Chapter 4
“Don’t be a stranger?” I tell Kai, my voice uneasy as he pulls over in front of my house. I slide off the bike and feel the rough pavement under my shoes.
“You have a visitor.” The look in his eyes is cryptic. It’s not until I turn that I spot Marissa, standing by the doorway, her arms crossed as she studies us. “Bye, Sash. See you around.” With a nod, he revs the engine and lowers the visor on his helmet.
My heart thuds when Marissa throws me an accusatory glance.
I don’t want to hear about how running from the meet and greet wasn’t responsible.
I know already. And even if I didn’t, this is stupid.
She works for me, and I texted her to say a friend had picked me up.
But she remains silent until Kai has driven away, the roar of his bike fading into the distance.
“So, there’s an explanation.” I brush past her into the house, tossing my shoes by the entrance.
“Does your explanation have a name?” she asks, walking in without taking her shoes off again. “Who is he?”
“Kai.”
“Your … ex Kai?” The lines on her forehead almost knit together.
I exhale, the tension in my shoulders releasing in a slow, measured breath. “I ran into him.”
“Before or after you escaped from the meet and greet?”
“I had nothing to do with the fire alarm going off. I got soaked, and I didn’t want to get photographed like that. Kai did me a favor and drove me away from there.”
It’s half the truth. But at least it’s not a lie.
Marissa pauses, her expression hardening. “Does he know … about you?”
About me? It takes me a moment to get what she’s asking.
Does he know you’re aroace? Is he going to be a problem?
“Yes, he does. But no, he won’t need an NDA. If he wanted to out me, he’s had two years to do it.” I don’t know why I feel so annoyed at her. I told her that Kai and I had dated. I told her how difficult it was for me to come out. Maybe that’s why her reaction this morning hurt me.
Wait a couple of years, and if you still feel the same …
I don’t like it when people assume being aro or ace is temporary.
Sexuality is fluid, sure, but it’s the inherent subtext that aromanticism and asexuality are something that should be changed.
Like, there’s no telling if I’ll ever fall in love, or experience sexual attraction—some people on the aroace spectrum do—but I shouldn’t have to think of it as a wish or a relieving expectation.
Something that will make me fit in better.
If it happens, cool. If it doesn’t happen, cool.
Marissa trails behind me into the kitchen, her usual chattiness replaced by uncharacteristic silence. “If you say we can trust him, I trust him,” she says finally, but her voice lacks warmth.
“Really?” I cock an eyebrow. This is new. The first advice she ever gave me was not to trust anyone in this industry.
“Don’t pull that disappearing act again, though.
It could cost us concert tickets. You know, our goal is still for you to go on tour next year.
” Her voice is firm, and I guess this is her way of saying she was worried about me.
Before I can stop her, she pulls me into a hug, shoulders slumping against my frame.
“You know I’m just looking out for you, right? It’s my job.”
“I know,” I say. She only wants the best for me.
“All right. I’m leaving, but I left some sushi in the fridge in case you get hungry. I know you’re too lazy to cook.” She attempts to lighten the mood, but the comment still stings.
“I’m not lazy.” Sometimes my brain just shuts down, like a computer that’s about to overheat, and simple tasks like cooking become hard to do.
A few years ago I used to be obsessed with cooking.
I would try out different recipes and make dinner for Sonia while our moms were at work, and I’d help her with homework before studying, showering, doing the laundry, and working on my music, but lately it’s like my brain won’t cooperate.
“Don’t take it personally. It happens to everyone in this business. Laziness is a side effect of fame,” she goes on. “If it bothers you, just try harder.”
“I already am.” My hands curl into fists. I want to eat healthy, I want to cook, and I want to take better care of myself, but I can’t conjure up the energy. I feel like my soul is so exhausted, resting makes no difference.
Take showering. It’s supposed to be relaxing, but there are so many little related tasks that it drains me.
Change clothes, get in the shower, go from dry to wet, then wet to dry.
Moisturize, dry and style my hair, clean my hairbrush, put on new clothes and discard the old ones.
Put everything away and mop the floor. Plus the feeling of wet hair touching any part of my body makes me want to crawl out of my skin.
By the time I’m done, I’m even more tired than before.
