow prove that all these fake stories are real.” If this were a romance fic, this would be the part where he takes my hand in his and says, I can’t change every story, but I’m in charge of this one, and I think we can make it real. Just use me. Instead, he says, “Just use me.” Wait, what? “W-what?” I say, pretty positive I accidentally spilled my thoughts out into the real world and misheard him. He shrugs. “Let’s get dinner. Then you can post some pictures and tell everyone you know the Diary’s real because one of the stories was about you. Sound good?” I blink, my mind failing to calibrate. Did he just suggest a fake dating AU? Am I in a fake dating AU? “Are you sure you want to do that?” He laughs, pushing off the bookshelf and closing the space between us. “Why not? I mean, I love your blog, so we’ll probably get along great, and I can’t really turn down a chance at a behind-the-scenes look when I’m sure so many people would kill for one. Plus, I’d hate to see the blog fall apart over some troll.” We stand in silence for a moment, my heart pounding in my ears. I wish Becca were here to see this, or at least a camera crew so I could film it and show it to her later. Drew raises an eyebrow and says, “So is that a no . . . ?” “It’s a yes!” I say, a little too fast and a little too loudly. “Sorry, I mean, it’s—yeah, I’d like that.” The front door opens, and my eyes shoot to catch Amy walking in the door. “Drew!” Amy snaps. Drew rolls his eyes, slipping back behind the counter. “Always ready to work, Aunt Amy.” Amy heads for the back room, and Drew smirks at me. “We can work out the details later, okay? Over dinner?” I smile. “Sounds perfect.” Inbox (83) Anonymous asked: The bookstore romance was super cute, but I guess that’s easy to do when you make everything up, huh? Are you going to answer the callouts or just keep posting these vague non-explanations? It’s pretty pathetic to keep ignoring everyone. If you’re really some master of love, you should stop hiding behind fake stories, or at least own up to it and stop being two-faced. I text Brian to let him know he doesn’t have to pick me up because I have a date. He responds with, “Is that a joke?” so I don’t bother answering. Despite getting pretty blatantly rejected for the position, no one sends me out of the shop. Actually, I spend the rest of the day looking for new jobs and reading out some of the Diary comments on my last post for Drew, who’s pretty thrilled about them. The good ones, anyway. I just kind of skip over the bad ones. Becca texts me back halfway through the day to say, Sorry, I forgot to post because of schoolwork. I’ll take care of it later today. So I let her know that I have a solution so she doesn’t have to worry about it even though a part of me is kind of bitter that she just forgot about the Diary so easily. At six o’clock, Drew locks up the shop and turns to me. “What kind of food do you like?” I shrug. “All food. Food is good.” “I like the way you think.” He takes my hand, which might be overkill since we’re both only pretending to be attracted to each other, and then we make our way down the strip to where most of the active businesses are. There are some bars, some clubs, some dessert shops. Drew motions me toward a fancy little restaurant, and I really regret dribbling coffee down my already too big button-up as we step inside. The host is dressed in all black, his hair kinda wavy like the wind swept it up into the perfect ’do on his way to work. I can’t complain as he leads us to a high-top table, which, you know, is kind of hard to reach when you’re like five foot three. Anyway, by the time I climb up into my seat, the host is gone, having left two menus on the table for us. “Order whatever you want,” Drew says. “I’ve got you covered.” I sigh. “Because I still don’t have a paycheck?” Drew laughs. “We gotta make this seem like a real date. Oh, and we should probably take a selfie before we get out of here.” “Oh, right,” I say. When Drew first suggested the fake date, it didn’t feel nearly as real as it does now. Of course, it’s not the date that really has me off guard but the reality of the post, of attaching my real-life face to this online persona I’ve kept separate from me for so long. “I, uh, just a second.” I slip out of my seat and beeline for the bathroom, ducking around a shocked waiter stepping out of the kitchen. It’s a pretty fancy space considering the whole point is to take a dump, but the lights make my skin look yellow as I stare at myself in the mirror. I can’t really say I spend a lot of time looking at my own reflection. I mean, I probably should since I deserve that kind of beauty in my life, but I hate the feeling of looking at a stranger. Like someone photoshopped my image before throwing it into the mirror, and now I’m shorter and thinner and way more feminine looking than I know I’m supposed to be. And once I post this picture, my followers aren’t going to see me anymore. They’re not gonna see the Noah who looks like Pharrell or the Rock or Bruno Mars. They’re gonna see that person in the mirror, the one the world keeps trying to dredge up no matter how hard I work to cover it up. But this post is going to save the Diary, and really, it’s not about me. If wearing a face I don’t feel connected to is enough to save trans love, it’s the least I can do. Besides, mod Noah is a persona I’ve worn for so long, who cares if I have to tweak it a little? No big deal. I run some water over my hands and use it to smooth down my hair a little. Then I take a couple of deep breaths to push the anxiety away before heading back out to the restaurant and slipping into my seat. Drew gives me a bit of a side-eye as I sit down, so I just say, “The Diary’s really important to me. I don’t share it with a lot of people.” He nods once. “Yeah, that makes sense.” “I just want all of this to go perfectly,” I say. “You know, for the Diary.” Drew smiles. “Well, I appreciate you letting me in on the great big secret, and I’m happy to help. Certainly beats sitting at home rewatching Rick and Morty.” I return his smile and reach for something to cut through the awkwardness in the air. Finally, I say, “So, do you do this often?” Drew raises an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah, I go out with all the interviewees.” The laughter rolls out of me naturally, like the joke was part of a script he wrote just for me. “Well, it’s technically a fake date,” I say, though, if he’s a true romance fan, he’ll know exactly how that usually ends. “And thank you for that, by the way. I really appreciate you offering to go out to help the Diary.” He stares back at me a moment before saying, “To be honest, I’ve been thinking about you since the whole ice cream shop incident.” I scrunch my eyebrows, my heart picking up speed. “Because we bumped hands?” “Well, yeah, I guess, but really I was thinking about the blog post. I don’t know. It was kind of beautiful, if that’s not weird. And it was wild just how much attention it got for such a short post.” And I smile because there’s something amazingly romantic about the idea that this guy has been in love with my writing since before he even knew me. And, well, it’s pretty funny that he thinks that’s the weird part, and not the fact that I wrote a fake story in which we got together without even knowing a thing about him. “The point was to make people believe in love,” I say. He smiles. “Yeah, I think it works.” It’s like someone loosened a bolt in my jaw because I just can’t stop smiling. Then he says, “Do you think this’ll be enough to save the Diary?” I pause, the smile dropping off my face. “I mean, I hope so. I don’t know what to do otherwise.” He picks at the edge of his menu, his voice rising an octave as he says, “You know, if you ever need my help with the Diary, I’d be happy to. I mean, I’m a huge fan. It’s like getting to help make a Disney movie.” And all I can think is it’s beautiful how he’s a little timid, but in a good way. “I would love that,” I say. He flashes me this gorgeous smile as my heart does somersaults in my chest. It’s only fitting that our fake date would close with one of my biggest turn-ons—a smile designed to break hearts. Once dinner’s over, Drew insists on getting me a ride and actually taking it back to Brian’s apartment with me. I don’t know if he just wants more time together, or if he’s worried the driver is going to kidnap me or something, but it’s nice, and I’ll never complain about more time spent gazing longingly into his eyes. I hop out, and Drew pulls me aside, saying we should take a selfie by the curb to show how well our date ended. I agree, posing us for the perfect shot before thanking him and heading up to Brian’s apartment, simultaneously reaching for the front door and the key buried somewhere in my pocket only to find the latter isn’t there. What the hell? Why do men’s pants have bottomless pockets? I groan, tapping out the Victorious theme song until Brian finally opens the door with a death glare on his face. “Why are you knocking?” “I lost my key,” I say, stepping past him into the living room. “It’s probably in my other pants.” “Damn it. Do you lose everything?” “Obviously not.” I jolt back at the sound of laughter, whipping around to find Maggie standing in the kitchen, a plate full of pastelitos balanced in one hand. I turn to shoot a what the hell is she doing here glare at Brian, but he’s already crossing the space back to her, slipping an arm around her waist as he says, “How do you like ’em?” She grins. “They’re amazing. I’m so proud of you.” And then they kiss, and I struggle and fail to keep my lip from curling. “I have to go call Becca,” I say, dismissing myself to my closet. “Okay, but you have to tell me about your date later!” Brian calls after me. I pause, turning to see if he’s joking. But his eyes are back on Maggie, the two of them practically sliding into each other. I roll my eyes and slip into my room, closing the door behind me. My first order of business is answering some of the messages I’ve been ignoring. Once I’ve sent out some heartfelt apologies about not answering and how I’ll be making another statement shortly, I work up this dramatic post about how the Meet Cute Diary started as my own exploration of my first relationship, and then get into this whole thing about how some of the stories don’t add up because we changed certain details to keep people’s identities secret. Then I explain that the whole bookstore story was about Drew and post the selfie we took tonight as the final evidence. I consider sending it to Becca first, but she’s been so busy lately. Besides, this post is supremely personal, and I don’t want to lose the nerve to post it by waiting for a response. My hands shake as I hit post, but I’ve given it my best. Hopefully, the post will go viral in a couple of days, and not only will we stop losing followers in droves, but we’ll get a new onslaught of eager followers wanting to know about Drew and me. Then I call Becca. She answers on the third ring, but she says, “Hey, I can’t talk long. What’s up?” “Do you not want to hear about my date?” Then she squeals, and I jerk my head back until she’s done. “Okay, you have fifteen minutes, then I have homework. Go.” So I ramble on about the fake date, starting with how he asked me out to try to save the Diary and how he’d been a huge fan for a while. I tell her about how obviously compatible we must be since he loves my writing, and how once the fake date saves the Diary, we’ll probably fall in love, since, you know, that’s how every fake dating story ends. “Okay, but do you really think a fake date will be enough to stop this troll? I mean, after all the lengths they went to just to shit on the Diary?” “I’ve got it covered, Becca,” I say. She hasn’t exactly been super reliable lately, so it’s probably easier for me to handle it myself anyway. “And once Drew and I fall desperately in love with each other, it won’t matter what some troll has to say about it.” Becca lets out one of those deep God, you’re naive sighs. “Just promise me that if he steps out of line, you won’t let him walk all over you.” “I wouldn’t do that.” “You did that with Gustavo!” She’s right, of course. Gustavo was my first date freshman year, back when I was still trying to convince myself that maybe I could be a girl if I just tried hard enough. We went to a movie, and I bought him popcorn, which he refused to share with me. Then he shushed me the whole movie and ditched me at the theater, so I had to call my mom to pick me up. And sure, I would’ve gone out with him again if Becca hadn’t stepped in and burned that bridge, but Drew’s not like that. He’s been nothing but kind to me. And I’m different now too. I know who I am. It’s fine. “I just don’t want you to get so caught up in your fairy tales that you ignore what’s right in front of your face,” she says. “Yeah, yeah, I know,” I say. “I don’t need you to look out for me anymore, okay? If you can handle your love life, I can handle mine.” Brian knocks on the door, peeking his head in long enough to say, “Hey, Maggie just left if you wanna catch me up on things.” I smile at him. “Yeah, just a sec.” He closes the door, and I tell Becca I should actually go hang out with him for a bit. “Yeah, go,” she says. “Your fifteen minutes are pretty much up anyway.” “I’ll update you tomorrow. Oh, and don’t forget to check the Diary.” Brian waits for me in the living room, a small plate of pastelitos on the couch. I plop down next to him and ask, “Is this my share?” “If you want it.” But I’m not sure I do knowing that Maggie’s been all over it. Actually, Brian’s got a bit of a lipstick mark on his cheek, which tells me that not only have they been all over each other, but Maggie doesn’t even buy smudge-proof lipstick. Wow. “Anyway,” Brian says, kicking his feet up on the little coffee table. It’s got a bunch of table books, including an old-ass Jell-O recipe book that I’m pretty sure he’s never even opened. “How was the date? Good?” I push the thought of Maggie slithering her way into our lives out of my head and think about Drew instead, a smile creeping over my face. “Yeah, it was pretty great.” Brian doesn’t need to know that it was a fake date, and considering we’re on track to be the perfect end-game couple, it only makes sense that Brian thinks we’re already together. “Good, I’m glad. When do I get to meet him?” I cringe, though I probably shouldn’t feel so strongly about it. Drew’s great, and Brian will probably love him, but our relationship is too new. The last thing I need is for Brian to chase Drew away with his weird sports talk and occasionally edible cooking. Just for good measure, I say, “Probably never.” Brian laughs, but his eyes narrow slightly like he’s trying to figure out what I’m hiding. He pauses for a second and says, “Uh, I’ve actually been meaning to ask you, are you, like, into girls or guys?” I chuckle and shrug. “I mean, I definitely prefer men and masc-aligned people, but I can’t say I’ve never been attracted to any femmes before. I guess I wouldn’t want to rule anything out too quickly either.” He gives me this look like he’s not quite following but says, “Okay, cool. I was just wondering because I realized I didn’t actually know.” “Yeah, I guess my dating preferences got totally eclipsed by the trans thing, right?” And he looks like I just poured ice water down his shirt. It’s weird because I feel more open in being myself around him now, knowing that he accepts me for who I am and isn’t expecting me to be the perfect sister or whatever, but it also kinda feels like we speak different languages. Like anything I say runs the risk of confusing him so badly he can’t tell up from down anymore. “I mean, it’s not that big of a deal,” he says. “The trans thing. I don’t think it really changes much. I mean, obviously it’s good that you feel like you’re being your true self now. I just meant that it doesn’t change the way we see you, you know?” “Wait, you mean I still look like a girl?” I say, hands coming up to my mouth for dramatic effect. And Brian jerks back, absolute terror washing over his face. “What? No! I didn’t mean it like that at all! I just meant—” “It’s okay, Brain,” I say, watching as the color returns to his face. It’s been years since I called him that—a little keepsake from when we didn’t have cable and only had old DVDs of ’90s television. Sometimes I wish we could go back to that—me being Pinky because my parents thought I needed pink everything to satisfy their thrill at having a daughter, and Brian being the Brain because I couldn’t figure out how to spell his name. But honestly, that person feels like a total stranger to me now, and it’s not because they used to wear the color pink, because I still love pink, and anyone who doesn’t is wrong. It’s just that, back then, I was willing to be anything people told me to be. I didn’t mind that I was dying inside because I didn’t know how to live any other way. But how do you learn to breathe, then opt to be suffocated day in and day out? I’m Noah now, and really, I always have been. It’s not my fault no one believed in Noah until he gave them no other choice. “Noah,” Brian says, resting his hand on my arm, “I’m sorry. I know I’m not perfect about this whole thing, and I’m really sorry if I make you feel uncomfortable at all.” I smile, wrapping my arms around him. