All Our Nevers (NASA #2)

1

Lia

I f your vagina was a flower, what kind of flower would it be?”

I’ve been asked a lot of horrendous questions at influencer events before, but this one is uniquely abhorrent.

I grapple my social media smile into place as I reply, “Probably the one from Little Shop of Horrors. The teeth really resonate.”

The interviewer tilts her head, brows creasing like she’s not sure if my answer is earnest or cutting or just too artsy for her. She looks like a high schooler. My God… is she a high schooler?

“Oh, um, okay,” she says. “And what made you want to participate in today’s Floral Feminism event?”

My real answer: I did not want to participate in today’s Floral Feminism event.

I think the concept of a Floral Feminism event is excruciating and would rather be at home plucking out each of my eyelashes one-by-one.

But this shit pays two hundred dollars for attendance plus a post, and mama’s gotta make rent and Archie needs dog treats, so here we are.

But instead of saying any of that, I answer, “Well, as my followers know, all of my art is created through a feminist lens. And while I may not be a florist, fiber arts are also a historically female practice, which means they’ve been devalued for generations, and I love pairing the explicitly feminine medium with subject matter like femme portraits and liberation quotes to draw attention to issues of modern-day gender politics. ”

And with that… I’ve lost her.

“Great. And if your boyfriend could only bring you one kind of flower for the rest of your life, what kind would you have him bring?”

I glance sideways at Sophie, who looks like she’s in pain from her stifled laughter, then upward, begging the white peonies overhead for patience.

Eventually I manage to say, “Well, I’m single right now, but if I weren’t, I would have my girlfriend bring me orchids, because they last a long time and aren’t as hard to take care of as people think. ”

I put the slightest emphasis on girlfriend because I’m not in a generous mood and shame is a powerful tool.

Then, having thoroughly embarrassed this young idiot with my gayness (really bi-ness, but she doesn’t need to know the details), I’m off.

I say “Thanks so much for your time” as I turn on the heel of my favorite red slingbacks and drag Sophie through the glass doorway of Boston’s Institute of Contemporary Art.

“Oh! Yeah, of course, yeah,” the interviewer flounders. “Thanks to you—I mean, thank you, too, as well.”

Her voice is quickly muffled by the crowd. It’s all sort of pitiful, and I don’t feel bad at all.

Only once we’re out of earshot does Sophie let her control snap, bursting into laughter and collapsing against my arm.

“Stopppp,” I whine, but really, I’m right there with her.

She’s doubled over, steps staggering, breaths wheezing as we walk into the ICA’s main lobby.

“But Lia, if I hadn’t come today, I never would’ve known what kind of flower your vagina is! Ten years of friendship and you think you know someone...”

“Shut up.” I knock her sideways, but not far enough to break the place where our arms are linked.

Sophie is my best friend. Technically one of three, the others in our little group being my brother Nolan and Sophie’s fiancé Andy, but everyone knows she’s my number one.

“Why are we even here?” she asks when her breathing returns to normal. “You look miserable. Are they paying you that well?”

The balance in my bank account flashes before my eyes.

No matter how carefully I plan my budget each month—and believe me, I do—it feels like a flimsy life raft in the middle of the ocean.

My influencer revenue hits in erratic crests and troughs, with any profits from my art serving as little more than a trickle of rain that can’t quite rise the tide in my favor.

In short: I’m broke.

“Believe me,” I say, “I wish I didn’t have to be here. But I have to do at least one influencer event every month.”

“Why do you have to do that many?”

“Because,” I say—a non-answer. She side-eyes me until I add, “Because it’s in my plan for the year, okay? There’s no point in making goals and a schedule and a monthly budget if you’re not going to stick to it.”

“No, yeah, okay, I get that,” she says. “I didn’t mean to sound like I was questioning your judgement. I just want you to pursue the things that make you happy.”

She says it like it’s that simple. And, God bless her, maybe she really thinks it is.

On the surface, my friendship with Sophie might not make a ton of sense.

She’s all sweetness and freckles and confrontation-aversion, with a science nerd heart and the PhD candidacy to back it up.

I have decidedly less sweetness, fewer freckles, and vanishingly little confrontation-aversion, with a bachelor’s degree in visual arts and business, and an oversized social media following.

“Is this how these events usually go?” she asks as we walk past a wall of windows, Boston Harbor’s glistening blue expanse behind her. “Just a bunch of photo opps and spacey interviewers?”

“I wish I could say no.”

“You’re a saint,” she laughs.