My therapist says I could be on the autistic spectrum based on things I’ve been sharing with her and is worried about me burning out.
She wanted to talk more about it, but I haven’t had time to schedule an appointment with her in over two months.
I haven’t told anyone yet—part of me worries I’m going to be brushed off.
I can picture Marissa rolling her eyes and telling me to “power through it,” and my moms will tell me some variation of “You’re just unique. ”
Another part of me is afraid to discover that Sasha, the real me, doesn’t fit what’s expected of Sassy. Time spent on understanding myself means less time spent on her, and Sassy is not allowed to struggle.
This time, Marissa really does go home, and it’s just me in an empty house.
I need to get better at being alone, so in a way, this is a necessary test. As I move through the rooms, the quiet seems to echo around me, amplifying every creak of the floorboards.
I like being by myself, but with other people in the house.
I don’t think I enjoy being alone alone.
I settle in bed to watch a show, but the silence sticks to the walls, punctuated only by the sound of my tablet in the background.
My mind wanders to Kai, to the look on his face when he asked me to be friends again. Did he really mean it? Can we be friends like we used to?
I don’t know anything about him anymore.
It shocked me to hear he had stopped drawing and writing, and as much as I wanted to know why, I’ve been out of his life for so long, I don’t have the right to ask.
Besides, he blocked me everywhere after our breakup.
Well, everywhere except on Spotify. I guess he forgot, or maybe he didn’t care.
It’s not like I could reach out through there.
I would listen to his playlists sometimes, though, trying to get a glimpse of how he was doing, wondering if he still listened to epic music when he wanted to drown out his thoughts, or made travel playlists whenever he was excited about a trip because he likes walking around feeling as if he’s in a movie.
My music was never among his choices—I doubt he’s listened to my album, but sometimes a song would play that I also really liked, even if he didn’t know, and I’d smile, like despite everything, we were still connected somehow.
Dragging myself off the bed, I dig through the depths of my closet until I find a neglected box.
Two years ago I hid it so I’d never have to look at it again, but I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away.
Inside there are keepsakes, like the ticket stubs from the movie Kai and I went to see on our first date.
The heart-shaped shell Mia and I found on the beach.
The crumpled-up notes that Kai, Mia, and I used to pass in class.
The Levi Ackerman plushie Kai got me for my birthday.
It came with an Erwin Smith plushie companion, but I lost him, and I’ve had a feeling that my Levi plushie hates me ever since.
It smells musty, but I hold it close, a mix of emotions stirring in my chest. They say nostalgia is bittersweet, but right now it feels overwhelmingly bitter. I don’t know how Kai and I can even begin to pick up where we left off when that chapter of my life closed a long time ago.
My phone lights up with a FaceTime from Mia, ripping me from my thoughts.
“Finally! You picked up on the first try!” She smiles at the screen.
“?Todo bien? ?Es super tarde on the East Coast, no?” I scramble back to the bed. With the lights turned off, I look like a blob speaking Spanglish.
“?Eh? Pero si es muy pronto, just five AM,” she says.
Mia’s family on her mom’s side is Puerto Rican, so growing up we used to switch between Spanish and English a lot.
My mood lifts hearing her voice. She stands in front of her window, looking stylish in her workout clothes, a light blue shirt accentuating her soft bronze skin as she ties her hair into a ponytail.
“Exactly, it’s five AM. That’s not early in the morning, it’s late at night,” I grumble.
Mia is an early bird, but she’s knocked out cold by eight PM.
As for me, the idea of waking up at five AM makes me want to commit arson.
“Are you going to the lab?” I ask, curious about her latest internship.
Mia wants to become a microbiologist, and recently she’s been interested in learning more about how gut bacteria influence the immune system, which leaves me in awe every time she tells me about her classes.
She’s literally the coolest person ever.
“I’m going on a run with Jason. He’s running a marathon soon. I signed up with him.”
“You barfed all over my shoes the last time you tried to run a marathon,” I remind her. “And you hate running.”
“Details, details.” She waves a hand. “I wasn’t going to sign up—I’m pretty swamped, but he asked me a few times, and I guess I could use some exercise after studying all week.”
“You don’t have to pick up a hobby you don’t like just for him, Mimi.”