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re great. I love you.” He squeezes me to him, and I can almost pretend this is the way we’ve always been—Brian and Noah. It doesn’t matter how I was born or who I thought I was back then. I’m me, and we’re brothers, and there’s nothing in the world that can ever change that. Step 4: The Consultation (aka The First Date) It’s where the relationship really begins, the moment the seed is given a chance to grow roots. Inbox (228) Anonymous asked: Congratulations, Noah! I’ve never been happier for someone! Romlover2203 asked: You’re always giving, and now you get to receive! So happy for you! Majorfanboi15 asked: Did you get your neighbor to pose in that pic? I call fake. I wake up the next morning to find that my post has, in fact, gone viral. It’s not quite the top-of-the-world, larger-than-life, getting-a-free-cookie-at-Publix feeling I was hoping for, but it is kind of cool. I’ve got an inbox full of people congratulating me on finding a boyfriend, and a whole inbox of hate that I skim over and delete. I’ll get to the positive messages later. Gotta show up for the fans. I check my follower count and find it’s stabilized a bit. It’s not quite back up to the original numbers, but it’s a little higher than when I went to bed last night. I open my messages to find a text from Becca saying, Nice job! and another one from Drew saying, Morning. Any plans for today? I actually wasn’t planning to do a whole lot except eat, watch anime, and maybe shower, but I want to know what he has in mind, so I say, Not really. You? Wanna come by the shop? My face heats up as I type back a quick, Sure. I get dressed and smooth out my hair, which, yeah, is pretty much a lost cause. Can’t say what Drew is planning if he’s asking me to stop by, but endless possibilities float like little bubbles around my head, and I have to make sure I look hot. Brian’s already gone as I burst through the door. It’s nice out, and I’m feeling great, and I’m actually starting to kind of enjoy the walk. The streets are more bustling than usual, and I wonder if everyone’s just taking in the first few days of summer. I can’t blame them for having that extra pep in their step because I know I certainly do. But also, it’s cold out, and I’m not sure Coloradoans know what the word “summer” is actually supposed to mean. I slip into the shop with the full knowledge I probably have some horribly embarrassing grin on my face. “Morning!” Drew’s organizing a stack of books, and he looks up as I approach, a smile creeping across his face. “Hey. You look happy.” “I am happy,” I say. It’s hard not to be when the Diary’s on the rise again and I’m meeting up with a hot guy who’s bound to fall desperately in love with me. I sit down across from him and resist the urge to help him sort through the books. I really shouldn’t be putting in the effort if I’m not even going to get paid for it. “So I take it everything worked out with the Meet Cute Diary?” he says. I smile and nod. “And, I mean, it doesn’t hurt that I get to see you.” He smirks, but there’s a slight blush rising in his cheeks anyway. “I noticed you didn’t tag me in the post. You can next time if you want. I don’t mind.” It hadn’t even occurred to me to ask him the name of his blog, but I probably should’ve assumed he had one since he’s been following the Diary. I pull my phone out of my pocket, opening the Tumblr app and passing it to him. “Then I have to follow you.” He smiles, taking the phone and typing something into it. “I’m gonna take a lunch in a half hour, and we can go do something if you want. Maybe grab some food? You know, keep up appearances?” He passes the phone back, and I accept it, my heart fluttering at his words. “Absolutely.” I’m not sure how long he requests for his break, but we catch a ride out to this block lined with pho shops and Thai food. Drew steers me toward a little local Chinese joint, and we step inside, the smell of duck immediately falling over us. “You strike me as the kind of person who likes exotic food,” Drew says. And I’m not sure what’s “exotic” about decent Chinese food, but my stomach’s already rumbling just standing by the front door, and I’m too hungry to care. We get a table, and much to my delight, the menu’s full of Chinese barbecue. Can’t say I’m the best versed in Chinese food, but if it’s meat and it’s barbecue, I won’t complain. “The portion sizes are huge, so don’t overwork yourself,” he says. I smirk. “You underestimate how much I can eat.” Which, yeah, I’ll go light on the duck because I’m not out to murder his wallet, but damn, my mouth is watering. “So, should we set some parameters on this?” he asks. I freeze, my lip rising. “What do you mean?” “Well, if we’re gonna be building this whole fake relationship, I feel like we have to set some ground rules,” he says. “You know, like who’s allowed to know, and how we’ll behave in public, and all that stuff.” This is a minor hiccup I wasn’t expecting, but not too hard to work around. “The less people know, the less chance the troll will find out,” I say. He nods. “True. So that means we should probably act like a couple in public, huh?” I shrug, but really, I’m very much okay with that. “We should make it as real as possible.” “So no flirting with anyone else, then?” he says. I shake my head. “Definitely not. And we should do all the things we would do if we were actually dating,” I say. “Especially online, right?” he says. “Since the troll could be watching. Make sure to tag me in everything, and I’ll play it up from my blog too.” I smile. “So what are your plans for the summer?” I pause, waiting to see if he’s going to ask me something more about our fake dating before turning back to the menu. It’s basically a full-time job just trying to keep track of all the numbers of the dishes I want to order. “Working, you know, once I find a job. Probably spending some time with my brother. I don’t really have much worked out.” And, of course, having the perfect meet cute romance, but I don’t need to tell him that. “Where are you going afterward?” “California.” He grins. “Sounds cool. I’ve never not lived in Denver.” “I lived in Florida my whole life until now. It’s a huge change, but I’m happy about it,” I say. The truth is, I’m cool with never going back to Florida as long as I live. The only fond memories I have of the place are with Becca, and she can just come visit me in Cali instead. “I can show you around if you want,” he says. “There’s some cool stuff out here. We’re a little limited ’cause I don’t have a car, but there’s still some awesome stuff, especially if you like the outdoors.” I do not, in fact, like the outdoors. Bugs, wet grass, spotty cell service? Yeah, sounds like a living nightmare. But it could be cute to do some outdoorsy things with a date. Maybe a short hike or a field of flowers or stargazing in the moonlight. I smile. “Sure, I’d like that.” He smiles back. “My friends are doing a bonfire tonight if you want to go.” Oh, bonfires are sexy. Definitely in. I’ve never been to a bonfire before, so I already feel like I’m leveling up. Not only is this one of those cutesy events that only really exist in old Taylor Swift songs, but it’s perfect for getting some more shots for the Diary. When we get our food, I scarf mine down, and Drew’s eyes widen like he didn’t realize it was physically possible for me to eat that much. When I was younger, my mother always used to say that you shouldn’t eat too much when you’re getting to know a guy—if he thinks you have a big appetite, he won’t want to date you. It only seems fair that now that I’m old enough to make my own decisions, I do the exact opposite. “I’m glad you interviewed to work at the store, even if you didn’t get the job,” Drew says, and I freeze, duck grease dripping down my chin. “Wait, really?” “Yeah,” he says. “I’m glad I met you. Like, actually met you. Being a fan of the blog doesn’t count.” I smile because how do you not smile about something like that? “And I’m glad you’ll be my date for the bonfire.” I freeze. “Wait,” I say, because we have to play this right. Steps one and two were simple, but was last night the first date or would that be the bonfire? I guess it really depends what I consider to be the Invitation, which, for Diary purposes, was when he suggested the fake date, but that can’t count as a real Invitation because that was obviously staged. The bonfire could be the second date, but that would mean we never had a proper Consultation, which could really screw us over in the long run. . . . “Noah?” he says. I look up to find him staring at me, just now realizing my fork is halfway to my mouth, so I gently lay it down on my plate. “Sorry,” I say. “Just working out some executive details.” He raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t ask. It’s not the perfect dinner and night under the stars I always imagined, but maybe the bonfire could make for a good first date. That would just mean that the rest of this was part of Diary planning, so it doesn’t count. When we leave the restaurant, Drew slips his hand into mine and places a quick kiss on my cheek. “How’s that?” he says. And wow, I know this is all fake, but it feels pretty damn real—the feeling of his hand in mine, the gentleness when he kissed me, the low tone of his voice like we’re sharing some intimate secret, which, I guess we kind of are. “It’s perfect,” I say. He smiles. “So, you wanna come back to the shop?” And it almost feels like a joke that he’s even asking. I mean, he’s gorgeous, and we’re working on creating the perfect romance, even if it isn’t entirely real yet. Why would I want to go home? I squeeze his hand, a smile on my face as I say, “I’d love to go back to the shop with you.” And as he calls the rideshare, all I can think is that for the first time in my life, things are actually lining up with the stories I crafted in my head. Becca, you are NOT going to believe what just happened! Call me when you get a chance! Delivered “You did what?” I roll my eyes. My parents are driving to another house since the last one didn’t work out, and the static is bad enough that I’m forced to repeat myself every couple seconds. My mom’s always been the type of person who needs to get three things done at once, which means the vast majority of my conversations with her lately have been on the road. I can’t say I’m well-educated on real estate or loans or whatever it is exactly that they’re trying to work around right now, but I know they’ve been having trouble securing a house since the costs are so high over there and it’s a “renter’s market” or something. “I had a job interview at a bookstore,” I say. “Oh, that’s great, honey!” I decided it was about time I update my parents—both because I haven’t spoken to them in a few days, and because I want that credit card back. I don’t have to tell them I got turned down for the job already. Actually, I’m hoping if they think my job prospects are positive, they’ll be willing to pitch in for my travel expenses. “Yeah, the only problem is I can’t afford to get a ride to and from interviews,” I say. “I feel bad forcing Brian to do it since he works too and has to get there early.” I can practically hear my mom roll her eyes as she says, “You want the credit card back.” “I mean, if you don’t mind. . . .” My dad chuckles in the background. He’s always said I’m like a bunny rabbit—too cute to resist, but dangerous to underestimate. I can’t say I’m opposed to it. “You can have the card back, but you better not abuse it again, and I expect you to get a job,” she says. “Thank you, Mommy!” “Anything else you want to tell us about before we get to the new house?” I pause. A part of me feels like I should tell them about Drew. I mean, we aren’t officially together, or whatever that means, but we’re going to a party with his friends tonight, and we’ve really been nailing this fake dating thing. I told him that the best way to make sure we convince the Diary fans is to just really commit to it. After all, if we could convince ourselves that we’re a couple, no one online should have any reason to doubt us. And, when we got back to the shop, we basically just acted like a couple, and Drew even went so far as to tell Amy we were going out. Definitely approaching the Trip. Or are we there already? Honestly, I’m still not sure if tonight constitutes the Consultation or if that was dinner. This whole list was easier to follow before I had to put it into practice. Of course, my parents seem to be having a hard enough time navigating a second son. I don’t know if they’re ready to enter our-son’s-boyfriend territory yet. “Noah?” my mom says, and my heart flutters a little at how natural it sounds now, as if she’s actually been taking the time to practice saying it. “Everything all right?” “Yeah,” I say, making a spur-of-the-moment decision. “Everything’s great. I made a friend at the interview, and we’re hanging out tonight.” My dad laughs. “What kind of friend?” Here I go. “The boy kind,” I say. There’s silence on the other end of the line. Well, vocal silence and a little bit of static. Then my mom says, “Is this a friend kind of boy or a boyfriend kind of a friend?” “A little more of the second one, I think.” The line’s quiet again. Then I hear my dad sigh, and it sounds like my mom is passing him the phone. “Noah,” he says, his voice gentle, “I know you’re a boy now, but the same reproductive rules still apply.” “And I’m hanging up now. Bye, parents! Love you!” I press the end call button before my dad can give me the make sure he wraps it with care lecture. It was bad enough the first time around. Anyway, I have work to do. Considering this could potentially be the Consultation, I’ll be damned if I don’t look good. Saturday, June 2 MeetCuteDiary posted: There’s nothing like having plans for the weekend and having someone special to share them with. ;) Uncharming replied: OMG, Noah, I’m so happy for you both! Bubblebath replied: Noah!!! This is so cute!!! Gen54life replied: This blog is MAGIC. You’re basically Cupid! Load more comments . . . The party starts at seven even though it’s not really dark yet. I leave a teasing post for my followers to add a little warm-up for the pictures I’ll post after the bonfire. Basically, I want to drive home that I really am the King of Love and let the troll quake in their boots as they watch me transcend the internet to become a love god. And it’s nice seeing all the positive comments, letting them ease me into my big date. While I wait for Drew to pick me up, I text Becca the link to Drew’s blog even though she texted me earlier to let me know she’d be out of contact while she studies for a big exam. Then I sit down on the couch and scroll through it myself to get a feel for Drew’s personality. He doesn’t really make original posts, mostly just reblogging fandom stuff. I skip over all the Star Wars and DC discourse since I’ve never really been into either. It’s nice that we have different fandoms. It means we can share them with each other and find new passions. I stop on the Diary post Drew reblogged detailing our relationship. He added a comment about how important we are to each other, which seems a little strong considering we just started fake-going-out, but the replies are all really supportive, so it’s probably fine. Anyway, Drew shows up a few minutes later and texts me to come outside. “You could’ve come up,” I say when I greet him on the street. His hair has that windswept kind of messy look and his clothes look carefully chosen even in the awkward yellow lighting near the street. He grins. “Seems a little early to meet the brother, don’t you think?” His friend lives pretty far out of the city. I can’t make out much as the lights of the city disappear behind us, but there’s a thin, dark outline of mountains in the distance and the stars are already starting