16
Lillian
Sasha brushes some remaining salt off their skirt and then folds their hands tightly under the table. I didn’t mean to spill it, but then using it as an excuse to touch them? I am not being subtle. I’ve been with Emelia for so long that I’ve forgotten how to be attracted to other people in a non-hypothetical way. Though I was never the best at flirting, so it’s not like I had skills to forget.
“I mean, who doesn’t?”
says Sasha.
“Admirer’s kind of every-
where.”
“I don’t,”
I say.
“They’re just shimmery trash.”
Curating my musical tastes is a matter of pride for me. There’s more listening to do than there is life. Can’t waste it on Top 40. Though the world doesn’t share this approach, so I certainly know my fair share of Admirer choruses. And for all the inane predictability of their earworm hits, I can’t help but begrudgingly hear how they can both sing their peers into the dirt. At least in a youthful, over-produced sort of way. Just because I know it doesn’t mean I’ll admit it.
“Snob,”
says Quinn.
“Thank you kindly.”
“A-ny-way,”
continues Cyprus, ignoring us and focusing on Sasha.
“What do you think of the trial? Should they lock up Augustus?”
“I’m not sure,”
they say eventually.
“The Channel seems committed to defending Augustus. I can’t imagine he’ll get in that much trouble as long as Ja — the girl he was with, keeps saying love is love and she’s in love with Augustus.”
“You think it’s Jasmine too?”
Cyprus seems to be researching it on her phone as she speaks. Personally, I think trying to figure out whose identity is being protected is unhelpful, but I keep that one to myself.
“There’s been loads of people claiming to be the girl from the trial,”
continues Cyprus.
“but most of the fandom figures it’s got to be Jasmine.”
Quinn and Cyprus are both leaning toward Sasha a little. Apparently, my controversy sowing isn’t what the two of them are looking for, but I toss it in anyway.
“Say Augustus and Jasmine live happily ever after, and eventually they’re like thirty-five and thirty-one and the whole thing feels less slimy, didn’t Augustus still assault someone?”
I’m not at all certain this is true.
Cyprus looks too pleased. Sex, violence, fame, all the makings of an iconic scandal.
“He put Jasmine’s older brother in the hospital. That’s why people figure it’s her, even if the news won’t confirm it. They say he was in a coma, but he’s come out of it. Otherwise, it could have been a murder trial. Apparently there was a big confrontation when the brother found out and Augustus beat the shit of him ‘in self-defense.’”
I try to move the conversation back to real music by mentioning that College Collage’s lead guitarist just quit. It prompts minimal reaction, so I resign myself to celebrity gossip.
“Are you going to take down the old Admirer poster above your bed or what?”
I ask Cyprus.
“Maybe I’ll just cut off Augustus and leave Alexander up there all sexy and mysterious and unproblematic in his helmet.”
Quinn does this thing he’s really good at where he notices someone drifting out of the conversation and reels them back in. He takes on a fake interviewer voice.
“Sasha, what do you think of Alexander Ash’s long media silence? Should he speak out in defense of his brother or should he condemn his actions?”
Quinn holds an imaginary microphone out to Sasha, who takes a long moment before responding.
“I can’t imagine what Alexander would possibly say.”
Then they ask where the bathroom is, and I let them out of the booth. That’s the situation I’m avoiding when I sit on the outside of the booth or take the aisle seat. That way if I suddenly need space, I don’t need to awkwardly get someone to move or squeeze by them while I’m panicking in order to get out. Even with Emelia, I didn’t like sleeping between her body and the wall. Sasha doesn’t look panicked, though.
“Do you think we overwhelmed them?”
I say to Cyprus and Quinn.
“All these moral quandaries and shit.”
“Probably more the getting chased out of the Mercury.”
Quinn gives me a knowing look.
“Et cetera.”
Et cetera being the part where I grabbed their hand and didn’t let go.
I say.
“Hey, they were the first one to insist on getting close to the stage.”
Before he can reply, I manage to make the College Collage conversation happen, and things feel simple for a few minutes. I love this restaurant, love the venues and their quirks, love all the safe corners of my world where I can grab a breath before going out again. Without Emelia, a lot of those corners are gone.
Cyprus has gotten pretty quiet, which these days usually means she’s texting Emelia. I want to ask how Emelia is. A whole week of school and I haven’t run into her. I want Cyprus to text.