“Literally no one has ever said that about me.”

“Well, okay,” she counters. “Maybe you save all your saintliness for this stuff, and then NASA gets your demonic side.”

My cheeks pull into a smile. “Must be.”

And yes, I also work for NASA.

Just kidding. Can you imagine? NASA hiring influencers would be some next-level CIA conspiracy shit.

No, that’s just what we call our group of friends because it’s an acronym for our names: Nolan, Andy, Sophie, and Amelia (even though no one calls me Amelia, just Lia, but NASL is a bad acronym).

We were drunk idiot college kids when we came up with it, almost a decade ago now, but if anyone ever disparaged it, I would punch them directly in the nutsack.

“Want to hit the bar?” I ask my ray-of-sunshine best friend. “I got two free drink tickets just for showing up.”

“Absolutely,” Sophie says. “But I also have to pee. Want to get in line now and I’ll meet you there?”

“Sounds good. If I order before you’re out—gin and tonic?”

“Or white wine, whatever you’re having.”

“You got it.”

When Sophie walks off towards the bathroom, I scan the main event space, looking for the bar and taking note of the attendees.

They’re exactly who I would expect; a sea of floral polyester in blush, lilac, and cornflower.

Mostly women, mostly in their twenties, mostly in groups of two to four, mostly paying more attention to the drinks in their hands than the art on the walls.

And you know what? That’s fair. This event sucks.

If I had put a bit more forethought into my schedule for the summer, this never would have happened.

But between daily social media posts, bi-weekly social media lives, planning my art, making my art, going to vendor fairs, and going to abhorrent influencer events, there simply aren’t enough hours in the day to plan my calendar with the level of intention I aspire toward.

And once my schedule is set, it’s set. I never deviate from it.

Why would I? Without a fixed salary to rely on, it sometimes feels like my schedule is the one predictable thing in my life. The one thing I can completely control. I won’t go experimentally deviating from that method now. Not when cash is so tight.

I turn a corner around a stark white wall, still looking for that damn bar, and that’s when my day turns from saccharine to hellish.

A hard body thuds against mine. An instinctual “Sorry” leaves my lips and “Whoops” leaves his. There’s a broad hand cupping my elbow, keeping both of us upright. And when I finally look up to his face, I find a horrible little smirk already planted there.

“Well, well, well. Look who we have here.”

Owen Walsh is cocky, obnoxious, and profoundly self-centered.

Just tall enough to be tall without being impressively so.

Dark hair, a dark beard, and pale blue eyes that pierce like icicles, popping the bubble of calm professionalism I’ve been fighting to maintain since I arrived at this stupid fucking event.

He’s an absolute know-it-all, a sellout corporate lawyer, and—most unfortunately—the other A in NASA’s older brother.

“Did I—” I feign confusion, looking around the room. “Did I take a wrong turn into hell? What are you doing here?”

And oh lord, there’s a woman with him. Some poor girl at least five years his junior, with fair skin and long black hair and a placid smile.

Owen bites out a laugh, then tucks his date under his arm. “I live in this neighborhood, Amelia. You’re in my territory.”

No one calls me by my full name. No one but Owen Walsh. The fuck is wrong with this guy?

I ignore him, turning instead to his companion. “You know you can do better than him, right?”

“I, um…” she stutters, “I think I’ll go get another drink. Do you want anything, Owen?”

“No thanks, babe. I’ll meet you there.” He sends her away with a slimy wink. I consider puking on his shoes.

“I see you’ve got a new flavor of the week,” I say once the girl has disappeared into the crowd.

“Are you objectifying my date, Amelia?”

“Oh no, I think you’re doing plenty of that for the both of us.”

“What are you even doing here?” he asks.

“Excuse me, you’re the one out of place. Floral Feminism, Owen? Really? What would possibly compel you to go to a Floral Feminism event at the ICA?”

“I actually didn’t know about the event before we got here, but this is my go-to first date spot.”

My head bobs backwards in shock. “Why?”

He shrugs. “Makes me look cultured. And if I buy a membership I get free dates for the year.”

My laugh is rough and dry in my throat. “How thoughtful. Your dates must really feel cherished.”

“They do.” He winks again, and I roll my eyes with exaggerated slowness—lingering at the top of the circle like a ramshackle carnival ride.

“Okay. I’ve had enough of this interaction.” I’m already turning to go as I say, “Bye, Owen.”

But then he grabs my wrist. “Wait—”

“Don’t—” I yank it free with a violent tug “—grab me.”