to twinkle to life. The house looks pretty normal—two stories nestled on a little hill with a stone walkway leading up the porch. Drew leads me around and into the backyard, where people are already hanging out on a gorgeous stone patio lined with little sparkling string lights. Ariana Grande floats down around us from the speakers embedded in the patio overhang. The crew consists of eight people, most of them holding little red cups or cigarettes. Six mascs, two femmes, probably all cis judging by the jock vibe they’re giving off. “Yo, Drew!” The guy waving us over is really friendly looking, big muscles under a black T-shirt and man bun. “What’s up, man?” Drew fist-bumps the guy. “Not a whole lot. Trying to get away from work.” “Dude, you’re so fucking old.” Drew bumps me with his shoulder and says, “This is Noah. Noah, this is Freddie. We graduated together.” I freeze, my eyes widening. “Wait, how old are you?” “Oh, shit!” Freddie says, turning back to the other partygoers. “Drew’s going to jail!” My mind spins as the reality of my situation falls over me. I can’t believe in all the excitement, I hadn’t even thought to ask his age. I mean, shit, he could be thirty with three college degrees and two ex-wives. Okay, probably not the degrees. Drew rolls his eyes and turns back to me. “Eighteen,” he says. “We graduated last month.” I let out a breath. Drew’s only eighteen, and really, I’m sixteen, so it could be worse. It’s not even technically illegal. It’s basically the perfect line between dating a college boy and dating a high school boy. So, old enough that I probably won’t clue Brian in on it, but nothing to worry about. Really, what I should be worried about is how we’re going to pull off this first date, which I’m only seventy-eight percent sure is actually the first date, but I can’t just pretend this is the second date when we don’t have a first date foundation. No, the stars may have aligned to get us this far, but if we’re going to keep hitting all the marks, I can’t just sit back and leave it up to chance. Drew wraps an arm around my waist and says, “You want a drink or something?” I can’t say I’m a big drinker. Actually, I can’t say I’ve been to a party that had alcohol before this summer. But I’m also aware that I’m at an event with a bunch of new college students, and it’s not like I’ve never seen a teen movie before. I know how this works—all of us stealing sips out of red Solo cups as we get lost in our youth as some poppy, feel-good music that’ll totally date us plays. I’m not gonna be the loser on our first date who ruins the mood by sitting in the corner fiddling his thumbs, and Drew’s probably hyperaware of our age gap now, so I need to make a statement, show him I’m mature and totally the type of guy who can fit in around his friends. “Sure.” Drew goes to grab the drinks, and I sit down with the rest of the group. They sound like they’re fighting over some video game or something, so I just kind of sit around the edge and pretend I’m actually interested. “You smoke, Noah?” I look over at the guy next to me. He’s the only member of the group who isn’t white, so I’m tempted to scoot a little closer to him. I eye the bong in his lap, reminding myself that weed’s totally legal here, and it probably wouldn’t matter even if it wasn’t. I need to be cool Noah. Suave Noah. Second-date-material Noah. “Uh, no, not really,” I say. Smooth. I consider taking a swing at it anyway. Maybe it’ll be one of those scenes where the nerdy kid goes, “Ah, what the hell!” then I take a long drag, and suddenly everyone’s cheering me on as I mattress surf right off the roof. Drew plops down next to me and passes me a plastic cup. I have no idea what’s in it, but I sip it anyway, fighting past the terrible taste. “Noah’s from Florida,” Drew says. One of the nameless guys turns to me and says, “Shit, that’s, like, gun country isn’t it?” “I’m from Miami,” I say. “I only know like three people who own a gun.” One of the girls leans toward me, her face flushed like she’d been drinking a bit too long. “Wow, you must go to the beach like every day. I wish I could be that tan.” I press my lips together because I honestly just don’t know how to respond. Drew laughs, and I can’t tell if he thinks she’s funny or just acknowledges what a ridiculous thing that was to say, and I wonder if I should say something about how uncomfortable the whole thing is. Then he says, “So, bonfire?” Freddie stretches and says, “Eh, might as well. Jeff, go get the matches.” A scrawny kid with dark hair rolls his eyes before hopping to his feet and scurrying into the house. I wouldn’t have guessed it from the front, but Freddie’s yard is massive, and the firepit sits somewhere near the middle. We all crowd around it—which probably isn’t the safest since I’m not sure how much everyone’s been drinking—and Jeff comes jogging back with a pack of matches. Drew wraps his arm around my waist again, pulling me to him. It’s almost completely dark now, tiny stars blinking to life above us. The crowd cheers as Freddie tosses the match, and the pit lights up. The heat startles me, and I jerk a step back, a smile already forming on my face at the solidness of Drew behind me. He leans into me and asks, “Wanna take a selfie?” I nod as he whips out his Galaxy and turns me around so the bonfire’s behind us. The flames amplify the shadows on our faces, but his camera still manages to filter the light just right. I smile as his finger hovers over the button, and just as he’s about to click it, his face turns, his lips catching mine. He pulls away; my cheeks are flushed red. He looks down at his phone to inspect the picture. “Not bad,” he says, holding it up for me to see. I mean, you can only see like a third of my face because of the angle of his head, but as far as cute-ass bonfire shots go, it’s definitely in the top ten. “Send that to me,” I say. “I wanna post it on the Diary.” He laughs, sticking his phone back in his pocket. “Fine, but no more Diary talk. You finished work for the night, so let’s have some fun.” I smile. “I’m surprisingly okay with that.” I don’t know how many drinks I have, but Sunday morning, I meet Drew at the bookstore as planned, except I literally feel like death. I had to rest my head against the cool window on the drive over just to keep from heaving all over Brian’s car, and now I’m standing with my head against the counter to stop the pounding. It really was a great night, though. I didn’t keep track of how many times Drew and I kissed, but it was definitely more than the number of drinks I had. It was a little weird being around his friends since they’re a bit older and overwhelmingly white, but after an hour or so, everyone started to blur together into this big, harmonious group. Or maybe I was just drunk. I don’t really know. “Noah?” “Mmmmm.” I jerk away as Drew’s hand creeps along my back. I hadn’t realized he was so close. “You okay?” he asks. I nod. “Just a headache.” He throws his head back and laughs, and the sound feels like a sledgehammer against the inside of my skull. I rest my head against his shoulder, the smell of his cologne striking me like a slap to the face, but it’s fine. It’s the good kind of pain. He runs a hand along my back. “So, maybe next time you should sit out the drinking portion of the night.” I giggle. While it started out as my attempt to keep up with Drew and his friends, it didn’t take long for me to realize that I was actually having a ton of fun. Still, it’s nice to hear him say that. Like maybe trying to keep up with him is ridiculous because he doesn’t care if I drink or smoke or sit in a corner fiddling my thumbs. “It was fun,” I say. “I think I just—well, I may have gone a little further than I should have.” “Is that your way of asking me to keep an eye on you moving forward?” he asks. I shrug. “I don’t mind having you to protect me.” “Did you see my post?” Drew asks, but I have to admit I haven’t. It’s not like I was particularly literate stumbling home and collapsing onto my bed last night. I pull out my phone to scroll through his blog. It’s basically all the same post on repeat since he reblogged it like thirty times replying to comments. It’s the picture of us in front of the bonfire with the comment “that moment when you make things official.” “Wait,” I say. “We’re official?” He smirks. “Well, official fake boyfriends. I hope you don’t mind me taking the creative liberty on the story. I just figured since people kept asking for more details, we should give them what they want, right? That’s the first post I’ve ever made that got more than ten notes, so I’d say I did pretty well.” That’s definitely an understatement since the post has almost a thousand notes now, and I haven’t even reblogged it from the official Diary account. I guess some fans with enough followers really gave the post traction, which can be a good thing as long as it doesn’t get too out of hand. “You should tell me first next time,” I say. “I mean, I want to be able to control the narrative we’re painting.” “Yeah, totally, I get it,” Drew says as he lays out a stack of bookmarks. “I guess I just got caught up in the moment, you know? It’s not every day I get to be a part of something this cool, and I had a ton of fun last night.” I smile, warmth filling me. I remind myself that this is good, not just for the Diary but for our long-term relationship. After all, Drew’s the one who made us fake-official, which might mean he’s willing to make us real-official, like maybe he’s just as into me as I am into him. “Drew!” Amy shouts, sending another wave of pain coursing through my head. “If you don’t get your ass back to work, I swear to God!” “Sorry, Aunt Amy,” Drew tosses back, scooting just far enough away from me that it looks like he actually has a task in mind. He drops his voice low and says, “She’s really been on my ass lately. She hasn’t been able to pull in any extra help, and I guess that’s my problem now.” I giggle, but the truth is I kind of regret coming to the shop. Not that I don’t love the idea of spending my Sunday with Drew, but my head is splitting open, and I kind of just want to crawl into bed for another thousand years. “Can you come by my apartment later?” I ask. Drew smiles. “Absolutely. Once my shift is over, I’m there.” “Then I should probably head home,” I say, already reaching for my phone to call a ride. Considering I’m only paying for a one-way trip, my parents definitely can’t call this an abuse of credit card privileges. I just have to make sure to leave out the too-hungover-to-function part when I explain the trip. “Before you go,” Drew says, sliding back over to me and wrapping an arm around my waist. “You know, for the Diary.” And then his lips are against mine, my body melting against his side and my head spinning, but this time in the good way. Step 5: The Trip (aka The Fall Part 1) It’s the moment the breath slips out of you for the first time and you realize that this person is important to you. Sunday, June 3 DebunkingMCD posted: You guys can’t be serious? This twelve-year-old gets a boyfriend, and suddenly facts don’t matter to you? Literally none of this makes sense. I’ll post more links later. Alwaysforever replied: You’re such a killjoy. Grow up! D.ashing replied: I don’t know. Just because it’s unlikely doesn’t mean it’s not true, right? Dontdrinkthebeanwater replied: OMG, now you’re just being annoying. The Diary’s real. Get OVER it. Load more comments . . . Brian’s really branched out since this whole learning-to-cook thing took off, and I wake up from a sloppy midday nap to the smell of curry drifting over me. Curry actually sounds like a great idea since I haven’t eaten all day and only stumble out of the closet just after four, and really, I don’t even have to worry about him adding too many spices or anything since he’s only learning how to cook to live up to Maggie’s expectations. As I step into the living room—hobbling a bit cause I’m still kind of out of it—Brian raises an eyebrow. I take a seat on one of the bar stools, and Brian says, “I thought you were supposed to be out looking for a job.” I groan, resting my head on the counter. Through the hangover haze, I’d mostly forgotten about that. “I didn’t get very far.” He shakes his head a little as he turns the stove off. “Do I want to know why?” I shrug. “Probably not. Honestly, I’m not really sure how I’m supposed to find a job anyway.” “Is this your way of asking me to get you that job at the summer camp?” I actually hadn’t really thought about Brian’s offer since he first mentioned it, but now that he’s bringing it up again, it sounds like a pretty good idea. I mean, I’ll have my weekends free, and I won’t have to worry about transportation since Brian can drive me. “Can you?” I ask. He gives me one of those I knew it would come to this looks and says, “Yeah, probably. It would’ve been easier if you’d said something sooner, since we’re already halfway through orientation, but I can try.” I’m kind of impressed he made it that easy considering I turned him down a week ago. Then he turns to me, a wooden spoon pointed in my direction. “But anything you fuck up reflects on me, so you better be flawless, got it?” That’s the response I’d been expecting. “I will,” I say. “Clean slate. Fresh start. I got you.” Brian rolls his eyes, getting back to dinner. “I invited Drew over later,” I say. “Is that your date from the other night?” I nod. I acknowledge that Brian’s only really getting half the story since he doesn’t know about Drew and me being not entirely real, but it’s not important. We’ll fall into place, and after the bonfire, I find it hard to believe he hasn’t started developing feelings for me yet. After all, we’ve been toying around the Trip for some time now, so it’s only a matter of time before we hit that out of the park too. “Look, I don’t want to be the bad guy here—” he starts. “Never stopped you before . . .” “—but were you drinking the other night? With that guy?” Brian says. I shrug. “Does it matter?” “You’re a teenager, you’re gonna do what you’re gonna do, but this isn’t like you. I mean, you’re a nerd, not a partier.” I roll my eyes. That’s so something Brian would say, but really, he’s the last person who should be judging me considering he’s been going to parties since he was like thirteen. “Sounds like the pot calling the kernel black.” “First of all,” Brian says, “it’s kettle. Second of all, I’m not judging you, okay? I just think it’s kind of concerning that you start hanging out with some guy you just met and suddenly he’s got you doing things you would never do on your own.” But that’s the whole point! Drew’s getting me to branch out, to try things I’ve always been scared of doing before. That’s a good thing. “I’ll be fine,” I say. “Okay, I trust you,” he says, but he has that same but you better not let me down tone our mom always uses. “Anyway, how’s the curry?” I shrug. “Not bad,” I say, and he smiles because he knows that’s about the highest praise I’ll ever give him. “Where’d you get the recipe?” I ask. “From Mom.” I freeze, the spoon halfway to my mouth. It was bad enough when he was throwing around all these Food Network recipes to please Maggie, but our mom’s recipe? Food is sacred in our family. She might as well have passed down the family engagement ring! “I’ll clear out of the living room when your boyfriend gets here,” he says, grabbing his own bowl. “I don’t want to think about what y’all are up to.” “We’re not like that,” I say. Well, not yet anyway. “Yeah, okay,” Brian says. “I totally believe that.” But the truth is, I’m trying to take things slow. Or, well, slower than my body probably wants. The problem with building the perfect relationship is that the foundation has to be set before all the fun stuff can happen, and everyone knows what happens when you don’t let concrete dry properly before diving in. I have to carefully navigate us through the Trip if we’re going to stand a chance in the long run, and that means not rushing into anything too serious until we’ve both taken the plunge. Well, that, and I’m not even sure I’m ready to be physical with a boy at all. I’ve only ever dated one person, and it was before I knew I was a boy, and it was super awkward, and I hated every second of it. And I know so many people who’ve already had several relationships, fallen in love, had sex—but I also know a good number who haven’t. I just hate feeling like there’s some timeline trying to tell me when I have to get to each new step. It feels like everyone’s taking the elevator up to some secret penthouse party, and I’m not even allowed to take a peek. And