“We all wish you were here,”
to let Emelia wonder if I’m part of that. I don’t know how things are being navigated. I know she hangs out with Cyprus separately. For something like tonight, I didn’t think Emelia would want to be invited. Maybe Cyprus invited her and she said no. What if she’d come to the show? What would I have done?
I have this moment of fantasy that Cyprus sends my message to Emelia and Emelia says.
“I love Falafel ’Til Dawn. Would it be okay if I biked over and joined you?”
And then she’ll arrive and she’ll know I don’t like to sit on the inside and nothing dramatic will happen but there will be the hint of a thaw. Tonight, late, we’ll send a few text messages, just a few. I’ll say goodnight then lie awake and there will be a tiny bit of hope.
“Soooo, are you making a move on Sasha?”
Quinn asks me. He glances over his shoulder toward the bathroom, but the door Sasha went through is still shut. I’ve spent my share of time sitting in bathrooms psyching myself up for social things. Their hair doesn’t look like it maintains itself either.
“They said they’re nonbinary,”
continues Quinn.
“but I’m not sure how you fit into their whole orientation.”
If I was to be surveyed in a nicely inclusive way I’d say bisexual. Biromantic too, body and heart, though those don’t separate for me. People sometimes project other identities onto me because I only dated Emelia, which … just no. I know myself, and I think some people of my gender are attractive, and also people of every other gender. In Sasha’s case, very attractive. It’s way less confusing than when I assumed I was straight. That never made sense in me.
“I can find out,”
continues Quinn. He looks off into the distance.
“They call me Le Wingman.”
I try to wave him off, but he says he’ll figure it out anyway. Emelia would just be able to tell. It’s uncanny.
And now I feel guilty about being attracted to Emelia and about flirting with Sasha. Isn’t that just grand.
“Lillian needs Le Wingman,”
says Cyprus.
“She was mean to Sasha about locking up their bike, and now they’re probably afraid of her.”
“I was direct,”
I say.
“And helpful. If they think I was bossy, that’s engrained sexism. I’m a goddamn leader.”
Quinn smirks at me.
“A leader who flirts by pouring salt on their crush?”
“First, not my crush. Second, I wasn’t trying to flirt. They had salt on them. I was just casually brushing off the mess I made.”
“Smooth,”
says Quinn.
“Chaotically endearing?” I try.
Cyprus considers it.
“Quirky dream girl?”
Which actually hits really close to home, because I hate every single time I’m a cliché.
I hate that no matter what I do, I fit into one some way or another.
And if it seems new and unclichéd, give it a week and it’ll have clichés about its clichés.
Emelia once joked that I was a punk bi trope, which basically confirmed the fears I already had.
I started dressing more randomly, mixing different styles and aesthetics and mostly getting very unhappy.
Emelia tried to let me work my way through it but got tired of how long it was taking me to make choices about literally everything, since I was always worried about whether I was being authentic and unique.
She kissed me and she said gooey things that I adored but almost pretended not to in an effort to be tough.
She said.
“Express in whatever way makes you feel alive.”
She said.
“It makes me smile to see you as yourself.”
She said.
“It’s okay if other people dress like you.”
She said.
“You’re already Lillian.”
She said.
“That’s already and always enough for me.”
She kissed me again and said.
“Love, you’re my punk bi trope.”
Then she sang some awful just-be-yourself bubbly pop song at the top of her lungs and wouldn’t stop until I sang along.
I used to hate that song, then for a while I smiled every time I heard it.
Now I can’t listen to it at all.
Sasha arrives back at the table at the same time as the food.
They look reassembled with their suit jacket back on and their hair tidied with the couple strays falling out perfectly.
They put on ambitious winged eyeliner that I’m honestly kind of impressed by.
“If there’s going to be a quirky dream girl, can it be me?”
they say.
“This food looks unbelievable.”
Later, when we drop Sasha off in front of a patchwork two-storey house a few blocks from where I live, I’m still wondering how much of our conversation they heard.
They never indicated that they caught anything other than the end.
I try not to add that worry on top of everything.
I’m so tired.
I wanted to run all night and I couldn’t.
The sadness caught up.
But it was good.
It helped my heart feel reactivated for a little.
I grabbed some moments of forgetting.
We’ve got band rehearsal tomorrow night for the first time since the breakup.
More moments of immersion, I hope.
It’s two steps forward and a step and a half back, but there’s an upward trajectory.
I keep picturing Sasha on their tiptoes, reaching for the fire escape.