Page 19 of Kiss Me, Maybe

I place my hands in the pockets of my baggy shorts. Technically, they’re my dad’s from the ’90s. I’ve been raiding his closet a lot since my parents have been gone. I know better than to believe the clothes alone can do the work for me, but is that all she sees? The outward differences in the me I am now versus the me she met years ago?

“You’ve always been sure of yourself. Confident. But I don’t think you’ve ever let anyone see you vulnerable until recently. Not unless you had a few too many shots in you, that is.”

The facade I once created as a cover against my cousins’ attacks, the one I carried with me all through college and after when I flirted with men for attention and free drinks just to end up ghosting them, has been effectively shattered with one singular video I posted to the internet on a whim. In all that time, I’ve only ever been honest with myself around Krystal. She was always impossible to shake, even when I didn’t have a name for the way I felt about her yet.

“You bring that night up a lot, you know.” I lean against the railing to avoid her gaze, but she follows in my wake. “I think it’s time you return the favor. Tell me how beautiful youthinkmyface is. We’ll go back to the bar if you need some liquid courage first.”

“I’ll do you one better,” Krystal says, smirking slightly. “I think you’re beautiful, Angel. Inside and out, but more so when you’re not afraid to be your truest self. When you’re not afraid to put yourself out there. To be vulnerable in front of the entire world.”

There’s a lump in my throat I’m unable to dislodge for one long, charged moment. I have to glance away from her to recover, to shake off the effect her words have on me, because despite what she just said, I’m still a little afraid to bethatvulnerable in front of her.

“I think I also mentioned a love of obscure art graffitied on the side of downtown buildings in my last video,” I say. “Maybe the clue was misleading, but you were half right. The next clue is found at First Friday, but the sign isn’t what’s supposed to lead you there.”

“What else would lead you to—” She looks up, her gaze aligning with the mural. Krystal bites down on her lip, staining the tip of her front teeth with her lipstick. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

The mural is far from the only graffiti, but it is the most intricate form of vandalism within view. From the scopes, lots of art pieces can be seen displayed on the city street, advertising next month’s art showing.

Krystal squints at the slashes of purple, and then a soft sigh leaves her lips. She pulls out her phone, thumbs flying as she types.

“Natalia Aguilar. That’s the artist, right?”

I nod, staring up at the mural again where her name is legible at the bottom of the woman’s skirts in a swoosh of black ink.

“I only discovered her work recently,” I say. “Figures she’d close her shop before I had a chance to commission something from her. From what I can tell, she’s gone dark on social media. All her accounts are private despite having over two hundred thousand followers across platforms.”

“You didn’t hear?”

My brows furrow at her.

“She was dogpiled by people online after transitioning to queer art.”

“What?” I shake my head. “Wait a second, how do you know all this?”

“I used to follow her years ago,” she tells me. “She’s locked her accounts on and off over the years. I’m not sure if anything happened recently, but watching everything go down the first time was sickening.”

“What happened?” I ask before I think better of it. I’m more than familiar with all the ways people can act like vultures when they’re safe and hidden behind a screen. “You know what? I’d rather not dredge up her past for the sake of gossip.”

“I think she’s talked about what happened in a couple of interviews,” Krystal says as I pull out my phone and aim its camera toward the mural. “If you’d rather hear the story in her words, I can send them to you.”

“Thanks.” I nod. “I appreciate that. Do you mind if I record here?”

“You insufferable influencer,” she teases, mouth spreading into a grin. “You’re filming in public spaces already? Here.” She holds out her hand for my phone. “I’ll help you.”

“I’ll try not to be too obnoxious, but no promises,” I say,readying myself when she gives the signal that we’re recording. Then I put on my most charming smile as I stare into the camera. “Welcome back to the scavenger hunt series. You might notice I’m in a different location today, and that’s because I’m scouting potential locations and workshopping clues. What do I have ready so far?” I rub my chin in thought. “Not a whole lot. We’re still at the beginning stages, but I can say that so far, it looks promising. More soon, until next time.”

Krystal hands me back my phone once we’re done and glances up at the mural again, looking contemplative.

“Why this mural? Is there a particular reason?”

I’m nowhere close to an art critic, and I can’t quite explain what it is about the woman in the painting that speaks to me. If it’s me projecting my own emotions onto the mural, or the artist’s intent fully realized. Marcela didn’t get it. Maybe Krystal won’t either. I don’t answer her right away, mostly because I don’t have a coherent explanation. I’m used to tucking away the parts of myself I think people won’t like or understand. If I’m being honest, it’s probably why I came out so late in my life.

“What do you see?” I ask instead, tipping my chin up to the woman told in purple slashes of paint.

She turns back to the mural. There isn’t much of a reaction on her face. Her throat bobs on a swallow. Lines appear on her forehead as her brows crease, but her mouth is an unmoving straight line.

“It’s… intense, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah. That’s one word to describe it.” I laugh. “I don’t know. Art’s supposed to make you feel something, right? Something about it makes me feel… seen, I guess? Does that makesense?”

---