if everyone goes up before I do, will they lock the doors? “Whatever you two do,” Brian says, “just be careful, okay?” “Dad already gave me the protection talk,” I say. Brian laughs, stepping over to me and ruffling my hair while I swat him away. “I just meant, you know, tread carefully. I don’t want to be stuck picking up the pieces if this guy breaks your heart.” And I know that’s Brian’s way of saying he would do exactly that should Drew not end up being the perfect guy I’m pretty certain he is, and maybe I should thank him, but my mind is already trying to piece together the perfect look for tonight. And then a thought occurs to me, one I will likely regret later even though I know I have no other choice. “Hey, Brian,” I say, “you wanna help me with my hair?” By the time Drew starts knocking on the front door, I’m clad in a pair of skinny jeans and a button-down. Usually I’d top it with a vest or something else to make it especially suave, but I don’t want to look like I tried too hard. After all, Drew’s visiting me at home, which means I need to have just enough of a casual look going on that he thinks he caught me off guard, like I wasn’t waiting too eagerly for him. “Oh, Drew,” I say once I’ve opened the door and motioned him inside. “I hadn’t expected you so early.” He laughs, wrapping an arm around my waist. “I thought about going home to change after work, but I didn’t want to waste any time.” I smile. “You know, you don’t have to work so hard to keep up appearances while we’re alone.” That’s a ploy, of course. This gives him the opening to say, I know, but every time I think of you, my heart races so fast I can’t possibly imagine letting you go. “Your brother’s home, isn’t he?” Drew says. “Don’t want to slip up.” Eh, not the response I was going for, but this is probably better. I don’t want us to become too clich? or predictable. I drag him over to the couch and sit him down. I’ve already got my phone mirrored through the TV, and once his ass hits the cushions, I press play on the romantic little playlist I churned out for us. Really, it’s hard to find the perfect romantic songs with everyone singing about unrequited love, bad breakups, and sex. I spent a solid hour sifting through people’s “coffee shop” playlists until I found enough sickly sweet slow tunes to last us a few hours. I’m open to the idea of staring into his eyes for eternity, but I know that might be weird since we aren’t really a couple. “Are you hungry?” I say. “My brother cooks. Or I could get you a drink or—” “No,” he says, grabbing my hand and guiding me down to the couch. “Don’t worry about it. I just want to spend time with you.” The words catch me off guard. God, they sound like something I’d write in the Diary, words so perfect you can’t help but swoon. “Well, you’ve got me,” I say. “Noah, I—” But his voice cuts off like those are the only two words he knows. I can feel him leaning into me, and I’m leaning back, waiting for him to tell me that he’s waited for someone like me his whole life, and there’s nothing he wants more than to make us permanent. And then he’s kissing me, his lips exploring mine like . . . like . . . eh, forget it. I don’t have time to think up fancy analogies. I’m swimming in his kiss, and everything disappears. I don’t know how this plays into our fake dating scenario. Is it training for more public kissing, just getting us into the zone? Or is it just in case Brian steps out of his room? But really, it doesn’t matter, because sitting there on that couch, the Diary starts to slip away. I don’t know if he feels it too, but there’s a real hunger behind my kisses, real electricity stringing around us and tying us together, whatever titles we throw over the whole thing. This one isn’t for the Diary. This one’s for me. Hello? Rebecca?? I need to tell you about my date! CALL ME! Delivered The next morning, Brian wakes me up early and takes me to work with him even though I haven’t actually gotten hired yet. “It’ll be easier for you to catch up if you’re already there. Plus, once they meet you, I’m sure they’ll be more inclined to hire you.” “Because I’m too beautiful to resist?” I say. He groans. “Maybe just let me do the talking, okay?” The “camp” isn’t really what I was expecting. No fancy log cabin with a draping Welcome to Camp sign hanging over the front door. No husky lumberjack cutting wood out front in flannel. No kids wearing corny moose caps as they run toward the nonexistent lake, waiting to jump off the barely stable pier into murky green water. Actually, it’s not even so much as an actual campground. It’s just a big, blocky community center at the base of the mountains, broken up into three equally boring white buildings and more parking lot than actual greenery around. “All the really outdoorsy activities are held off-site, and everyone just takes a bus,” he says. “Ugh, that’s disappointing. I thought I’d at least get pictures of myself kayaking down a waterfall for my blog.” “You realize you’re not here to have fun, right?” “Hm?” We enter the little office area, where a couple of older people are standing around. And I mean older—latter fifties, maybe? Where are all the hot guys in their early twenties and Speedos? No one really looks up as we step inside, and I cringe at the thought that they might actually be busy. I mean, this is a summer camp, right? All you have to do is let the kids run around and make sure they don’t drown or something. Sounds easy enough. “Hey, Georgette,” Brian says to the woman shuffling pamphlets behind a long wooden table. She’s got this horrendous green eye shadow on that washes her out, but there’s also cute little kitties on the collar of her shirt, so I guess they cancel out. “This is my brother, Noah. He’s looking to get a job for the summer if there’s any room.” Brian’s voice is all sweet, one of those voices that I’m sure grandmas love. I’m half expecting Georgette to race around the table and pinch his cheeks. “How old is he?” she asks, not even looking up from her work. “Sixteen.” She looks up at that and seems to catch sight of me, her eyes narrowing slightly. “We don’t typically hire teenagers.” “He wouldn’t be the first, though, right?” Brian says. “Noah’s a really hard worker, and he’ll apply himself fully.” She glances between the two of us slowly, meticulously, like she’s a cat choosing which of us to claw up first. Finally, she says, “You’re actually in luck. One of our volunteer junior counselors dropped out yesterday, which means our only chance to replace them is gonna be with a paid hire. You good with four- to seven-year-olds?” I’m surprised she hadn’t already called me a kid, but I just say, “Yeah, I love kids!” I’m sure Brian can see through my lies pretty easily, but he just smiles at Georgette. She glances from Brian to me again before saying, “I don’t have time to give you an interview, but we can start you up and let your supervisor decide if you’re a fit. That’ll save us some time anyway. You’ll get a weekly stipend if you stay.” I wanna say A weekly stipend? That’s it? Instead, I just smile and say, “Thanks!” Georgette passes me a pamphlet with the words Bicormac Springs Summer Camp across the front, then turns to Brian and says, “Can you take him to the rec center?” “Yup,” Brian says, quickly steering me through the door as the smile falls from my face. “What was all that?” I ask. Brian laughs. “Georgette’s not the friendliest, but she’s got a pretty good heart as far as I can tell. I wanted to streamline this so I can actually get to work.” “I thought this was just orientation,” I say. He shrugs. “Yeah, it is, but I’m doing CPR training. You know, because I’m old enough to be trusted with something other than babysitting a bunch of six-year-olds.” I roll my eyes. “Joy.” The rec center is probably the biggest space here. It’s the worst kept from the outside—the white paint peeling and the grass surrounding it looking pretty brown—but on the inside it looks kinda like a high school gym, from the bleachers to the semi-padded walls. The floor feels like a basketball court but the lines aren’t marked. There’s some space against the far wall lined with tables, and there’s like four people bustling around carrying stuff in from a ramp near the bleachers. “Okay,” Brian says, patting me on the shoulder. “Best of luck, bro. See you after work.” He slips out of the rec center, and I stand there awkwardly for a moment as I consider where to go. There aren’t a whole lot of people in the room period, let alone a whole welcome group of kids my age waiting to introduce me to my assignment. Actually, between the people filtering in and out of the center and the couple of people standing around cleaning or whatever, the only person who looks to be close to my age is some kid sitting off at one of the far tables paging through a stack of papers. It’s kind of a long walk, but I suck it up and head in his direction. Here’s hoping he can tell me what I’m in for, or, at the very least, here’s hoping those papers are a welcome guide plus a map. As I get closer to the table, I realize the guy looks kinda grumpy and unfriendly, which is rather unfortunate since he’s actually really pretty—high cheekbones, a light layer of freckles, really expressive lips. I step up to the table and say, “Hi,” throwing in a wave for added effect. “Um, I was wondering if you know where I’m supposed to go. I’m new, and—” And then he opens his mouth, but it’s not words that come out. It’s vomit. All over me. I scream, which is really the only rational reaction, and as the wetness slowly drips down my leg, I expect people to rush over and try to save me, but no one bats an eye. The kid finally seems to acknowledge that I’m wearing his breakfast, and he says, “Oh my God.” “You’re saying oh my God, but you’re not the one covered in someone else’s bile!” I shriek. “I’m so sorry,” he says, but I’m already backing up to make sure he doesn’t have another serving waiting. He grabs a walkie-talkie off the table and speaks into it, saying, “Bev, can you bring some towels and, um, soap?” “Soap?” I say. “How is that gonna help?” “I—I don’t know,” he says. He tells me to wait there while he gets someone to clean up the scene, but I’m pretty sure he’s just trying to escape the death glare I’m throwing him. So I stand there like the world’s most disgusting art exhibit, trying not think about it, for another five minutes before a woman—I’m assuming Bev—shows up with some towels and drags me out back to hose me off. And now, on top of ruining one of the best additions to my new wardrobe, I’m shivering out in the Colorado cold smelling like soggy fabric and I don’t even know what else. “Jeez,” Bev says, her voice a little nasally. “Rough start to the morning, huh?” And she chuckles, but I’m seething. I mean, besides the fact that this whole thing is so gross I’m worried breathing will make me nauseous, it’s absolutely humiliating. It’s my first day at a new job, and I’m already gonna be the butt of the jokes because Freckles couldn’t hold his lunch. I mean, hell, he should be the one out here turning into a fucking Popsicle, not me. And really, watching Bev have the time of her life as she reflects on how fortunate she is to not be me is really getting under my skin. Finally, I say, “Yeah, rough morning, but probably not as bad as that guy’s. They really let him come to work like that?” Bev shakes her head slowly. “Devin’ll have to go home for the day.” Oh, is that his name? Gross. I’m sure he comes from some wealthy white family, and he’s only here to kill time over the summer. And the more I think about that, the more inexplicably angry it makes me. I mean, come on. I didn’t even want to be here in the first place, and I only got the job because Brian pulled some strings. “Anyway, you should go back inside. We might have some spare pants in storage if you want to change out of yours.” “Thank you,” I say, because it’s the polite thing to say, but let’s be real here. My pants are suede, and she doesn’t have anything worth replacing them with. I get back to the rec center to find there’s more people than there were earlier. It’s kind of a relief to know that at least a sizable portion of the staff didn’t see my humiliation. I can only hope I can cover it up. Then I can work on getting paid so I can get back to my summer. Inbox (537) Redgreenmachine asked: Hey, Noah! Love the blog. Have you considered posting relationship advice? Unpinupgod asked: I know you’re probably busy with the new boyfriend, but when can we expect new posts? Weekly? Anonymous asked: Idk if you saw my ask last week, but I was wondering if you’ll be posting more pics soon? The day takes forever to end, before I finally get to climb back into Brian’s car and pretend I didn’t just waste an entire day there. When I went back into the rec center, it was to find that Devin had already left. Shocking. Anyway, I went through “training,” which mostly just meant talking about the things I should and shouldn’t do with unruly kids, dealing with safety regulations or whatever, and going over the basics of what the camp offered, ninety percent of which I would be nowhere near because I wasn’t a legal adult with any special skills. And, of course, as if the camp stuff couldn’t get shittier, there’s absolutely no cell reception, so I don’t get a chance to look through Diary posts until I’m heading back to the car. People are really eating up my relationship with Drew, actually even more so than they did with the meet cutes. Engagements are sky-high, and people keep asking for more posts, so it’s only fair I deliver. Anything to show the troll that their attempt to bring me down really just raised me higher. Then I see what’s been causing the onslaught of positive messages—Drew tagged me in another post, this one a detailed recap of our date last night plus a picture of me grabbing drinks from the kitchen that I hadn’t even realized he took. The post is cute, and it’s driving a lot of Diary engagement, but it still hits me like a slap in the face. Well, a slap in the fantasies, I guess, since last night had been almost cute enough for me to believe our relationship wasn’t just a show for a bunch of internet fans. Brian greets me with a “Back on your phone already?” comment because he was obviously raised by cavemen and doesn’t understand that just because something is digital doesn’t make it less important than something in real life. I just grunt in response as I lay my phone faceup in my lap and buckle my seat belt. “Your pants okay?” I groan before finally looking up to meet his snide expression. “You heard?” He laughs. “Pretty sure everyone did. That story spread like wildfire.” I force down the heat rising in my cheeks and turn to stare out the window. Yeah, summer camp was a bad idea. I should’ve just applied to an Old Navy or something. “It’s not a big deal,” Brian says as he pulls out of the parking lot. “I mean, it made for a good laugh, but you’re not the first person to get puked on and you won’t be the last. Though you might be the first person to get puked on by another member of the staff.” I roll my eyes. “Anyway, try not to get too worked up over it,” Brian says. “I mean, it’s a summer camp. Everyone’s getting some nasty shit on them.” “That really doesn’t make me want to go back,” I say. Brian shrugs. “Then don’t, but you’re going to have to figure out another job or Mom’s gonna be pissed.” And obviously I know that, but hearing him say it just sinks my mood even lower. Becca better answer tonight because I’ve got a lot to say. Becca? Hello? It’s me, still waiting for a response! Becca, come on, this is getting ridiculous. I’M GONNA BLOCK YOU IF YOU DON’T ANSWER BINCH! Delivered As a matter of fact, Becca doesn’t answer, so I end up calling Drew instead. He puts me on speaker because he’s fixing his little brother’s bike or something, which means I have to keep my language PG in case anyone walks in, but wow, I go off. And afterward, he says something along the lines of, “Are you really that mad?” So I go off again. “Okay, okay,” he says, “breathe. At least you have a job, right?” Maybe, and maybe I’m not really mad at him even if he did post without my permission again, and really, I’m just upset because things have been all kinds of all over the place lately—getting puked on, the massive upsurge in Diary demands since the troll showed up, getting half ghosted by Becca. And yeah, it’s the last part that stings the worst. “Noah?” “Sorry,” I say. “I’m just a little distracted.” “Something to do with the Diary?” he asks. “No,” I say, “and to be honest, I don’t think it’s something you can