Follow Your Arrow

by Jessica Verdi

  The feed stops.

  “Hey, I’m sorry about earlier …” I begin lightly, riding the high from our announcement, but Silvie pulls away.

  And just like that, the energy bleeds from the room, seeping under the door and through the air conditioner vents.

  She’d only been pretending everything was normal during the live feed; I see that now. I should have seen it earlier, but I wanted everything to be fine so badly that I chose to pretend her way-too-fast mood shift was real.

  Silently, Silvie adds the video to her stories stream and tags me, then starts scrolling mindlessly, her eyes affixed to the screen.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask after a moment. It comes out whinier than I’d planned. I want to add, Don’t make me guess. Just talk to me—we’ll figure it out. I love you. But I don’t say anything more.

  She shakes her head. “Forget it.”

  “Forget what?” I honestly don’t even know what we’re talking about anymore.

  “Nothing. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “But I do want to talk about it.” I need answers. Clarity.

  Silvie doesn’t say anything. She’s still looking down at her phone, scrolling so quickly I know she’s not actually absorbing the posts.

  “I’m sorry I don’t like the Dana & Leslie stuff, okay?” I continue. “But is that a requirement? That we have to like all the same things?”

  “Of course not.”

  “So what, then?”

  “I don’t know,” she mumbles after a beat. Still not looking at me. Still avoiding me.

  “You do know,” I press, starting to feel like I’m asking for her to yell at me. “Something is on your mind, Silvie. Just tell me.”

  “I don’t want to!” she finally blurts, clicking her phone off and dropping it onto her bedspread. “Stop pushing me!”

  I gape at her. “Pushing you? I’m not pushing you! I’m trying to catch up to wherever it is you are. You keep snapping at me. I just want to know what I did to make you so mad at me.”

  “I’m not mad at you,” she says. “I already said I wasn’t mad at you. Jeez, CeCe.”

  “Well, you didn’t say that, actually,” I half shout. “But how about I’m mad at you now?”

  She has the audacity to look shocked at that. “For what?”

  “Silvie, you just accused me of planning to trash-talk both you and an entire company online. For literally zero reason. Don’t you know me at all?”

  “I didn’t mean that, all right?” Her chest rises and falls with a shuddering breath. “Can you just let it go? Please?”

  Let it go. I’ve gotten really good at letting things go over the years. I know how to put my feelings aside for the sake of keeping the peace. I know how to shut up and smile when all I want to do is scream. I just didn’t think Silvie would ever request that of me.

  “No.” My voice comes out on a strange waver, as if I’m battling to stay upright on a tightrope. “I think I deserve an explanation.”

  The seconds pass.

  Eventually she nods, like she’s decided to give in.

  I wait, anticipating some semblance of an explanation.

  But that’s not what I get. Out of nowhere, Silvie pitches forward and kisses me. It’s not what I was expecting, but, hey, I can roll with this. I immediately slide closer, kissing her back. We’ve done this countless times; I know the give of her lips, the curves of her face, the taste of her lavender tea obsession so well they’ve become a part of me.

  But this kiss …

  It’s different.

  Oddly, it reminds me of our very first one, when we were younger and pent up with not only those unbearable, impossible-to-articulate feelings of unexplored need, but also that added layer that all queer kids have to deal with. That feeling of something akin to delicious danger. Of everything feeling so freaking right for once, even with all the people telling you it’s wrong.

  This kiss isn’t that, exactly. But it is just as loaded.

  And it stops as suddenly as it began.

  Silvie pulls back, putting her palms out to carve some distance between us.

  “We need to talk, Ceece,” she whispers, picking at the stitching of the bedspread. Her lips are still pink and the tiniest bit swollen from our kiss.

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to do,” I insist.

  “I really wasn’t planning on doing this today,” she continues, almost to herself.

  My stomach grows cold. “Doing what?”

  She turns her phone over, so the screen is facedown, and she finally, finally looks at me fully. Her meaning is crystal clear in her eyes.

