Thirty-Nine
T he next day, I call Natalia and ask if I can come over to talk about canceling the scavenger hunt. “I thought you weren’t going to let those fuckers win.”
“I wasn’t.” I sigh, thinking of the people tearing me apart online at this very moment. “It’s my job. Apparently, the library board doesn’t like the idea of one of their workers whoring themselves out to the internet.”
“Is that what we’re calling kissing these days?” she huffs. “Fuck them too. We’ve come so far just to cancel the scavenger hunt. What else can we do?”
For a moment, I’m flummoxed by the direction this conversation has taken. Natalia didn’t want to be part of the scavenger hunt in the first place, and now she’s convincing me not to quit?
“Let’s talk about it,” she says. “I’m home all day, come over anytime.”
An hour later when I arrive, she answers the door to her place. I cross the threshold to her studio, glancing around at the amount of finished projects scattered around the space. She showed me a couple of new pieces the last time I came over when we went over her role in the scavenger hunt. I’m not sure when her burst of inspiration happened, but it’s clear she’s finally over her slump. When her back is turned, I take a peek beneath the tarp covering her newest project.
“Are you excited about the art showing?”
After calling me out of the blue, Natalia told me the McNay museum accepted her residency application. She’d applied for it last year before her slump hit, and she wasn’t sure if she was going to take it at first. The museum’s program begins with an artist showcase, and after a bit of finagling, I figured out a way to incorporate it into the scavenger hunt. At least, before Erika told me it couldn’t happen.
“You know what? I actually am.” When she turns back around, I immediately straighten. “So, what are we doing about the scavenger hunt?”
“You mean besides giving up?”
“It doesn’t have to be about experiencing your first kiss or even dating, you know,” she says. “If the original purpose no longer serves you, why can’t you just change it?”
“To what, exactly?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Natalia says in a tone that tells me she does, in fact, know. “A fun event to meet new people and make friends but also rebuild the community you worked so hard to cultivate these past few months?”
“I… hadn’t considered that.” I tilt my head at her, thinking over the idea. “I’d have to talk to my boss to make sure, but I think that could work.”
“Problem solved, then.” She smirks. “Besides, I’ve already come up with a replacement for the mural, so there was no way I was letting you back out.”
I let out a laugh at that.
“There’s one problem resolved, at least.” I let out a sigh. “If only the rest of my issues could be so easily fixed.”
It’s weird avoiding the app I’ve spent the past few months on hours at a time. I love talking to other people like me and making new friends online, but I’m never sure how close the other person thinks we are. After the shitstorm Esme caused, a few mutuals I thought I knew really well unfollowed and blocked me. I saw from other mutuals that those same creators were making videos to condemn me. It was gutting, but maybe it’s also what I deserve.
“I’m sorry.” Natalia grimaces slightly, twisting her body until she’s fully facing me. “I never wanted what happened to me to happen to you too.”
I’m not sure if it’s the rare kindness in her tone or the careful way she tilts her head at me, but I can’t contain the floodgates anymore. When the tears come, they burst free of their own volition.
“I’m sorry.” I heave in a deep breath, but it does nothing to calm me. “I’m so sorry. I—”
Natalia is stunned for a moment, and then I’m surprised when her arms wrap around me and my head settles over her collarbone. I shut my eyes and let myself feel everything I’m feeling for a moment. This pain I never realized was inside of me, finally set free.
“It’s just that… I didn’t want to be this person, you know.” She glances down at me, eyes narrowed at the corners in question. “The one who’s understood more by people on the internet than people I know in real life. It’s…”
“Sad?”
“Lonely.” The feeling hits me square in the chest the moment it leaves my mouth. My eyes sting with an onslaught of fresh tears. I try to blink them back, but it’s no use. Natalia doesn’t seem to mind, patting my head awkwardly as she waits for me to pull myself together.
I breathe in, thinking it’ll help to center myself, but when I breathe out, what comes out instead is a choked sob. “I’ve never felt lonelier in my whole life than when I realized I was ace-spec. Is that normal?”
“‘Normal’ is relative. But yes, unfortunately I know exactly how you feel.”
“Does it ever go away?” I bat away the box of tissues she tries to hand me, only to make a grab for it when she sets it on the coffee table. After using one to blow my nose (she graciously ignores the obnoxious sound my snot makes), she finally answers me.
“There’s only one thing that can help.” She smiles a rueful smile. “Finding the people who do understand and doing anything and everything you can to hold on to them.”
“The only people who understand me are people like me. And after what Esme said, they all hate me.” I dab a clean tissue beneath my eyes. “And the ones who don’t… I can’t face them because I feel like I’ve failed them.”
“What about your friends?” she asks. “Your family?”
“I don’t really talk about being ace-spec with them,” I admit. “The only person I’ve talked to in depth about my identity is Krystal. And the internet, I guess. That’s what TikTok was supposed to be for. I thought if I came out on social media, I wouldn’t have to keep coming out over and over again.”
“You wanted to skip a step.” Realization dawns in her expression. “Not that I’d classify coming out as one singular step. It’s several steps you make with anyone you deem important enough to know, including new people who enter your life. It was the same with you, once. Weeks, months, or even years of gathering all the information you could to figure out who you are. That journey was yours, but it wasn’t theirs.”
“That’s why I started posting in the first place. To share my journey. And it backfired in the worst way. Everyone turned on me. Not everyone, but…” My eyes burn again. “There’s no coming back from that.”