really help with.” We sit in silence for a little while, and for a moment, I wonder if he hung up. Then he says, “I’m sorry.” And it’s late, and I have to get up early tomorrow morning to go to work at a job I’m not sure I want, but suddenly I just really want to see him. “How long is it going to take you to finish that bike?” I ask. “I just finished, why?” “Do you want to go stargazing or something? Preferably something super romantic? Um, you know, for the Diary.” He chuckles and says, “I’ll be over in twenty.” One thing that’s nice about fake dating an older, cis guy is that we can walk around at night without being worried about someone jumping us. After all, Drew’s close to six feet tall, and while he’s no football player, I don’t doubt he could get a pretty nasty punch in if he tried. It’s cold as hell, and I don’t realize it until we’re already a few blocks from the apartment. Like a true romance hero, he takes off his jacket and slings it around my shoulders, and I snuggle into the overwhelming smell of his cologne until it makes me dizzy. “So, where are we going?” I ask. He shrugs. “No clue. I just figured we could walk until we find something cool.” But everything’s pretty much closed, so we’re really just enjoying the night. I don’t mind. It’s not like Florida, where mosquitoes swarm every inch of your body if you dare venture out after seven. The air feels cool and dry against my skin, though my breath gets harder and harder to catch with every step. “You don’t do a lot of hiking, do you?” he asks. I laugh, shaking my head. “I’m from Florida. The closest we have to a mountain down there is a garbage dump.” Drew winces. “Gross. You gotta get out more. I’m sure you can find an awesome hiking trail in Cali.” But I don’t want to think about Cali, or the summer ending and us going our separate ways. I just want to think about the stars as they stare down at us like we’re the only two people in the world, the warmth of his jacket tickling my skin. “Drew?” I say. He turns to look at me, and I just want to kiss him. So I do. His fingers snake underneath his jacket as they try to find my skin. They’re cold as they slip under my shirt and up my chest. His kisses are hungry, like he’s trying to get control over my body, and a part of me wants to let him. It says that I’m young and it’s the summer, and I should just surrender myself to every desire that’s ever run through my brain. But another part of me just feels like something’s wrong. I pull away from him, my breath ragged from the walk and the kissing. “I’m sorry,” I say, but I’m not sure why. I mean, he kissed me back, so he must not have hated it, but there’s no one around to perform for, and I’m not sure what it means about us or me or anything anymore. “What’s wrong?” he asks. And I don’t know. Maybe I called the steps to the perfect relationship too well, and I’m getting lost in the Hesitation that’ll build us up to the perfect peak, but God, I wish we could just move past that already. Drew’s looking at me like he misses my body against his, and I want to give him that. But I also want to go home. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m just getting kind of tired.” He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “Yeah, it is pretty late, huh? You wanna head back?” I nod, relieved that he doesn’t push me for anything else. He just slips his hand into mine, and we trace the street again, creeping our way back to the apartment. Finally, when we’re downstairs, I start pulling his jacket off to hand back to him, but he says, “It’s fine. I’ll get it next time.” I want to object because something about the weight of it feels too heavy on my shoulders, but I don’t. I know I already ruined his night. The last thing I want to do is insult him. He bids me good night, and I race upstairs, shielding my face from the cold and the humiliation washing over me. Inbox (783) Anonymous asked: Hi, Noah! Are your posts getting deleted? I haven’t seen any in a while. Msjaygatsby asked: I’m sure your inbox is full, but did you get my last ask? I don’t want to hound you if you did. Pinkpurpleblue asked: When do we get relationship updates? TBH I love those more than the meet cutes! The next morning, Brian doesn’t ask why I was out so late, but I know he heard me come home. Part of me’s relieved that he’s giving me my space, but the other part wishes he’d act more like our parents—lecturing me about being responsible and staying safe and making me feel like all these decisions aren’t hanging on my shoulders alone, even if I did kind of give him shit for it the other day. I’m exhausted since I didn’t go to sleep until almost two and Brian woke me up at six thirty. It’s pretty ridiculous that they make us come in this early since the camp hasn’t even actually started yet, but I guess Brian’s orientation involves actual work that takes actual time instead of sitting around listening to a bunch of old people talk about their grandkids. The bright lights of the rec center give me a headache, and I struggle to keep my eyes open as I plop myself down onto the bleachers. The mistake I made yesterday was thinking I needed to seek out some responsibilities. I’m all but useless around here, so if anyone needs me, they’ll find me. And even though I embarrassed myself last night, I really wish Drew were here. No, I wish I were back at the bookstore. Drew could brew me coffee, and we could talk about the Diary, and things would fall into place. “Good morning.” I look up and cringe. Devin’s standing over me, a square cup carrier in his hands with two Starbucks cups in it. “What?” I snap. “I—I’m really sorry about yesterday,” he says. “I brought you a peace offering.” His hands are shaking so badly, I’m pretty sure he’s going to dump the hot coffee out on me. Two for two, I guess. I stand up and steady the carrier before it can slip out of his hands. “Are they both for me?” I ask. His eyes widen. “Do you want both?” I shrug, but just settle on taking one of the cups. If he drops the other one, it’s his own problem. “What is it?” I ask as I bring the lid to my lips. “Vanilla latte.” I freeze, considering chucking the cursed drink across the room but also realizing this is my only chance at coffee for the day. “How did you know vanilla lattes are my favorite drink?” Devin blinks, removing his own cup from the carrier and setting the ugly cardboard on the bleachers. “I didn’t,” he says. “I just figured they’re a classic.” Accepting he hasn’t secretly been stalking my life since before I met him, I take a sip, and God, I missed Starbucks coffee. So sweet and pure. I’m hoping Devin’ll take that as his cue to leave, but instead, he sits down, graciously about a foot and a half away from me. He starts picking at the lid of his cup, then says, “I really am sorry about yesterday. I didn’t think that would happen.” I roll my eyes. “Yeah, neither did I. Ever the optimist.” He looks up at that and smiles, but I don’t know what the hell he’s smiling at. “I was hoping we could start over. You know, because we’ll be working together for the summer.” It does feel a little hypocritical to tell him to go fuck himself while I’m drinking the coffee he brought me, but I’m also not sure how else to make it clear that I didn’t come here to make friends. Finally, I sigh, setting my coffee down and holding out a hand to him, saying, “Noah.” He takes it and smiles. “Devin.” “So I’ve heard.” “You’re Brian’s brother, right?” he says. I pause, an eyebrow raised. “Did he tell you about me?” Devin shakes his head. “I just overheard some people in the office talking about it.” We fall into silence, the only backdrop the sound of sneakers squeaking across the recently waxed floor. Maybe I should go find something to do. I feel kind of bad sitting around when I’m getting paid, but really, I just don’t want to sit with Devin anymore. I stand up and turn back to him with a forced smile. “Well, I’d better be off.” He looks up at me, eyebrows scrunched. “Where are you going?” “You know, gotta get to work. Get those assignments or whatever.” Devin blinks once and says, “I didn’t realize you’d be so eager.” “Gotta carry my weight,” I say, just about to turn around and flee. Then Devin says, “Okay, if you say so. We’re cleaning out the rehearsal room.” I freeze. Did he just say “we?” “Um, what?” “I mean, it’s been used all year to prep for shows, but that’s where the younger kids will be—” “You’re sure that’s my assignment?” I say, hoping he’ll say something like Oh, no, I was just babbling ’cause I’m a fool! Go find your real assignment. Instead, he shrugs and says, “I mean, I’m your supervisor, so—” “You’re my what? You’re like twelve.” He laughs, standing up. And yeah, he’s taller than me, which I didn’t realize before. “I’m actually seventeen,” he says, “but I’m part of the student board that hosts the camp. You ready?” Of course I’m fucking not, but I nod anyway because now I know my paycheck lies in the palm of his hand. Becca, I’m seething, and it’s not even directed at you. Text me back, please. I need to RANT. Not Delivered Devin puts on some indie rock music as we sweep out the rehearsal hall. It’s a pretty small room, and it’s obviously made for dancers since there are ballet barres and boxes upon boxes of costumes. “It doesn’t really matter how we package everything up because they’re going to go through it all again later. Just tape up the boxes and we’ll move them out of the room.” I nod, reaching for the packaging tape and stuffing as many stray costume elements as possible into each box. It’s pretty menial work, so at least I don’t have to put in a whole lot of effort. It sucks being stuck in here when I’d rather be answering Diary messages. My inbox has never gotten so many messages a day, and frankly, I’m falling behind on answering them. It’s like everyone wants a special peek into my relationship, and while I acknowledge that this is the price of stardom, I’m really running out of energy to keep up. I maintain a steady internal chant of Please don’t talk to me. Please don’t talk to me. Devin sits down a few feet over and starts packing up boxes, and our work is pleasantly silent. Then he says, “You’re only in Denver for the summer, right?” I just nod, keeping my face turned downward. “Have you had a chance to look around the city? There’s some cool stuff downtown and—” “I have a boyfriend,” I say, and it crash-lands into the middle of the room like a goddamn UFO. Devin blinks once and says, “Congratulations?” I shake my head, looking down before my cheeks can flush. “I just meant, he’s showing me around town. We’re making rounds.” “Oh, that’s good.” We fall into silence again, and I’m kind of relieved that I misread his small talk and he’s not actually trying to flirt with me. At least that’s one less thing to worry about. I’m half waiting for the rest of our team to show up and free me from captivity, but it looks like the crew is just Devin and me, which is basically everything I don’t want for the summer. He keeps making idle chitchat, and I do what I can to make it as obvious as possible that I don’t want to talk since I’m tired and stressed and not really a big fan of “work” in general, but the guy can’t take a damn hint. And really, I don’t want to snap at him and tell him to fuck off since I know one bad word from him will mean jobless Noah all over again, but between all the pressure from the Diary and not being able to reach Becca and the fact that my phone hasn’t picked up a single signal since I got in, it’s getting harder and harder to avoid. My only hope at this point is that I can stick around long enough for Georgette to give me a second chance when I finally do lose my shit and get a bad report. Until then, I just have to keep my head low. Or, well, in this case, nod enough to make it seem like I’m actually listening to a word he says. Then I can distract myself with thoughts of Drew or the Diary and just pray for the day to be over. Step 6: The Hesitation The moment you realize things are escalating and think, “This is too much,” only to strengthen the bond down the road. Inbox (937) Anonymous asked: Dear Noah, I love hearing about your relationship! I started following the Diary a year ago because it was amazing hearing about all these trans people finding love, but this honestly means so much more to me. It’s cool that trans people can find meet cutes, but long-lasting relationships like yours? It’s amazing! You’re a real icon, and I look up to you so much. Thank you for cultivating such a great relationship and letting us follow you through it. It means the world to so many of us. I don’t see Drew for the rest of the week. He tells me he has a lot of stuff to do at the shop, and then he’s supposed to be taking his brother to a concert or something, and there’s all this important stuff going on, but a part of me feels like he’s just avoiding me. I mean, how ridiculous was I the other night? And now he wants nothing to do with me because I turned him away. And frankly, after how eager he’s been to get involved with all the Diary stuff, it’s got me kind of freaked out. I was such a horrible date that he’s running scared, even more so than is natural for the Hesitation, and I don’t know what to do if he never wants to talk to me again. Friday’s the last day of orientation before the summer camp actually opens on Monday, so everyone’s bustling around and freaking out because there are so many things to get done. Devin and I basically finished setting everything up for the kids by Wednesday, so Friday morning, he brings in doughnuts and we just sit around doing nothing. I spend the day scrolling through the Diary fan messages I screenshotted that morning since I knew I’d be without service. They’re sweet and gushing, and it’s like the Diary took on a whole new life once everyone found out I was one of the meet cute stories—like I’d become not only some moderator, but a fairy godfather out to bestow love among all young trans people on the internet. It’s weird, but nice, and people treat me like I’m some sort of god. And my stomach twists, because if Drew breaks up with me, it’s not just me on the line. It’s the Meet Cute Diary too. I remind myself that I’m just stuck in the Hesitation phase longer than I should be. After this comes the Tether, the unbreakable bond formed between us that’ll make our relationship stronger than ever. I just have to stop getting distracted and focus on keeping us on track. So when Drew texts me after work on Friday asking if I want to do something cool for the Diary on Saturday morning, I ignore the voice in the back of my head saying but we were going to sleep in! and tell him I’m down for anything. He says he’ll be by at eight to get me, and I spend the next hour and a half picking out an outfit. This is the point where Becca would usually step in, but I haven’t really heard from her either, so I’m on my own. Saturday morning, Drew takes me to Red Rocks, which I’ve heard about in theory but never seen in real life. It’s this outrageous amphitheater carved out of the mountainous landscape, and supposedly the concerts there are the coolest thing ever because of the natural reverb. There’s no concert going on, but people seem to have gotten up early to start their exercise routines. People jog, some do yoga, and a couple of random tourists stand around taking pictures. “This is beautiful,” I say, because it is, and I’m trying to get lost in it. It’s definitely a top ten make-all-my-friends-jealous-of-my-move-across-the-country photo location, but more importantly, I’m here with Drew. There’s a little bit of tension in the air between us, but I’m not sure how to get rid of it. It’s been a little while since we’ve seen each other, and I still don’t know why he was avoiding me, and then there’s this lingering thought hanging over my head after reading those Diary messages. If people really care more about my relationship with Drew than the meet cutes, the Diary won’t stand a chance if he ends our fake relationship. I take a step closer to him, but my hands are shaking and I accidentally bump into him. I jerk away, opting to cross my arms instead, but Drew doesn’t seem to notice. “Yeah, I thought we could start with yoga and then move on to weight sets.” I cringe but try to cover it up. I’m grateful he wanted to go out today at all, and the last thing I want to do is offend him by insulting his date plans. “Um, I’m not really into physical activity—” He laughs, draping an arm around my shoulders. “I’m kidding. I figured we could do a little photo shoot for the Diary.” My eyes widen at that, my heart speeding up, the