  Need to talk. Wasn’t planning on doing this.

  I suddenly feel woozy, like I’ve been pitched headfirst over a precipice. I leap off the bed just to feel the sturdy floor beneath my feet.

  “No.” Only after the word is out there in the room do I realize I’m the one who whispered it.

  Silvie blinks. “No?” she echoes.

  “No,” I say again, louder this time. “I mean—” I toss my phone onto the bed and push my hair off my face. “NO.”

  Silvie and I met two and a half years ago, on the second day of freshman year, at the inaugural meeting of Neil Armstrong High School’s brand-new Gender and Sexuality Alliance. Silvie wasn’t out yet, and I was only out to my mom. It was like we’d been waiting to find each other. Because after we met, everything fell into place.

  Our hands linked. Just like that, almost on their own. No discussion, no putting out feelers with our friends to see if she’d told anyone she liked me. I’m not sure who reached out first, but there it was—Silvie’s fingers weaved through mine, warm and soft and gripping tightly, at GSA meetings, in the halls between classes, during lunch. Not long after our hands linked, we kissed. And kissed and kissed and kissed. And then we went public—first to our families, and then online.

  At the time, Silvie’s followers numbered at around three thousand. Mine were in the hundreds, mostly friends from school. Cut to a couple years later, and the world knows us as “Cevie,” one of the internet’s most beloved #OTPs.

  It can’t be over. We can’t be. We still love each other. There’s still so much more to do. More world to conquer.

  “CeCe …” Silvie’s saying. “I think …”

  I step away from her and begin to pace, treading invisible patterns into the teal rug she bought for selfie-taking purposes. The color almost exactly matches her eyes. Don’t say it, Silvie. Please.

  But apparently she’s made her decision. She brings the knife down so easily it’s like she’s cutting through water. “I think we need to break up.”

  A gasp leaves my body, and it sounds a little like “Why?”

  Silvie keeps picking at the bedspread. I want to tell her to stop, that she’ll ruin it. “I really hadn’t planned on … But you pushed …”

  “I didn’t push.” My voice is as weak as I feel.

  “Okay, you asked. Better?”

  “Not really.”

  She ignores that. “Lately things between us have been …” She searches for a moment. “Work.”

  “Work?” I repeat, feeling like I’ve been punched. That’s not what I expected her to say. Different, maybe. Or harder. But work? That’s just mean.

  My heart, so full since the day Silvie and I met, springs a slow, painful leak.

  “You haven’t felt it?” she asks again, clearly still hoping for backup.

  “No,” I say. “Not that.” The truth is that even with the shifts, the tilted balance, Silvie has always remained a “want to,” never a “have to” for me. I take a breath and try to keep my emotions in check.

  “Oh, Ceece.” Her voice cracks, and I risk a glance at her. She’s gazing at me with shattered-window eyes. “You know we’ve always fought.”

  “Bickered,” I correct. “But we’ve had fun too, haven’t we?”

  “So much fun,” Silvie agrees quickly. Reaching for my hands, her still sitting, me still standing,
she threads our fingers together. These hands have grasped each other countless times, through romance and exploration, joy and laughter, anger and fear and disappointment. I want to pull away. Or more like, I want to want to pull away. I hate that I cling to her tighter, even as she’s in the process of breaking my heart. “When was the last time we laughed, though? Like really laughed, not for the camera.”

  At first, I assume it’s a rhetorical question, so I just nod to let her know I’m following, but she’s searching my face, expecting an answer.

  “Oh.” I think back. “I can’t remember, actually.” Silvie and I used to laugh constantly. About all kinds of stuff, whether it was truly funny or not—we were just so giddy all the time. I know that doesn’t happen as much anymore, but …

  “Something’s missing, babe,” she says, her broken-glass eyes shimmering.

  “What is it?”

  “What?”

  “The thing that’s missing. What is it?” I know I sound frantic. But maybe if she names it, I can find it and bring it back. “It’s not attraction. Or admiration. Or love. Those things are all still there—for me, at least.” I clear my throat.