“Fuck them,” Natalia says, like it’s that easy. “Seriously. The people who turned on you can go to hell. They don’t matter. But the people in your corner—what makes you think they care so little about you that they wouldn’t happily take the time to get to know this side of you?
“Coming out isn’t enough,” she continues. “You can’t expect the people who don’t know enough about your identity to be immediately caught up with where you are inside of it. Posting about your journey online isn’t enough. All it does is create a barrier that gives you the illusion of safety, but take it from me—that so-called safe space you think you’ve created for yourself?” She shakes her head. “There’s nothing safe about it.”
“Yeah.” I let out a long sigh. “I learned that the hard way.”
“You have to be honest with the people who care about you. They may not be able to relate to you, but there are ways you can make them understand where you’re coming from.”
Why does she have to make so much sense?
“You’re right.” I heave a sigh. “But it’s not as easy as it sounds.”
“Nothing ever is.” She shakes her head.
“How did you get over the dogpiling that happened to you?”
“I’m far from over it,” she confesses. “It took so much from me. Some days I’m not sure I’ll ever fully move on. Especially on days when I consider giving up art altogether. For all the good it’s done me, it’s also nearly destroyed me. Deteriorated my mental health. What’s the point in putting myself through hell for something that doesn’t serve me anymore? I gave up social media for the same reason. So why not this?”
Could I give up social media like she did? It’s done me a world of good—at least in the beginning. It brought me that connection I so desperately wanted from other people like me. It led Briana to understand my identity and apologize for the past. It brought me and Krystal together after years of pining for each other from afar. Would we have ever found a deeper way into each other’s lives if it wasn’t for the scavenger hunt?
“Why haven’t you?”
“Because it wasn’t always like this,” she answers. “I think I was at my happiest when my art was just for me. When I didn’t care what anyone else thought. If I was talented enough, or queer enough, or making enough money to pay rent. I didn’t have any expectations or undue pressure. Only passion. Drive. This itch beneath my fingers to pick up a brush, or whatever I could find to create with.”
I’m no artist, but I’m not unfamiliar with the feeling. Back when my first video reached an obscene amount of numbers, I was overflowing with content ideas. I itched to talk about my experience more, to connect with other people like me. The scavenger hunt was supposed to be for me, but now it feels out of my hands, especially with Erika’s final request that I shut it down. Everything I’ve done has been in fear of disappointing the people following me, but that happened anyway.
“I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself,” Natalia says, eyes shining, “for being incapable of choosing anything but this .”
My throat swells until all I can think about is her. Krystal. Is that what love becomes over time? Good until it’s great—great until it fails? Even when you think you’ve found the one? Is that the reason Krystal gave up on love in the first place? I don’t want to fail before I even begin, but I don’t want to live in this constant fear of an outcome I have no control over either.
“Is that how you fell into a slump?” I ask, ignoring the sheen in her eyes.
“It’s part of the trap when you’re paid by commissions. People tell me what they want, and I create it for them. Sure, some pieces surprise me by how much of myself I pour into them. Usually it comes out unwillingly, and giving over the final product becomes a harder act.” She’s silent for a moment, contemplative. “I didn’t give you a real answer about The Woman in Wanting .”
My back straightens as I regard her. “I figured that was on purpose.”
“It was.” She smirks, but her eyes are still haunted. “ The Woman is me, ten years ago when I told everyone I wanted to be an artist. Before I made a name for myself, before my talent turned on me, before the mental breakdowns and online discourse and all the other bullshit that comes with monetizing your passion. When I was so sure of what I wanted—so sure that nothing else would do.”
Behind my closed eyelids, I can see it. A younger Natalia, full of hope and wonder and pride. Unknowingly tearing her heart from her chest and offering it up to the world, not knowing what would happen next. A self-righteous naivete that comes with the territory when you’re seventeen and think you know better than everyone else.
“More and more, I find myself missing the days when I hoarded my art. When every brushstroke belonged to me and me alone. But therein lies the catch.” She raises an index finger. “You can’t be an artist without an audience.”
“Is it the criticism that gets to you?”
“It’s far from the only thing that gets to me,” she says. “Some days, it feels like I betrayed myself. Or rather, like my dream betrayed me. It’s not possible to do this full-time and support myself on my own, and even if it were, I’m sure I’d find new ways to get sick of it. Every so often, I have to make myself take a step back from the thing that once brought me nothing but joy. I waste sleep worrying over how a client will react to a certain piece, what I’ll do if they hate it. I start the project over in my head completely before they ever receive it. Ways to make it better, more what they want.”
“That sounds like a lot of pressure to put on yourself.”
“My best friend said the same thing,” she says. “She’s the one who suggested I take a break.”
“And how is that going?” I ask. “Get any clarity yet?”
“Nope.” She shakes her head before looking back at me. “I don’t think I was very helpful. I’m sorry if I couldn’t give you the advice you were looking for.”
“You were more helpful than you think,” I tell her. “I hope we can stay in touch when the scavenger hunt is over.”
“You really want to be friends with a struggling, reclusive artist whose life is falling apart?” She raises a brow at me.
“Only if you want to be friends with a library assistant–slash–canceled influencer who lives with her parents.”
“Sure.” She laughs, and it’s the first real one I’ve heard from her. “I could always use more friends just as lost as me.”