tension shattering around us. I’ve never done a photo shoot, and honestly, there are barely any pictures of me anywhere because I’ve always been the only friend in the group who knows how to so much as hold a camera. But this place really is gorgeous, and the sun’s at just the right height, and I love the idea of doing some couple shots. And Drew’s flashing me a smile like maybe he completely forgot our relationship is fake and maybe he actually has feelings for me, and all the awkwardness from before was just in my head. Drew gives me a quick kiss on the cheek and starts motioning me toward the stage. “Let’s start here.” “Did you bring a camera?” I ask. He chuckles. “We’ll just use my phone.” So we spend the next hour working out poses and taking pictures. He stops a random tourist and asks them to get a few shots of us together, and then we switch, me trying to figure out how to navigate a not-iPhone as he flexes and makes goofy faces at the camera. Once we’re done, I start scrolling through the pictures to find my favorites. The couple shots are really cute, and I send all of them to myself so I can use them for the Diary. My personal shots are a bit less impressive. The light’s off and my nose looks kind of big in most of them, like Drew didn’t actually look before shooting the shots, but at least the red rocks are mostly visible. I really can’t expect him to be good at everything. It’s actually kind of endearing that my photos suck, like he was so caught up in the moment of being with me he couldn’t focus on getting the shots right. “Okay, are you ready for part two?” I look up at Drew, who’s smiling at me. “Part two?” “Hell yeah,” he says. “I’d never get you up this early if I only had one thing planned.” I pass his phone back to him, and he calls us a ride. I don’t actually know where we’re going until we step out of the car and Drew says, “As someone new to the city, you really have to take in the view.” “The view?” “Yup. You’ll see what I mean once we get to the top. It’s a whole experience.” I look up at the road that seems to be snaking its way up the mountain. “Are we driving?” Drew laughs, taking my hand and leading me toward a hiking trail. Oh hell no. “You really have to walk it if you want the full experience.” “But I’m in skinny jeans.” He laughs again. “You’ll be fine, Noah. Do it for the Diary. Don’t you think our fans will want to see pictures of us against the city skyline?” And I sigh because as much as I hate walking or anything else that can be considered “exercise,” and even though I’ve told him that I’m not much for outdoor activities, it could be a cute shot for the Diary, and I really can’t complain when he’s putting so much effort into keeping it afloat. But I think he overestimates me because maybe a half mile in, I already feel like my legs are being burned off. He starts talking about how it’s such a nice day out, and like, sure, you know, if you’re having a picnic or going to the beach. This is a whole new level of torture. I’m not sure how long it takes for us to get to the top, but literally everyone passes us—the white couple with a baby in one of those chest carriers, the group of teenagers lugging massive book bags, the young kid with his hundred-year-old grandmother. “I’m gonna have to get you out more often,” Drew says when we reach the top, and I’m half a breath from keeling over and becoming one with the cement. I just smile and nod through my battle against my lungs as they struggle to get the fuck away from me. “Next time, might I suggest a hot spring?” Drew laughs, but he’s already steering me toward the edge before I can catch my breath. I understand why he wanted to come here, though. The view really is spectacular—all of Denver, the mountains, it’s the real deal. But holy shit, there’re black spots in my vision, and I gasp, “Do you have water?” He shakes his head. “We can get some after we go back down.” Back down? “Let’s get a picture,” he says, pulling out his phone. “We can just do a selfie if you want.” I nod, but what I want is a gallon of water and my bed. And maybe a massage because my legs are going to be in pain for the next month. He drapes his arms around me and puts on the selfie cam, and I wince. I look like I’ve just gotten spat out of a tornado. He smiles. “Say cheese!” “More like please, as in, please don’t take a picture of me looking like a mixed bride of Frankenstein.” Drew laughs again and snaps the picture. He slips his phone back into his pocket and says, “I think you look cute.” I roll my eyes. “No, you don’t. Literally no one thinks I look cute right now.” He smiles. “Relax, Noah. Not everything has to go on the Diary. It’s just to remember this day, you know?” And I sigh because I kind of want to collapse from exhaustion, but a part of me feels like I should be grateful. Fake date or no, he planned out this whole day for us, and here I am complaining because leg day is literally never and I didn’t think to ask what to wear before I left the apartment this morning. But if he wants to remember this day even beyond posting for the Diary’s followers, that means he genuinely enjoys spending time with me, right? That it’s not all just staged? And maybe he’s right. I don’t have to post everything on the Diary even if that is the reason I put myself through this torture. What matters is that we’re building up our relationship according to the steps, and that’ll be important in the long run. “Do you want to head back, or do you wanna take in the view some more?” he asks. “Let’s look some more.” There’s no way in hell I’ll survive the return trip if I don’t get a chance to catch my breath. I lean against him as we look out over the city skyline. He keeps his arm around me, and I’m grateful for it, both because it’s cute and because I’m pretty sure I’ll topple over without the support. Finally, I tell him I’m good, and we head back down the mountain. My throat’s on fire by the time a driver comes to take us to our next location, and I imagine I smell terrible. One thing I miss about the days I used to carry a purse is that I never have body spray on me anymore. What I wouldn’t give for a free shower or even a little Febreze. “I’m taking you to lunch,” Drew says, and I smile because I could use the fuel and the water, which I still haven’t had. When we step out of the car, I’m wobbly on my feet. Drew steers me toward the restaurant, and we sit out on a little patio where I’m finally able to collapse and down two glasses of water. “You okay?” he asks. I nod, but I feel like my whole life is on fire. I’m going home after this date to collapse for three years and never leave my closet again. He smiles, placing a hand over mine. “I probably should’ve warned you about the hike.” I laugh, brushing some sweat off my face. “It’s fine.” “Yeah, I can see that.” I blush, turning my face away. “Sorry.” “We can save the outdoor dates for after we get you in shape,” he says. “Honestly, I just got really excited since I haven’t seen you all week. I mean, excited to work on updates for the Diary, of course. Can’t say I didn’t miss all the attention.” I look up at that, my mouth gaping. “Wait, really? I thought you were avoiding me.” “I told you I was busy.” “I know, but I thought you were just doing that thing where people say they’re busy because they’re too nice to say they don’t want to see you.” He laughs, and it sounds lovely, and I feel all the hesitation wash away from me. Why did I backpedal? Why did I forget how lucky I am to have found Drew? “I definitely wanted to see you,” he says. “Things have just been kind of rough at home.” “How so?” I ask, my voice low. I don’t want him to feel like he has to answer, but if he wants to, I want him to. He gives me a soft smile and says, “My parents are getting divorced. It’s not a big deal for me, but my brother’s nine, and he’s taking it really hard. I’ve been trying to keep his spirits up, you know?” “I totally get it,” I say. “Let me know if I can help at all. Maybe we can take him to the movies or something.” “I think he’d love that. Thank you.” And I want to reach across the table to kiss him, but I know there are people around who’ll probably give us the side-eye, and really, I probably taste like sweat, which is gross. I just lean back in my seat to look at the menu. It’s fine. I can be patient. I see plenty of time for kissing in our future. Becca Hey, sorry, shit’s been off the rail. Call me? After I get home, I take a shower and take a long-ass nap. I wake up just after five to a text message from Becca saying she’s finally ready to talk. So I FaceTime her, and she’s sitting on her bed with her Yorkie, Noodles. “Hey, stranger,” she says. I roll my eyes. “What’s going on? I haven’t heard from you in forever.” She sighs, patting Noodles on the head once before setting him down. He seems to understand that FaceTime means no Noodles time, because he gives a little grunt before jumping off the bed. “You know, there’s school, and . . .” She trails off. “Well, I started talking to this girl.” I squeal, and she rolls her eyes. “No, really, who is she? Tell me!” Becca sighs again and says, “I’ll tell you everything, but don’t get mad, okay?” I raise an eyebrow. “Why would I be mad?” “It’s Gina Paris.” I freeze, my lip curling just a little bit. So, Gina Paris is this girl from our—well, Becca’s—school, and she’s the cute, perky type with luscious flowing hair and a TV-star smile. Kinda reminds me of Maggie, minus the palate for “exotic” cuisine. Anyway, the problem is she’s also part of this group called Forward Thinkers on campus that’s all about feminism and women’s rights, which, by their definition, only includes cis women. “Why are you talking to Gina Paris? Getting the homework?” Becca rolls her eyes. “I knew you’d get mad.” “Of course I’m mad!” I say. “You’re flirting with a TERF!” “She’s not a TERF!” Becca says. “Really, she’s not. I’ve spoken to her about it. She supports trans women. She just can’t get the rest of the group on board.” “Yeah, I’m sure. Super convenient.” Becca groans. “Whatever. Look, the point is, we aren’t talking anymore, okay? It didn’t work out, and I’ve just been really over it.” We fall quiet, and I don’t really know what to say. I mean, I’m sorry is usually the expected response, but I’m not, really. I want Becca to be happy, but she can be happy with someone who isn’t a TERF. That seems like the obvious answer. “Drew took me on an interesting date today,” I say. Becca looks at me like she’s about to hang up. Then she says, “Where’d he take you?” So I recount everything she missed, finally ending with all the stuff from earlier from Red Rocks to my near blackout over lunch. Finally, Becca says, “So are you guys a thing yet?” “We’re not not a thing.” Becca scoffs, but there might be a little bit of a smirk on her face, like she’s just a little bit happy that she’s not the only one who’s still single. So I almost feel bad saying, “Things are going great,” because I know it must feel shitty knowing that I’m building an amazing relationship when hers didn’t work out. But I also hope she’ll at least be happy for me, and maybe some of that happiness will help her forget about Gina Paris forever. “I mean, we’re technically still fake boyfriends, but he’s definitely into me. We’ve worked past the Hesitation and are well into the Tether, and then I’m sure we’ll finalize everything.” Becca rolls her eyes, but it’s a better gesture than hanging up. “Yeah, okay. Don’t you think these categories are a little ridiculous?” “No, not at all,” I say, and really, they’re great. Not only are they the perfect rubric for the Diary, but they’re all working, like I was gifted some divine inspiration as I jotted them down. It’s the perfect way for me to guide us into a secure, lasting relationship. “Don’t you think it’s kind of exploitative to try to trick him into falling in love with you using his love of the Diary?” Which, wow, okay, rude. It’s not like I found some random guy off the street and told him he had to fall in love with me. The Diary is me. It’s all of my inner desires and hopes and dreams. Drew was the one who suggested the fake date in the first place, and if he really didn’t want to go along with it, he could stop at any time. And I know I’m glaring as I say, “Believe me, Drew’s into me. I’m not exploiting anything, just helping him see more clearly.” “I think you just need to make sure you’re actually into him, not just using him to mark off checkpoints on your pegboard.” “What is that even supposed to mean?” I snap. “It means there’s a difference between being into someone because you think they’re right for you and being into someone because you know they’re wrong for you and you would rather set yourself up for failure than have to face the work of a real relationship. And frankly, none of your Diary ‘romances’ have ever felt like anything you really wanted to commit to, and Drew is no different.” A heavy silence hangs between us as I fight down the urge to say something I’ll regret. “I’m into him,” I say, but quite frankly, I’m about done with this conversation. I know things aren’t going great for Becca right now, but I didn’t think she’d take it out on me. “Then I’m happy for you,” she says, but she really doesn’t sound happy at all. She sounds jealous, and maybe just a little bit vindictive, like she won’t be satisfied until she knows I’m miserable too. Step 7: The Tether It’s the moment where you form a connection that’s impossible to break, the moment that changes you forever. Inbox (1,047) Anonymous asked: Hey, Noah! I noticed you haven’t really been answering messages like you used to. You’re probably busy having the cutest relationship ever with Drew! When you get the chance, can you update us on how things are going and maybe post some more couple pictures? Thanks! By the time I get to work on Monday, the place is already swarming with kids and their parents. It looks like they’re all lining up to get signed in and take their safety pamphlets or whatever. I mostly just slept all weekend because I was bone tired, and as predicted, literally everything hurts. Even now, I’m half hobbling my way toward the rec center because every step feels like death, and my usual posture feels like a miserable contortion. The good news was that Drew’s death trap of a date got a lot of traction, and people spent all weekend congratulating me and raving about how great I am. “On your left.” I nearly jump out of my skin as I whirl around to find Devin walking up behind me. “What the fuck, man?” I ask. He shrugs. “I was just warning you I was here.” God, I hate when people sneak up on me. He’s got another coffee holder, two Grande Starbucks cups in it. He pulls one out and passes it to me. “Vanilla latte.” I shake my head. “I don’t need you buying me coffee,” I say, which is true because not only does it feel exploitative to let him drop five bucks on coffee for me every morning, but if I’m going to make this thing with Drew a real thing, it feels weird letting another guy buy me coffee. “I have a buy-one-get-one special,” he says. “Just take it.” Which, I mean, if it’s free . . . I grab the cup and sip from it, the warmth and sweetness washing over me. It takes all my strength to not vocally moan as we make our way into the rec center, Devin holding the door open for me. “Hope you’re excited,” he says. “Today’s the day everything happens!” “You mean, the day we get to start babysitting?” He laughs, but I really wasn’t joking. “I know you’re only here because you need to get paid, but the kids are really sweet. I think you’ll like them.” Probably not, considering I hate kids, but I nod anyway because I don’t want him to report me. The rec center’s way busier than I’ve seen it. It looks like some of the onslaught of kids and parents have spilled over into here, but the kids look smaller, or maybe their parents are just taller than the parents outside. . . . “We should greet some of the parents,” Devin says, but his voice wavers and he looks a little green. I take a step away from him to avoid a repeat of last week. “Why?” “Because they’ll want to meet the people overseeing their kids.” I sigh because I just know he’s gonna drag me over there against my will and make me mingle. He takes another sip of his coffee and sighs, squeezing his shaking hands into fists. “Okay, let’s do this.” Devin ushers me forward so we can introduce ourselves to the parents slowly filling the rec center, and his voice quivers with every line he lets out. I hold back my urge to warn the parents to stand clear a few feet, and we make our rounds, talking about how “excited” we are to