Page 4 of Kiss Me, Maybe

It’s really not that bad.”

Marcela is lying through her teeth, and not for the first time this week. When it’s clear from my face that I still don’t believe her, she heaves a sigh.

“At least it’s not as bad as the first video. The chances of Erika pulling you into another meeting are low. She’s not one to police our personal social media usage unless she gets a call from a board member.” She sips her raspberry mojito with a thoughtful look. Her jeans-clad legs are crossed at the knee, and she’s leaning back against a red upholstered chair. “Has anyone you know seen it yet?”

I haven’t told her about my cousins. If I’m being honest, I don’t really want to. Ever since I made the mistake of telling Esme I’d never been kissed back when we were teenagers, anything to do with my cousins has become my greatest source of shame. I know Marcela would never judge me the way my cousins do, but it’s too painful for me to talk about them. If I start crying and Krystal sees from the bar, I’ll die of mortification.

“Not that I know of,” I lie. “And I hope you’re right. I can’t take another half hour of facing Erika’s disappointment.”

“And yet, that didn’t stop you from posting an update video.”

“It’s not a thirst trap!” I pull up the video on my phone and point to myself on the screen. “I’m fully clothed! You see that turtleneck I’m wearing? It hasn’t seen the light of day since at least 2017.”

“Is this going to be a regular occurrence with you?” she asks, her tone as serious as it was back in Erika’s office. “You know I’ll support you if it is, but, Angela… you have to be more careful about what you post.”

“I know. You’re right.” I take an invigorating sip from my drink as I mull over an answer. I have no idea if I plan to keep this up. Hell, I hardly know why I started in the first place. “Would it be so bad if I did keep posting?”

“No,” she says, despite the concern shining in her eyes. “Not if it’s something you feel like you need to do.”

It’s a relief to hear her say that, even if I’m not sure I’m going to keep posting. After the first day’s outpouring of positive comments, I got anxious the tide was about to turn like it did last time and haven’t checked my notifications since. When I tell Marcela as much, she says, “Here, I’ll look for you,” and holds out her hand for my phone. I let out a sigh of relief once it’s out of my hands.

I might still be anxious, but at least I’m not holed up in my bedroom and anxious. My parents were thrilled to see me dressed up at eight p.m. on a Saturday, but I felt like an imposter in skinny jeans and a lace blouse that gives the appearance ofmore cleavage than I actually have. Before I came out, all it took was a little lean over the counter, a smile for the male bartender, and I wouldn’t have to open my wallet all night. It’s something I’ve worn a thousand times, and I’ve never thought to question it until two months ago when I came out to myself. I don’t feel like that person anymore, but I’m still trying to figure out who I am now. What does the right wardrobe forfiguring it outlook like?

I soaked up my parents’ compliments the same way I always do and watched as they exchanged conspiratorial glances when I told them I was meeting Marcela, no doubt thinking their little “talk” was the cause of my going out for the first time in a while. Little do they know what the internet has gotten me into.

“Bless you.” I finish off my drink and rise from my seat. “I’m getting another. You good with yours?”

She glances at her drink, which is still three-quarters of the way full, then back up at me with a knowing look. “No need to use me as an excuse to talk to Krystal,” she says with a wink.

I roll my shoulders and give her my best oblivious look. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I turn away from her before she has a chance to get another quip in, moving through bodies on my way to the bar. Backlit by a row of red lighting, Krystal spins a bottle of whiskey behind her back before depositing the liquid into four shot glasses lined up on the countertop. Her dark brown hair is tied back with a red bandana, but a riot of curls cascade down one shoulder. When she looks up, her eyes meet mine immediately.

Her mouth forms a crooked grin, and if I hadn’t seen hersmile that same way at a hundred other bar patrons, I’d swear it was just for me. Still, I doubt I’m imagining the way her gorgeous brown eyes light up when they lock on me. At least I can say I have that over the regular bar patrons.

“Look what the cat dragged in.” She comes around from behind the bar and wraps an arm around my shoulders in a cordial side hug. I’ve never really considered myself tall, but my five foot five inches is practically giant to her five foot zero inches. Her head is directly under my nose, giving me perfect access to the smell of her coconut shampoo. “I haven’t seen you in a couple months. I was getting worried.”

Not for the first time, I’m grateful for the dim lighting that hides my pink face.

“Oh, you know. I’ve been… busy.” I look away from her, willing my nervous heart to stay still in its cage.Busy reading romance books and worrying my parents over my lack of social activity.No need to let her know how uncool I really am. “Work is busy, grad school is busy. You know how it is.”

“Sure,” she says. “But you’re not too busy for TikTok.”

“What?” My head snaps up. “You saw that?” I’m so shocked, I don’t even know which “that” I’m referring to. Which would be a worse video to come across Krystal’s For You page, my accidental dabbling into thirst-trap territory or my spur-of-the-moment confessional where I detail not only how sick I am of being single, but also that I have zero romantic experience whatsoever?

“Sure did. It’s a bummer you had to delete the first video. You lookedhot.” Her grin is teasing. “You’re full of surprises aren’t you, Angel?”

It’s easy for the compliment to go right over my head, mostly because I’m still reeling over the fact that my crush of five years knows I’ve never been kissed. The cheesy nickname helps to soften the recoil, though.

“I’m a littletooangelic for my liking.” I groan into my hands. “How are you always a witness to my most embarrassing moments?”

“There’s nothing embarrassing about sharing your experience,” she assures me, and a rush of gratitude fills my chest. “Now, getting drunk and telling the bartender how beautiful her face is, on the other hand—”

“Stop!” I shove at her shoulder, and that teasing grin of hers returns in full force. “You’re never gonna let me live that down, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

“I should’ve stopped coming here a long time ago,” I grumble. Even through the noisy crowd that surrounds us, she hears every word.

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