Page 88 of Kiss Me, Maybe

Maybe I should’ve gone to Marcela. We never finished our conversation the other day at the library. I should’ve asked her when she knew Theo was the one. She was so scared to commit to him, even when she knew undoubtedly how she felt about him. I didn’t understand it at the time, but now that I’m in her position, I do.

After a moment, my cousin says, “But I think I can give you some advice.”

“You’re the perfect person to be giving relationship advice. I know because that used to be me.” I nod at him. “You’re a rare, unbiased opinion.” He’s a late bloomer, too, though unlike me he at least has had minimal experience with dating.

He chuckles lightly at this. “I think it’s just that our advice comes from reading romance novels.”

“You may have a point there.” My eyes slide to the bookshelf in his room visible through the open door, where an entire row of mass markets taken from my room sit. When he asked to borrow a book last month to read during spring break, I never expected him to rob me. “By the way, I’d like some of those back one day.”

“Not a chance.” He lets out a loudoofwhen I punch his shoulder. “Ow! Fine, all right. Geez.”

Once we’ve settled the issue, he grows serious. “Did you always know you were different? Before you realized you were ace-spec?”

I consider his question, thinking back to the days when Briana and Esme and my other friends first started talking about boys they liked. “On some level, yeah. I think so. I always tried to shove that feeling back, find some other explanation for it. But it was always the reason I avoided dating anyone for so long.”

“I did that too.” He nods. “But I couldn’t avoid how I felt forever. I didn’t want to, but I knew what it would mean to tell other people. Especially my dad.”

“I wish there had been some way out of it for you.”

“It’s okay,” he says, even though we both know it’s not. “When we came home that night, after my dad had his whole tirade and left, my mom made me sit down and talk to her. She asked me a lot of questions to better understand my identity. She was very understanding about it. More than my dad, even more than some of my closest friends. I saved coming out to the family for last, and by that point I was starting to feel really… lonely. No matter how kind or supportive everyone was, I never felt understood by any of them. Especially when they’d say they knew I was queer all along and were just waiting for me to say something.” He shakes his head.

“How could they know whenIdidn’t know?” he continues. “Anyway, the point is I never banked on feeling understood byeither of my parents. But my mom must’ve sensed some of the doubts I was having. So I told her how I felt. The whole circus of coming out, let alone what dating would be like. She just smiled and said she couldn’t wait for the day I fell in love. ‘The fight will be worth it,’ she said, ‘when you find the person who looks at you and sees the sun.’”

I smile to myself, picturing Soledad with her son, pushing him into a chair to give him the best kind of lecture a mother can give.

“So? Is the fight worth it if you get to be with Krystal at the end of the day?”

I’ve spent years pining over Krystal. Her face has been burned into my brain since the moment I first saw her. How could I have spent weeks getting to know her without cataloging the changes? How did I miss the moment she started to see me differently? The moment she looked at me and saw the sun?

I only began to realize it when my cousin exposed that picture. It’s since circulated online in the worst possible way, proof of my betrayal, but maybe it’s proof of something else—something that’s been between me and Krystal for much longer than either of us knew. Even now, when I close my eyes, I can see her face in that picture.

Of course she’s worth the fight. How could I be so stupid to ever think otherwise?

“Oh my god.” I’m not sure if I only think the words, or if I say them out loud. When Julian breaks out into a knowing grin, I have my answer.

I love her.

Now I have to fight for her.

Forty-One

When my parents arrive home Wednesday evening, they’re a little stunned when I run down the stairs and practically throw them to the wall in a bear hug. I don’t notice I’m crying until my dad’s voice pitches in alarm.

“Mija? What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry.” I try to pull away, but my mom stops me by tightening her grip around my shoulders. “I can’t seem to stop crying. It’s been happening all week.”

“Angelita, why have you been crying?” My mom pushes my hair back, seeming stunned by the length. “You cut your hair.”

“My friend helped me. I actually want to go shorter,” I tell her, trying not to take it personally when she gasps. “I’m really glad y’all are home.”

“You’re starting to scare us,” my dad says. “Tell us what’s going on before I have a heart attack. Is everyone okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” I say before I think better of it. “Well, physically I mean. You guys missed a lot since you’ve been gone.”

“Is this about Esme?”

I rear back, not only by the fact that they know, but also by the hard tone in my father’s voice.

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