Page 7 of Okay, Cupid

He’s the one person who might understand what I’m feeling. And even if he doesn’t, because these feelings are supposed to be so foreign for Cupids, then he’ll at least pretend for my benefit. He did once before.

ME: are you busy?

His reply comes moments later.

CAL: nope! whatcha need judy jude?

ME: come with me to royal grounds?

CAL: i can be there in ten

ME: thanks.

I manage to sit up, feeling terrible and looking worse. I slip onto the floor in front of the mirror that hangs on my closet door, taking in the damage I’ve done to my makeup. I only have the energy to wipe away the NYX Light Ivory because I don’t feel like hiding behind anything anymore, even the thing that makes me feel the most like myself. Grabbing my bag and slipping my shoes back on, I stomp down the stairs. Once I’m on the street, I try my best to fake any emotion other than the heartache that’s settled in my stomach.

The café is closer to me than it is to Cal, so he isn’t there when I walk in. I order an iced mocha, but even as I sit there, staring at the cup with the condensation gathering on the glass, the paper straw disintegrating, I can’t bring myself to drink it. The thought of coffee, the smell of it even, it’s almost enough to make me sick.

As a Cupid, I’m expected to be a master of emotions, both in maintaining my own and understanding just how humans’ work. I’m supposed to understand their body language, their movements, their words and tone. I’ve spent hours analyzing them, trying to get an understanding of how their brains work.

But if humans were simple, easy to understand, then we wouldn’t need to intervene the way that we do. If they were honest and forthright with each other, we wouldn’t have to make friends with them, influence their lives, convince them to make the right move at the right time.

Then again, I suppose leading a life where you know every correct step and word would be pretty boring.

I turn to a couple in the corner. All they’re doing is sharing the same side of a booth, both on their laptops, working on something. One girl looks away, stretching her neck, relaxing into her seat and putting her head on the other girl’s shoulder, closing her eyes as if she could fall asleep right there, right now. The other girl smiles, and their hands meet underneath the table, tightening.

I feel myself looking at the two of them, wondering just what their story might be, what they mean to each other.

There’s something so soft about love, about allowing yourself to fall for this other person so hard that your brain can’t comprehend anything other than being around them for hours at a time, so unwilling to let go of them when the time comes.

But then I hurt my own feelings all over again, conjuring images of that time I spent with Leo and wondering what I’d do to get that back.

I sit there and try to figure out for the millionth time if I was actually in love with him. Leah promised me that I wasn’t, that I’m a teenager, that it’s so easy for me to get my emotions all mixed together, that I’d make it to the other side glad I didn’t do something that I’d regret.

Well … look at me now.

I made it to the other side, and I still regret what I did. The problem is …

I don’t really know which part I regret.

When I was with Leo, things just made sense. They added up. Around Leo, I never felt that urge to second-guess myself or what I was letting happen. Even if the voice in my head never let me forget how wrong it was supposed to feel, it never actually felt that way.

He made me feel like I belonged somewhere. He made me feel like I had a place where I was welcome. He made me feel like … me. For the first time I felt like myself.

The evolution of me finding my fit began when I grew out my hair and liked the way it looked, when I “borrowed” some clothing and makeup from Leah and did some of the worst things I’ve ever done to my skin, thinking I was already an expert. I’d grown up just assuming that I was a boy. It’s not that the label was forced on me or anything; when I told Leah and Richard and Cal I felt I was more of a they/them than a he/him, they understood and changed to my correct pronouns without incident. It wasn’t even that I felt nonbinary outside the rules that I’d grown up around. I guess agender is a better word. I just didn’t care about it at all. I wanted to feel like me. I wanted to dress and look how Jude looked and felt, how this version of me that I actually liked would be. And I think I found them, eventually.

But that doesn’t mean there wasn’t a battle to fight on the inside, wondering how I might want to present myself, thinking of how I wanted to dress, figuring out how things fit me and how I wanted them to look. It was a journey, one that I’m still on in a lot of ways. There are times when I’m doing my makeup that I wish my cheeks were sharper or wonder what I might look like if my body shape were more of an hourglass. Wearing dresses seems like so much fun, but I despise the way I look in them. I mostly go for skirts, tighter pants, baggy jeans, and the oversized-sweater look. Things that help me hide my body, that force me to not have to think about it while also feeling the most comfortable.

“Judy Jude!” As usual, I can hear Cal coming from a mile away. He slips into the seat right across from me, leaving his bag to dangle off the back. “Is this for me?” He grabs the iced mocha.

“Sure, I’m not going to drink it.” I just hope coffee isn’t ruined for me forever.

“Mhmm!” Cal sticks the straw in his mouth, obviously perturbed by how the structural integrity of the straw has been compromised. “How did things go! You were supposed to seal the deal today, right?”

I look around us for any prying ears. Despite the privacy of our work, Cal’s always been pretty cavalier about being a Cupid. He bursts with a confidence in his job that I envy more than anything.

“It, um …” I grab the paper wrapper of the straw, balling it up as small as I can get it. “I messed up.”

Cal realizes in an instant that this is a serious situation. He puts the coffee down and leans forward in his seat. “Okay, okay … Do you actually want to talk about it? Or do you want me to help get your mind off it?”