get to know their little brats. Finally, we clear most of the crowd. Everyone seems to be heading toward the bleachers, and Devin steers me out of the rec center and toward the rehearsal hall. “The parents are going to sit through a quick orientation, then we get the kids. During the day camps, we have kids ages four through seven. Only the eight- to thirteen-year-olds do the sleepaway camps.” I know the camp runs in weekly cycles, so all the kids here today will be gone by next Monday, but it still sounds exhausting. I never realized I’d feel so fortunate to have never gone to summer camp. “I’m not doing the sleepaway camps,” I say. Devin smiles. “I know, but you might want to consider it later in the summer. It’s the best part of camp.” I roll my eyes. By the time the kids run into the rehearsal hall, big goofy grins on their faces, I’m working through the last of my coffee energy and ready to go home. Devin whistles to call them to attention—nearly scaring me out of my skin in the process—and then he has them all sit in a big circle so they can say their names and talk about things they like. “I’ll start,” Devin says, his grin as big as the slobbering toddlers’. “I’m Devin! My pronouns are he/him, and I love Disney movies. Anyone seen Coco?” And the whole room erupts as the kids start screaming about their favorite Disney movies or just screaming unintelligibly. Devin whistles again, and they all stop like flies caught in a trap. I wonder if they come programmed like that or if they gave them something during orientation. “Awesome!” Devin says. He turns to me and says, “Your turn!” I blink back at him because this is the most humiliating thing I’ve done since I got cast as the Thanksgiving Turkey in a damn preschool play. I sigh and say, “I’m Noah. My pronouns are he/him, and I like anime?” And I’m pretty sure none of these kids even know what an anime is, but they erupt again, like it’s the damn coolest thing they’ve ever heard, and actually, it does feel kind of nice. Like having your own little cheer squad who applauds you for doing nothing in particular. Devin whistles again, and he motions to the little girl sitting next to me. She’s a dark girl, her hair tied up in little braids with these cute pink bows in them. She smiles wide and says, “I’m Bailey. I pronounce she, and Moana!” And the kids lose it all over again. I turn to Devin, who honestly looks like he’s fallen into the greatest state of euphoria, and I can’t help but laugh because wow, these kids don’t even know what we’re talking about but they sure are having fun. I wonder if I was ever like that. I doubt it. It takes us a half hour to make it around the circle, and by the time we do, half the kids are playing with their shoes or crawling on the floor. Devin rolls out an old TV and an even older DVD player and plops a little disc inside. He calls the kids to attention, and gets them to gather together in front of the screen before pressing play. Then he dims the lights and sits down next to me at the back of the room. I’m not really sure what movie he chose, but there’s a bunch of Disney ads, so I guess that settles that. I drop my voice low and say, “This is a zoo.” He smiles. “You just have to keep them entertained. All they want is to have some fun.” We lapse into silence as the movie starts. Then I turn my head and say, “Why’d you start by introducing your pronouns? Kids don’t even know what that means.” “Maybe not, but they’re going to hear about that stuff somewhere, so why not start now? I can open them up to it here, or I can wait for someone else to teach them wrong.” I raise an eyebrow. “You don’t strike me as a trans rights activist.” Devin chuckles. “I’m nonbinary.” “Wait, really?” He shrugs. “Don’t tell me you actually thought I was cis.” A kid at the back of the group turns around, puts a finger to his lips, and makes a loud shushing sound at Devin. Devin puts his hands up in surrender and makes a motion of zipping his lips. I roll my eyes, but it is kind of sweet how well Devin seems to get along with these kids. I’d never have the patience for it, but I wonder if there’s one little trans kid in the group who’ll find that much more confidence in coming out for having known Devin. Hell, if some trans girl I never knew personally could inspire me to embrace myself in high school, I imagine Devin opening these kids up to pronouns now will make all the difference. Imagine knowing that being trans isn’t just a thing, but a thing you’re actually allowed to do. I wonder if I would’ve found myself sooner. And maybe this is part of finding myself now. Maybe this is Fate’s way of helping me find a kid just like myself and give them something I never had. And maybe it doesn’t mean anything at all, but I still can’t help but smile. We only keep the kids until one. Then two more counselors take them out to spend a few hours outdoors until their parents pick them up. Devin looks almost wistful watching them go, and then he tells me to start cleaning up. On top of just picking up all the scattered crayons and DVDs, we also have to mop the floors to clean up any bodily fluids the kids left behind. Really, the day’s firmly convinced me that kids are disgusting, and I’d rather cut my own uterus out by hand than ever birth one, but at least it’s basically over and I’m getting paid. Devin puts on this playlist, and I don’t know if it’s intentionally gay—Halsey, Hayley Kiyoko, Troye Sivan—or if that just happens when you’re queer and really dig your indie pop. “Did you have fun today?” he asks. He’s pulled out some spray cleaner to wipe down all the windows and mirrors. I shrug. “I don’t know if ‘fun’ is the right word for it, but it wasn’t too terrible.” He laughs. “When I first started working at the camp, it was pretty stressful, but it gets better. You kinda realize that they’re kids, which means as rambunctious and uncontrollable as they can be, they’ll also give you way more wiggle room than any adult.” He’s probably right about that, even if he had to use some weird SAT word to explain it. I can’t say I did anything particularly well today, but the kids seemed to like me well enough. One little girl even brought me a drawing of a heart and said, “I love you, Mr. Noah,” which was really fucking cute. “How long have you worked at the camp?” I ask. “This is my second year,” Devin says. “I haven’t lived in Denver that long, but if I had, I probably would’ve been here longer.” It’s kind of nauseating how in love he is with the camp and the kids and all that jazz, but I’m trying to give him a pass. I still can’t quite say Devin’s my cup of tea—between the weird whistling and head bobbing while he cleans and the overbearing smiling, he’s just way to peppy for my taste—but something about him coming out to me made me like him a little bit more. Like maybe we aren’t total opposites, and I could stand to be a little nicer to him. I swipe my mop across the floor. “Where’d you move from?” “Florida—Satan’s ball sack.” I laugh because we used to call it that too. It’s the little phallus hanging off the edge of the US. “I’m from Florida too,” I say. “Which county?” “Dade, you?” I freeze, my mop stopping mid-swipe. “Same.” He smiles. “Small world.” He’s definitely right about that. “Why’d you leave?” The room falls quiet after that, the sound of Troye Sivan muffled in the background, and I wonder if I overstepped. Really, it doesn’t matter that much. I’m mostly just making small talk, but it kind of feels like I asked him about his dead grandmother or something. Finally, he says, “I came out at school, and people didn’t take it very well.” I freeze, my hands gripping the handle of the mop until I’m almost positive I’ll get splinters. “Because you came out as nonbinary?” He laughs, but it sounds hollow. “Actually, I thought I was a trans girl. They weren’t really cool about that.” And suddenly something clicks in me and the mop falls from my hands, the wood colliding with the floor in a hollow crack. Devin stares at me, eyebrows raised. “Are you okay?” “You went to St. Francis?” I ask, my voice soft. And Devin’s eyes widen. “How did you know that?” “Because I was a grade below you,” I say. “I remember when you came out. It was all over the school.” And Devin blushes, which is probably fair since I just put him on the spot like that. He turns his face away from me, but since he’s wiping down a mirror, it doesn’t do much. “Yeah, I—it was a mistake.” “A mistake?” “I mean, I thought I was a girl back then, and I guess a part of me thought that if I came out, things would be easier. Instead, I just got bullied to shit, and now I don’t even really know what I am, you know?” I shake my head because hearing him say it was a mistake makes me inexplicably angry. I mean, I never really knew him at school, but the story of the one trans girl brave enough to actually live her truth at St. Francis? That shit kept me going. It was the reason I had the courage to look into transness in the first place. It was the reason I stayed up for hours, finding the right words, looking into transitioning. It was the reason I finally had the confidence to tell Becca and Brian who I really am, to make the Diary. It’s why Noah exists at all. And Devin’s saying it was all a mistake? “It wasn’t a mistake,” I say. He looks up at me then, his wide eyes meeting mine through the mirror. “I thought you were the bravest person at St. Francis. Hell, in the whole goddamn country. I only came out because I had you as a model. Don’t you dare call it a mistake.” He blushes, his voice soft as he says, “Thank you.” I roll my eyes. “For what?” “For saying that.” We lapse into silence for a moment, and I struggle to focus on my mop strokes instead of the awkward tension hanging in the air. Finally, Devin says, “I thought I was a fool, you know? For ever thinking I was trans in the first place. I just felt like a liar and an embarrassment and a shame to real trans people.” I raise an eyebrow. “Why?” He shrugs. “’Cause after I came out and we moved out here, I didn’t feel like a girl anymore. At least, not really.” “Do you feel like one now?” He shrugs again. “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t really feel like a boy. I almost never do, but I don’t know if what I’m feeling is dysphoria or just—” He stops, and I want to tell him that I understand. I mean, not fully, because I’m a boy, and I know I’m a boy, but that doesn’t mean figuring it out wasn’t hard. There were moments when I thought maybe I was just being dramatic, maybe I was just a tomboy who didn’t like wearing dresses. I didn’t have to be a boy, right? Except that I am. I set the mop down and sit down on the floor. We aren’t particularly close, but something about being eye level with him seems better right now. I say, “There were rumors about what happened after you came out. Are they true?” He stops scrubbing the mirror and turns back to me. “Which ones?” “The ones that said you tried to kill yourself?” He sighs, but I don’t really need him to keep talking. Hell, that sigh alone weighs a couple thousand pounds, and I feel like I can see the entire weight of his high school misery reflected in his eyes. Finally, he says, “Yeah, I did. That’s why my parents pulled me out of school and why we moved across the country. They thought getting away would make me better.” “Did it?” He laughs, but he doesn’t answer. I’m not really sure what I was expecting from the conversation, but it’s pretty clear to me that it’s over. I pick up the mop again, and start scrubbing the floors harder than I should. I think part of me is hoping I can erase more than just germs and dirt stains, like maybe the past can be washed away just as easily. Hey, Becca, I really need to talk to you. Please call me when you get a chance. Delivered On the way home from work, Drew texts me asking if I wanna go to the movies, and of course, I say yes. We usually meet at Brian’s apartment before every date because Drew says it’s a better setup for the Diary stories since there are no parents around, but he says he’s bringing his brother this time and asks me to meet him at their place. I agree, copying and pasting the address into the rideshare app. Drew’s house kind of blows my mind because it’s not at all what I’d expect. There’s a massive, mud-covered truck in the driveway and three American flags in the lawn, and there’s a doormat that says, Trespassers will be shot. Survivors will be shot again. Like, I realized he was white, but I never thought his house would be that white. I’m absolutely certain I got the address right, but I’m still a bit apprehensive as I knock on the front door. Then it swings open almost immediately, and Drew’s standing there with the most stressed-out look on his face, which melts away just a little when he catches sight of me. Aw. “Hey,” he says, but it sounds like it’s riding a sigh. “Let me just get my brother and then we can go.” I expect him to invite me inside, but he doesn’t, simply slipping back in and closing the door with me still standing on the porch. A minute later, the door opens again, and he comes out, a nine-year-old version of him following behind. “Noah, this is Jordan. Jordan, this is my boyfriend, Noah.” Despite it being all an act, the words flow casually off Drew’s tongue like he’s really falling into the motions, and I can’t help but smile. “Hi,” Jordan says, but he doesn’t seem very enthusiastic about it. Actually, after spending the day with the kids at camp, this kid seems just about dead. Drew calls our ride, and we all shuffle into the back seat. “You have an interesting house,” I say. Drew winced. “Ugh, yeah. My dad’s just kind of like that.” And suddenly I’m a little relieved he didn’t invite me inside. “Do you guys, like . . . kiss and stuff?” Jordan asks. Drew shoves his shoulder, a look of mortification on his face. “I told you not to say shit like that. What the hell?” “It’s just a question.” “It’s fine,” I say, and really, after camp, I don’t think there’s a whole lot any kid could say to catch me off guard. We sit in silence until we finally get out at the theater, and Jordan rushes ahead to get into the ticket line, and I can’t help but feel like Devin would know exactly what to say. Hell, he’d have Jordan swinging off his arm in an hour, and they’d be getting matching tattoos by the end of the night. “I’m sorry about that,” Drew says as we make our way to the line. “It’s fine,” I say. “I just wish I was better with kids.” He smiles. “You’re perfect. Really. I told Jordan you offered to go to the movies with him, and he was thrilled. He’s just shit at showing it to you.” That’s both kind of a relief and extremely nerve-racking. God, what if I disappoint him? That could have a terrible effect on my fake-but-soon-to-be-real relationship. “Anyway,” Drew says, “things were getting super messy, so thanks for busting us out of there.” “Your parents?” I ask. Drew shrugs, but it’s pretty obvious that means yes. “I think they used to pretend to like each other for Jordan’s sake, but they’ve basically all but given up on that. Now it’s just a battleground, and they don’t give a damn who the casualties are.” “I’m really sorry,” I say, and I am. My parents have always gotten along well, and there’s never been a time when I doubted that they loved each other or me. I can’t imagine living any other way. “It’s fine,” he says. “I just really wanted to be with you. Things feel a lot better when you’re around, and focusing on the Diary has been a real lifeline for me lately.” I smile. There’s a pressure in my chest, squeezing my heart and my lungs, twining through my nerve endings, like this is the Tether—the moment that binds us together forever. “Hurry up!” Jordan screams. And Drew shoots back, “Calm down! The movie doesn’t start for an hour!” I laugh, interlacing my fingers with his. “It’s fine. We can get a couples’ popcorn or maybe an Icee?” He smiles. “Okay, but we have to make this look legit, so we’re only getting one straw.” Monday, June 11 MeetCuteDiary posted: Hey, everyone! Sorry I’ve been kind of MIA. Drew and I have been spending a lot of time together, and we just went on the world’s cutest movie date. Thanks for all your support, and I’ll get to your messages soon! Oh, and here are some photos! Babbyabby12 replied: Ahh! This is adorable! So happy for you guys! Mysticmayhem replied: No worries! We understand! You guys are like soul mates! Krismaastime replied: Thanks for sharing these! So cute! Load more comments . . . Despite Brian’s badgering, I don’t get home at a reasonable time, and when I do get home, I stay up late updating the Diary with pictures from the