  “I don’t know,” she says, neither confirming nor denying that those things are, in fact, still there for her.

  “Was it something I did? Or didn’t do?” I ask. She said it was “work.” But did she really mean I was work? Was I too difficult, too opinionated? Did she decide I wasn’t worth the effort, just like my dad did?

  “No. CeCe, of course not. It’s just … a feeling.” An unnamed feeling that’s about to change our lives. “I really wish you were feeling it too,” she says quietly.

  “Well, I’m not.” The words come out clipped. Part of me wants to be nicer, to recognize that this is hard for her. But why should I?

  Silvie brushes her thumbs back and forth across my hands, leaving light tingles in their path. One of us needs to let go. Neither of us does.

  Could this really be the last time I’ll be allowed to touch her like this?

  When did everything change?

  Her fingers are longer than mine, her nails short and bare, as always. But she wears rings on almost every finger, the same ones every day; I can identify each one just by touch. “How long have you been feeling this way?” I ask, needing the answer but not wanting it.

  She shrugs. The obvious effort it takes adds to the air of exhaustion surrounding her. “I don’t know. Three months, maybe?”

  I suck in a breath. Three months?

  Stark reality spreads from my heart through the rest of me, up my throat and behind my eyes.

  Three months ago, my mom and I spent Christmas Day at Silvie’s house, with her family. Three months ago, Silvie and I were researching which colleges would be right for both of us, because we didn’t want to have to spend four whole years living apart.

  Two months ago, we went to New York to visit her brother at school. In the light of the setting sun on the Brooklyn Bridge, we attached a padlock to the railing. CECILIA + SILVIA FOREVER, it proclaimed in pink nail polish. We threw the key over the side and watched as it vanished into the river—I told myself that for one time only, romance conquered littering. We held each other and kissed and marveled at how perfect the moment was, as snowflakes twirled in the air around us.

  One month ago, a famous fashion designer asked me and Silvie to model for his #LoveIsLove collection. We had a blast, standing side by side in front of the pristine white backdrop, dressed in expensive, tailored clothes and shiny platform shoes, our fingers intertwined, laughing and goofing around for the camera. I got one of the prints framed and gave it to Silvie for her birthday. She hung it right next to her vanity, and said it was so she wouldn’t go a day without looking at it.

  And while all of this was happening, she already knew she didn’t want to be with me anymore?

  I look at Silvie’s vanity now, where the photo still hangs. It goes blurry as my eyes flood.

  Here I was, thinking I was all savvy and perceptive, that I was so in tune with Silvie that I noticed the moment her feelings started to change. But apparently she’s had the wool pulled over my eyes for a long time.

  “Why didn’t you say anything before now?”

  “How was I supposed to?” Her voice trembles as it rises in volume. “It’s not just us in this relationship, CeCe. Cevie is so much bigger than you and me.”

  She untwines our hands and stands, reaching out to cup my face now. I step back. “So you stayed with me, even though you didn’t want to, because of our fans?” It’s such a punch to the gut.

  “Honestly? I was hoping things would get better between us and I wouldn’t have to say anything.” She sounds tired.

  Of course she’s tired. That’s what happens when you keep your feelings secret for so long—it wears you down. After the countless DMs I’ve exchanged with teens who are terrified to come out of the closet, who are certain that if their parents find out their truth, they’ll lose everything, I know that better than anyone.

  The tears begin to fall freely, dripping off my chin and landing on my shirt, as if trying to feed life into the pile of dust that was once my heart.

  I want to protest, fight back; it’s what I’m best at.

  I wish I could kiss her again. But somehow, somewhere in the span of the last few minutes, I lost that privilege.

  Things are changing so fast. Too fast.

  “It’s really hard sometimes, you know?” she whispers. “Everything is always about Cevie. I’ve been out for over two years, and we’ve been Cevie that whole time. I don’t know who I am without you. Without us. I think I need to figure that out.”

