Page 20 of Kiss Me, Maybe

“How do you mean?”

“It’s silly. I’m literally projecting myself onto a piece of graffiti.” I shake my head. “I really only came out to a handful of people. My parents and Marcela. Then I made that TikTok update and started acting as if everyone knew. I let go of the front I used to put up. I’m finally the person I was so afraid to be, and I’ve never felt freer.” I tip my chin up to the mural. “I feel likeher. It feels like I’m holding my own heart in my hand, brandishing it like a weapon.”

“A weapon.” She glances up at the painting, arching a brow.

“Yeah.” I nod. “I’m so used to breaking my own heart before anyone else gets a chance to. To believing there’s something wrong with me. That I’ll never be enough. That I may as well not even try falling in love if I’m not capable of it. I know better now. I know who I am, and no one can tell me otherwise.”

There’s something inexplicable shining in her eyes. She reaches for my arm, hand falling at my wrist. Her grip is firm but gentle, warm on my chilled, goose-bumped skin.

“My first thought was it made love seem brutal,” she says, staring up at the mural. “I don’t see what you see, but I guess that’s the cool thing about art. Everyone has a different interpretation.”

“I imagine fighting for it can be brutal. For love, I mean.” I tilt my head at her. “From what I read on First Friday’s website, Natalia Aguilar showcases her work during every First Friday. If I can get the timing right, I’m hoping to put on the scavenger hunt two weeks from now. Natalia’s exhibit will be the thirdlocation. A lot of her recent work is inspired by queer identity, especially asexual and aromantic identity, which is why it feels important that she’s part of the scavenger hunt. If she wants to be, that is.”

“I like that idea,” Krystal says. “Are you going to reach out to her? Do you know if she’s still doing First Friday?”

“She’s still listed on their website,” I tell her. “But it could be an oversight. Getting in touch with her is a good idea. Maybe she has an email on her website somewhere.”

She opens her mouth to reply when I catch a flash of metal from the corner of my eye. I turn around as what looks like scaffolding is elevated beside the building until it’s aligned with the mural. I’m not sure what’s happening until the man inside turns a nozzle.

“Is he—”

Krystal doesn’t need to answer my unfinished question. A spray of water hits the mural, and paint begins to run.

Eight

No. No no no no no—

I rush back to the elevators, Krystal on my heels. I punch the button to go down, and when the doors don’t immediately open, I punch down on it again. And again.

“We’re not gonna make it in time.” The doors slide open, as if to defy me. “What am I gonna do? This the only plan I have.” More than that, the mural was the only plan I had my heart set on. So what if it wasn’t perfect yet? I still had time to figure it out. Now I have nothing.

“It’s okay, we’ll figure it out,” Krystal says, rubbing circles on my back to calm me. But it has almost the opposite effect, clouding my focus, every nerve ending in my body trained on that one spot where she’s touching me.

Now is not the time.

“We can get there faster if we rent the bikes from the BCycle. They had some right outside the lobby.”

“Okay, good idea.” I haven’t ridden in years, but what’s that saying about never forgetting how to ride a bike? “Let’s go.”

The sun is oppressive when we get outside. I take off her flannel, tying it around my waist and promise Krystal to return it to her once we reach the mural. When she comes back with two bikes, we speed off down the street. Or Krystal does at least. I’m having a hard time adjusting my feet on the pedals, heart pounding so hard it’s the only sound filling my ears. Once I get a good footing, I’m able to catch up to Krystal just before she turns down a side street. Her head turns over her shoulder, making sure I’m still behind her.

“You good?” she calls out. I’m still farther behind her than I should be.

“Yeah!” I pedal harder, gaining speed. She makes another turn. I try to follow, but it feels like I’m stuck on something.

What the hell?

As I glance down, the front wheel drops onto the street. Before I lose my balance and topple off, I force myself to stop with my left foot on the pavement. As I’m bringing the bike back onto the sidewalk, a car horn blares behind me, startling me out of my wits. I tip over, the bike falling on top of me until I’m nothing but a jumbled heap on the sidewalk.

Fuck.

A shock of pain ignites my shoulder when I hit the ground, and then again as the bike hits my knee. Someone calls my name, but I’m too disoriented to make out the sound. The bike is lifted off me, and then hands untie the flannel at my waist. I open my eyes as Krystal’s arms circle my waist as she pulls me off the ground and settles me to a standing position. Behind her, there’s a dark ring of water on the side of the building where the mural once was. A trail of purple-tinged water is the only thing left of the painting, droplets running down the brick.

We’re too late—not that we would’ve been able to stop them anyway. Suddenly, this mad dash to the portrait all feels so pointless.

“I shouldn’t have given you this stupid thing.” She’s bent over the bike, and that’s when I notice the sleeve of her flannel caught in the front wheel. That’s what I got stuck on. “Angela, are you okay?”

Her question snaps reason back into my brain. I stretch my arms above my head and wince. White-hot pain stings my left shoulder. She notices immediately and walks around to inspect the injury. “You’re bleeding through your shirt. Goddammit, Angela, you could’ve gotten yourself killed!”

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