movie. I want to make sure the Tether is really laid out for my followers so they realize how legit Drew and I are becoming. Unsurprisingly, the next morning, Brian has to literally drag me out of bed and deposit me on the floor until I finally groan and stand up long enough to change. I’m more relieved than I can put into words when I run into Devin carrying two more cups of coffee. “You still have coupons?” I ask. Devin rolls his eyes. “It’s a special, not a coupon.” “Whatever. I hope it lasts all summer.” Devin smiles as he hands me the cup, and I toss it back, quickly scalding my mouth but also waking up. And as the energy floods through me, I think about yesterday—about the movie with Drew and how it was the steel coating over our bond. And then I think about Devin, and the way we left things. He doesn’t seem bothered at all, but as we hit the rehearsal hall, I say, “Sorry about yesterday.” He turns to me, head cocked to the side. “What about yesterday?” “Things got a little awkward near the end,” I say. “I obviously talk too much.” He smiles, and it really lights up his face and brings out his blue eyes. “You were fine. I just—well, I got a little caught up in my head, I guess.” I don’t ask him about the rest because it seems kind of unfair. Instead, we go about setting up for the kids, and sure enough, fifteen minutes later, they’re racing into the room like a herd of cows ready for grazing. Actually, I don’t know if cows are fast. I’ve never really interacted with a cow. Devin gets all the kids as organized as possible, then starts handing out the craft supplies. They eat it up, screaming and shrieking and laughing as they get their paper and start drawing nonsensical shapes detailing their “perfect summer” on it. “They’ve got some real talent,” I say sarcastically, and Devin laughs. He hands me a sheet of paper and a notepad to rest it on, and we share a box of colored pencils between us. “Who sets the curriculum?” I ask. He smiles. “Not me. Otherwise we’d be doing some slow jams and a dance contest.” I roll my eyes. “I wouldn’t want to see that.” He laughs again. I don’t even know what I’m going to draw until I find myself sketching out a horrible rendition of the bookstore. There’s a rectangle for the little counter and a bunch of smaller squares for the stacks of books lining the floor that I really hope Drew has managed to pick up by now. Another, longer rectangle for the back door and then some weird polygon that’s supposed to resemble the cash register. “What’s that?” Devin asks, and I quickly cover my paper with my hand. “Rude. No peeking.” Devin chuckles, returning to his own little nature display on his sheet. Little mountains, a field of flowers, a wide-sweeping river. I’m kind of mad because it’s actually pretty good, like he’s drawing from reference or something. “I didn’t know you could draw,” I say. He smiles, adding a layer of shading to the sweeping waves of his river. “Well, you don’t really know anything about me, do you?” And actually, he’s right about that. I mean, I know he’s trans—nonbinary, but no idea where he falls on the spectrum. He’s from Miami, we used to go to the same school, but other than that, I can’t really say a whole lot. Hell, I don’t even know what his last name is. “So, what are you working on?” he asks again. I sigh. “It’s the bookstore where I met my boyfriend,” I say. “Was that this summer?” he asks. And honestly, it sounds like an accusation. You’re that attached to a guy you’ve known a few weeks? But Devin’s voice is soft and bright and his eyes are about as nonjudgmental as blue eyes can ever really be. He’s probably just curious, and it’s only my insecurity that makes me feel like he’s casting judgment down on me. “Yeah, it was this summer,” I say. The sound of our colored pencils fills the ensuing silence between us. Once the kids get bored, we play heads up, seven up, and four corners, then sit them all down to watch another movie. I don’t know how many DVDs Devin’s got stockpiled, but we’re burning through them pretty fast. Then lunch comes around, and all the kids rush to get their little sandwiches and Rice Krispies out of their little lunch boxes, and Devin taps me on the shoulder and says, “Can you watch them for a bit? I’m going to the bathroom.” I nod because what else am I supposed to say? No, jackass, go piss on the floor? But really, I don’t want him to go. There are two scheduled bathroom breaks a day for the kids, so I never actually expected to be left alone with all of them. It’s like overseeing a rabid dog and deciding to take it off its leash. He’s all I’ve got keeping these kids in line. I try to focus on getting through the moment. It’s just lunch, which I soon learn is a lot harder than it sounds. Over the course of twenty minutes, one kid sticks his sandwich in his pants, one smears applesauce on the mirror, and one just starts crying for no discernible reason. The other seven manage to stay alive, though I guess I’m a little too caught up to notice if they’re actually eating their lunch or just painting their faces with it. I’m trying to pull applesauce kid away from the mirror and stop him from touching anything else when one of the coordinators comes in to take them to their afternoon activities. She rolls her eyes at me, which, okay, I know I’m bad with kids. And then she rounds them all up and they rush out happily like I’m the one misbehaving. My hands are sticky, and Devin’s still not back yet, which, come on, who takes a half hour in the fucking bathroom? So I head over to wash my hands and see what kind of casual midday vacation Devin’s decided to take for himself. When I reach the men’s bathroom, it looks pretty empty. I make my way to the sink and turn the water on, scrubbing the appley remains from my skin. The bathroom’s actually really clean for a summer camp, and I’m slightly amazed. It’s not a bad place to run if I need to escape the kid swarm. And then I turn the faucet off and pull some paper towels from the nearest dispenser. As I toss them in the trash, I make out a soft, gasping sound that I first thought was the AC but soon realize is another person in the bathroom. There are only two stalls, and the doors for both of them are closed, but I don’t see any feet underneath. “Hello?” I say, and yeah, it’s probably a ghost, which makes me the soon-to-die white woman in this situation. I’m about to bolt from the bathroom before Satan’s wrath can be brought down on me when one of the stall doors opens up and Devin steps out. “Where the hell have you been?” I ask. “I had to deal with those little demons alone.” “Sorry,” he says, but it comes out on a little puff of air, and it’s only then that I realize how pale he looks. “Are you okay?” I ask. And he nods, but let’s be real, he’s pretty clearly not okay. He kind of hobbles out of the stall and leans on the counter, but his arms are shaking even as he holds himself up. My first thought is that maybe he has a fever, but when I touch his arm, he feels more cold than he does hot. He doesn’t jerk away from me, but lets me guide him down to a sitting position on the bathroom floor, and for a moment, I’m not even worried about how dirty the place would probably look if I had a UV light and how gross my pants will probably be when I stand up. His breathing comes out in short, ragged breaths, and I wonder if maybe he has asthma or if he’s having an allergic reaction to someone’s peanut butter sandwich, but other than the sharp inhales and the sweat along his forehead, there doesn’t seem to be anything else wrong with him—no hives, no swollen lips, no purpling face as he takes his last breath. So I’m basically left with two options—I can go get help, or I can just sit with him and hope he gets better. I’m about to stand and go call for a coordinator, but there’s something in his eyes that looks like fear, and I don’t know if that’s something he wants to keep to himself. Hell, if he wanted me to get help, he would’ve said something when I asked if he was okay, right? “Devin,” I say, my voice low. “I want to help you, but you have to tell me what to do.” He laughs, but it comes out more like a cough. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m okay.” “You don’t look okay.” He takes my hand in his, his palms clammy, and he just sits there staring at it like it’s some manual on how to breathe Earth air. And I just sit there because I don’t know what else to do. Pulling away from him and going to get help sounds like a shitty thing to do, and I don’t even know the Heimlich maneuver, so I just kind of feel like a worthless sack of potatoes. Finally, his breathing starts to even out and he lets go of my hand, wiping tears out of his eyes. “Are you okay?” I ask. He nods, but it’s not really that reassuring since he’s been saying he was okay the whole time. He clears his throat and spares me a small smile. “Sorry about that.” “It’s okay,” I say. His voice is still a little bit shaky, but he looks mostly okay, so I stand up and hold my hand out to him, and he takes it, pulling himself to his feet. “What happened?” He shrugs. “Panic attack.” And I’ve heard of panic attacks before, but I’ve never seen one in action. They were just supposed to be in someone’s head. I hadn’t thought they’d feel so scary. “Did something—did something get to you?” I ask, but it sounds off even to my own ears. I’m trying to be suave about it. No awkward I don’t know how to handle mentally ill people jargon, but I also have no idea what I’m doing. He smiles and says, “No, not really. Sometimes they just happen, but I’m okay.” And I know the respectful thing to do is say that I totally get it and tell him he can talk to me if he needs anything and then walk away, but I kind of just stare at him for a moment because I’m not really sure what to say. Or, well, how to say it. And I feel like shit about it, but my body’s not really listening to me. Devin walks to the bathroom door, but then he pauses, turning back to look at me, and I’m half expecting him to call me out on my staring. Then he says, “This is gonna sound weird, but do you mind doing me a favor?” And I nod, because it’s not like there’s another appropriate response. He stares down at his shoes for a moment, then says, “I’ve been thinking about my pronouns, and I kind of want to try out some new ones.” “Like she/her?” I ask. He shrugs. “Maybe not those either. I don’t know. I was thinking about using something more neutral.” He pauses, his eyes roving the floor again like the perfect pronoun is just waiting in the grout. “I don’t want to make things too complicated, though. I just—I’m not sure how comfortable I feel with he/him anymore.” “Devin, they’re your pronouns. You don’t have to consider anyone else before you pick them.” His eyes widen, and then I don’t know what changes, but he smiles like all his problems have melted away, and it really is a beautiful smile. “Thanks, Noah. Do you mind using they/them for me from now on?” I roll my eyes. “No, I don’t mind. They’re your pronouns.” And they smile again, and for a moment, my heart feels heavy. Then they say, “I hope things weren’t too bad while I was gone.” And the smell of applesauce washes over me, and my whole body tightens up. I groan, pushing past them to head back down the hall. “We’re gonna be cleaning up all afternoon.” Seriously, Becca, I know you’re busy, but come on! What about our spa date??? Delivered On the way home, Brian stops to pick up Maggie from some friend’s house or something. I haven’t seen them together as much recently, but if that was supposed to give me any hope they’d be breaking up soon, it’s completely crushed the moment Brian hops out of the car and runs to hug her. Gross. Brian kicks me out of the passenger seat so Maggie can hop in up front, and I just roll my eyes before slipping into the back. It’s fine. I’m trying to pretend to be invisible instead of being their third wheel. I’ve noticed that Maggie hasn’t invited me to anything since trivia, and I don’t know if that’s a reflection on how badly we lost or the fact that I didn’t get the bookstore job and, by extension, her discount. Brian claims she just hasn’t been doing anything Noah-worthy recently, but then, he’s also been more Maggie-fixated than before. It’s like every recipe he tries just further convinces him he needs to be the perfect chef of Maggie’s dreams, which is also gross. Maggie goes on about watching this gay movie because she has a gay friend, and my eyes roll back into my head at the absurdity. I mean, really, who acts like they know something about being gay just because they have a gay friend? And Brian laughs along like she’s the single funniest person he’s ever met, and I’m going to have to wash my ears out with soap. He never would’ve thought her jokes were funny before. Hell, a year ago, we’d both be making fun of how ridiculous she sounds, and yet I’m strapped down for fifteen minutes of utter torture before we finally get home. When Brian unlocks the door to the apartment, I beeline for my closet. He shouts something about dinner after me, but I just ignore him as I close the door. This is the part where I call Becca just to get some voicemail box is full message, and before I can even think about my next move, I’m calling Drew. I tell him about work and he talks about his brother, and really, neither of us is saying much of anything important, but it doesn’t matter. Somehow, I feel like he knows exactly what I need. Drew gets off work just after five, so he swings by the apartment so we can get some more photos for the Diary. I don’t bother telling Brian I’m heading downstairs since he and Maggie are so caught up in each other, they won’t even notice I’m gone. Drew sits out on the curb, his phone in his hands and his eyes glued to it. And really, there’s a lot to admire—the arch of his back, the way his dark hair reflects the sunlight, the perfect line of his jaw. He turns, his eyes widening as they catch on me. “Oh, hey.” “Hey,” I say, sitting down on the curb next to him. “Everything good?” he asks. I shrug. “Besides having to take care of Devin? Yeah, it’s fine, I guess.” Drew raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t that the coworker who threw up on you? I thought you hated him.” “Devin uses they/them pronouns,” I say. “And I don’t know. I guess they’re not so bad. How’re things with you?” He stares down at the ground. “Work’s a pain in the ass. We’re getting ready for an author event, so we have to keep track of all their books like someone’s actually gonna show up to buy them.” I raise an eyebrow. “You don’t think they will?” “Please, these authors might as well write fan fiction. Their work is garbage.” That’s a little harsh considering my work isn’t exactly “literary,” but I know he doesn’t actually mean me. I’m just being insecure because my meet cute stories have been too flat to post lately, like I can’t find inspiration now that I can’t just hit on any guy I come in contact with, and more than anything, I want to be cuddled up with him even though he’s only here so we can take some selfies. “Anyway,” Drew says as if exactly on cue, “let’s get these shots done so I can get home. I’ve got a date tonight.” I freeze, my blood running cold. “A—a date?” He laughs, clapping a hand against my shoulder. “Not that kind of date. I wouldn’t betray the Diary like that. Those comments are like the only way I get serotonin anymore.” Which makes me feel both better and worse at the same time. He stands up, a holding out a hand for me. “Some buddies are coming over for a D and D campaign, you know.” Which, frankly, I know nothing about DandD, but that sounds a hell of a lot better than the idea of Drew wrapped up in somebody else. I push the thought out of my head, reminding myself that we aren’t actually dating and his loyalty to me is really all about the Diary anyway, but a part of me is still a little on edge, like I’d never considered the possibility of him moving on to something better, and now that it’s there, I have no way to escape it. We pose the shot, one arm around his neck, and the other holding my phone up so I can actually take the picture. And then he presses his lips to mine, and as the camera flashes, I can pretend that this is all we’ll ever need, the two of us wrapped up in each other. He pulls away almost immediately, asking me to pass the phone over so he can take a look. Then he laughs, throwing his head back. “You’re way too short to get a shot like this. Let me do it.” So I agree because all this means is that we have to take the shot again, and this is a moment in time I have no problem reliving forever.