  So that’s the “feeling.” She did know how to name it after all.

  “I understand,” I say flatly.

  She pulls me to her, not for a kiss, but a hug. I give in and squeeze her back; how can I not? I’ll always give her anything she wants. Even this.

  Her body shudders in gratitude, and she sniffles against the top of my head. Apparently we’ve run out of words, because we lapse into silence. A long, important silence. I grip her even more tightly. She clings back.

  Sometime later, we untwine ourselves, wipe our tears away, and walk down the quiet hall.

  “Headed home, CeCe?” Silvie’s mom calls from her home office as we pass her door.

  I glance at Silvie. She gives a slight shake of her head, a reassurance that we don’t have to tell her mom right now. She’ll deal with it later.

  “Yup,” I say not quite normally, stepping back into the office doorway and giving Verónica a quick wave. “Thanks for having me.”

  “Anytime.” She swivels around in her desk chair to face me more fully. “You haven’t changed your mind about coming with us, have you? You know the invitation still stands.”

  She’s talking about their family’s spring break trip to Mexico; they’d invited me to come with them a couple months ago but I felt bad about the idea of leaving Mom alone for a week. Apart from the weekend in New York with Silvie this past winter, I haven’t done much traveling at all. Not since the Disney World trip with my parents when I was seven. They fought the entire time; Dad blamed Mom for booking a trip they couldn’t afford, and Mom blamed Dad for not putting even a penny’s worth of value on our family’s happiness. It was a blast, let me tell you.

  “Thank you so much. Maybe, um, next year.” Shivers prickle across my skin with the lie.

  Verónica smiles, all warm and unassuming. “Of course. Bye, honey, see you soon.” She swivels back to her computer.

  But I won’t be back here anytime, and I won’t see her soon. The stark finality of the ordinary words is too much. Tears spring to my eyes and I make a beeline for the front door but stop short on the little foyer mat, staring at a doorknob I have no interest in turning.

  Silvie reaches around me. Unlocks the lock. Opens the door. She opens her mouth too, but doesn’t speak.

  I don’t know what to say either. We’re in no-person’s-land, hoveri
ng here by this doorway. Like we’re on a layover at an airport in a foreign country but because we haven’t gone through customs, we’re not actually in the country. Until I cross this threshold, we’re not broken up yet. We’re still here, together, on the ground but without the passport stamp that makes it official.

  But I should leave before any of Silvie’s other family members have the chance to interrupt. This goodbye needs to be just us.

  I reach out to twirl the end of her ponytail around my fingers, trying to memorize the feel of it. Forcing a little smile, I say, “See you online?”

  She smiles back. “See you online.”

  I step outside and, with a gentle click, the door closes behind me.

  Silvie and I broke up.

  I one-thumb-type the text to Mackenzie as I walk slowly home from Silvie’s house. For once, I’m not in the mood for emojis.

  Normally Mack would still be asleep at this time of day—she lives in Sydney, so she’s perpetually fifteen hours ahead of me (and sixteen during daylight saving time), and she’s very stringent about her sleep. But she posted on the app seventeen minutes ago, so I know she’s up.

  At nineteen, Mackenzie is one of the most famous influencers in the world. Her brand is very New Agey; she’s always posting pictures of herself doing arabesques on literal mountaintops, or filling homemade tea satchels, or creating crystal grids. And she’s beyond gorgeous too: strong and tall with lots of curves, sun-kissed skin, long eyelashes, and shiny hair.

  I only started following her because that’s what you do in this business—you follow each other, pick up posting trends from each other, repost each other’s stuff as if there’s no competition between you at all.

  But one day, after a mass shooting in Maine, Mackenzie went live on the app and let loose a profanity-riddled rant about Americans having an obligation to put more rigid firearm restrictions into place, like Australia did. The call to action was fierce, compelling, and totally off brand for her. I immediately DM’d her to let her know how much I loved it. How I felt the exact same way, even if I didn’t say so publicly.