“You should’ve clarified that,” she says.
“I was getting to it!” We laugh for a moment. “After Arizona, I moved back home and, well, I didn’t know how much my mom was struggling financially, so I helped. As I took on more responsibility, I had to take odd jobs to cover the bills. My little brother started college, and I’m helping pay for his textbooks and stuff. He got a part time job on campus, but I really want him to focus on school.”
“What is he studying?”
“Nursing.”
“That’s honorable. Hard, I bet.”
I shrug. “He’s smart and tough. He’ll be okay. I just want to help her in any way I can. So sometimes, I work freelancesecurity for events, sometimes as cleanup crew. Ash and I were friends before he enlisted, and he works more…” I gesture around us. “Upscale security. He was able to get me a good offer. It’ll cover some bills for a month, and I can pour the rest into savings. I’m hoping my mom can someday stand on her own again, financial independence and what not.”
What I don’t say out loud is that I hope my mom doesn’t need me to take care of her so I can chase my dreams. I have a separate high yield savings account with the goal of being able to take a year off for writing, Harper Lee style.
“He’s lucky to have you,” Connie says.
It doesn’t make me feel better. “I feel guilty for wishing I could do my own thing,” I confess. “I’m not a good person just because I’m doing what I have to do, especially not when I spend most of my time working to do something else. I am always writing, taking notes, doing research. Every corner and crack of time I get, I take a sliver and try and create something.”
“I think that just proves you are a good person, and that you’re dedicated to your craft too.”
“You don’t get it.” I toss my head back and look up at the ceiling. “Good people do good things because they want to.”
“You’re doing a good thing because it’s therightthing,” Connie says. “That makes it better than doing a good thing because you want some kind of credit.”
“What about you?” I pick my head up and look at her. “I might not be making modern classics for the silver screen, but you’re not singing either. What’s up?”
Connie is quiet. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
I wait a minute. I want to press, but I don’t want to push too hard. It’s delicate. “Okay. What do you want to talk about?”
“I went no contact with my parents.” Her voice is so soft, and I’m stunned. I remember when she told me about how she came out to her parents and the following screaming match. Shehad already moved in with Lilli, and her parents were convinced that Lilli “made her gay”.
“Whenever I had a boyfriend, they would tell everyone how I was cured from homosexuality. Whenever I tried to explain bisexuality, my dad would get enraged, and my mom was dismissive. I had dated a guy for a few weeks, but it wasn’t anything special, so we decided not to waste each other’s time. My dad blamed my queerness. He was so mad, he beat up a trash can with his steel-toed boot.”
I feel the space between us, and it’s massive, a canyon. I want to jump over to her, but I can sense the physical distance is intentional, to keep our hands off each other so we can talk.
“When did you go no contact?” I ask because I can’t hold her.
“Three and a half years ago.”
I want to ask about her dating history since she brought it up, but I don’t.
“I saw your tattoo.”
I think about the ink on my chest, the sonnet it’s from, and I panic. I’m not ready to talk to her about that.
“Do you have any?”
“Not yet. I think I want some, but I just can’t decide.”
I laugh. “What a bisexual stereotype.”
We talk some more, the topics ranging from big events, like college graduations, to side jobs and anecdotes that span the last five years.
And it’s just so… easy.
With Connie.
In some ways, it’s like no time has passed since Arizona. Our conversations fall into an easy pattern. We’re in sync. It’s as if we’ve known each other for over half our lives.
