Page 46 of Late Bloomer
“Fuck no,” Olivia spits, mouth twisting.
“I don’t have time,” Ophelia says.
“Opal?” Alfie reaches over, giving her calf a friendly jiggle.
She shakes her head. “Definitely not. I’ve given up on that pipe dream.”
“The pipe dream being…?” Diksha prompts.
“Finding someone who isn’t a dickhead, I guess?” Opal’s face scrunches up. “My past few relationships lead me to believe I’ve dated some of the world’s worst offerings of men, but Miles, my most recent ex, might take the cake.” She lets out a scratchy laugh, the sound both hard and soft, like a violet growing through the cracks in the sidewalk.
I’ve never dated a man. I’ve never dated anyone, if I’m being honest. I think I like men. Or, at least, I find some of them attractive. IknowI like women—their curves and angles and soft skin and beautiful smiles…
I used to stress over finding a label that fit me. Lesbian. Bisexual. Pan. Demi… I’ve filtered through them all many times over, none ever feeling quite right.
Just say queer and move on with your life,Diksha finally told me late one night after what was probably my sixth sexual identity crisis of my early twenties.
But what does that mean?I’d wailed, draining more boxed wine into my plastic cup. My brain loves order and labels and concise frameworks to understand things, and not knowing where I fit feels unbearable.
It means you’re you, and only you get to decide who you like and when you like them,Tal had said from their chair in the corner.The name of your feelings isn’t anyone’s business but yours.
“Miles cheated on Opal with her ‘best friend,’ Laney,” Ophelia says, using air quotes.
“What a totally appropriate and not at all highly personal detail of your sister’s life to tell the room at large,” Olivia says, smacking Ophelia on the shoulder.
“What? Opal’s the one who said he was the worst! I was offering proof.”
“Your conspiracy theories are not synonymous with proof, Ophelia,” Opal says, squeezing her fingers into her sparkling water can.
“Oh, Opie, honey,” Olivia says, confirming that Ophelia’s admission was spot-on.
“Let’s do presents!” Evens says, diverting the conversation from the rising voices of the Devlin sisters.
“Great idea,” Tal says. They have very little tolerance for dramatics of any sort, which makes their marriage to Diksha quite the anomaly.
“Here, open ours first,” Diksha says, popping up from the love seat and grabbing a gift bag from the corner, depositing it in my lap.
I pull out the wonky lump at the bottom and rip off the tissue paper. I let out a chirp of laughter as I unroll a pale pink T-shirt. My eyes skim across it as my smile grows, then I turn it around for everyone else to see.
ASK ME ABOUT MY SPECIAL INTERESTis written across the front in a font made of twisting vines and vibrant flowers.
“Oh my God, it’s perfect,” I say, reaching over to wrap Diksha in a hug. “Thank you so much.”
“Tal had it custom made,” Diksha says, waving at them as they beam from their seat.
“We’re about to see her in that every day for the next eight months,” Alfie says. He’s honestly not wrong. “Ours next,” he adds, handing me a bundle of carefully wrapped cylinders.
I tear away the lilac wrapping paper, revealing three large prayer candles—Phoebe Bridgers, Taylor Swift, and Fleabag staring at me front and center in saintlike glory.
“The holy trinity of twenty-twenties emo-ism,” Alfie says, offering his own version of a pious bow.
“I feel blessed already,” I say with a snort, placing the candles in the middle of the coffee table. Out of habit, my eyes flick to Grandma Lou’s leather ottoman, expecting to see her happy, curious smile, a litany of questions about if the three people on the candles are personal friends of mine on the tip of her tongue.
But Grandma Lou isn’t there. The chair is empty in its dark corner, a hollowness carving through me at the reminder.
“Okay, so, sorry in advance if this totally isn’t your vibe,” Ophelia says, breaking me out of the dark thought and placing a heavy gift bag on my lap. “But we decided to take our chances.”
“We assumed that owning a flower farm, you probably like having potted plants around,” Olivia adds as I grab the tissue paper. “Hope you don’t mind housing them in rather, um, revealing pots.”
