Follow Your Arrow

by Jessica Verdi

  She’s posting a ton of vacation pics, and her feed and stories are, as always, effortlessly compelling—beach read recommendations, mouthwatering collages of her abuela’s home-cooked meals, family photos.

  There’s one picture of her and her cousin playing soccer on the beach that I keep going back to. She’s wearing a white bikini I haven’t seen before, and she looks so amazing that every time I look at the photo, my heart starts racing and my fingertips tingle, remembering the way they used to lightly brush over her skin.

  I have to stop tracking her every move online. I know I do. It’s not healthy to resent her for being happy and strong. But her page is always just a tap or two away, and if she’s posting these things publicly, that means she wants people to see them, right? And I’m a person. So really, what’s so wrong about it?

  I configured my settings in the app so that I would get sent an alert every time she viewed one of my posts. That probably wasn’t the best move. I just … needed to know she hasn’t completely forgotten me.

  Not that I’d admit any of this on the app, though. As far as the world knows, I’m handling the #Cevie split like a champ. My selfie game has always been generally strong, but I’ve been leaning into it more lately, with more of a focus on “me” than “us.”

  You’re right, Lizzo, I post on Saturday while on a lunch date with myself. I AM my own soul mate. #tableforone

  Later that afternoon I’m sitting on my front porch with a glass of fizzy water and bag of gummies, favoriting Greta Thunberg’s posts en masse, when Mom turns onto the block, her sun roof open and music loud. It’s Josh’s CD again; Mom’s been listening to it a lot. She says the violin-y classical/country mix is “enriching.” Whatever that means.

  She waves to me through the open window, and I wave back.

  “Hey,” I say as she lumbers up the porch steps. She’s on her feet most of the day at work, and even her orthopedic clogs and the water bottle she’s constantly refilling can’t fully head off the daily exhaustion.

  “Hi, honey. How are—” Her face falls before she can finish her sentence. “Crap.”

  “What?”

  She shakes her head. “I’d meant to stop at Trader Joe’s on the way home. Totally forgot. We don’t have anything for dinner.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s okay.”

  “Yeah, I guess we can order something and I’ll deal with the shopping tomorrow. Burritos again?”

  But I’m already on my feet. “Nah, I’ll go to the store. I need something to do anyway. Text me your list.”

  * * *

  As I walk across the Trader Joe’s parking lot, a familiar sound greets my ears. It’s the music from the park, and from the CD that Mom’s been playing nonstop. Clear violin notes, like a needle through fabric, embroidering the wind and traffic.

  Cincinnati isn’t the hugest city in the world, but it’s not exactly a small town either, and I don’t often randomly run into people I know. But there Josh is, outside the store’s entrance, next to a huge row of shopping carts, playing his heart out like this is a totally normal place to hold an impromptu concert. This must be the spot where Mom first met him. His hair is messier today than that day at the park, shaking into his eyes as he pushes and pulls the bow fiercely across the strings. Today’s T-shirt reads YOU CAN’T HANDEL THE TRUTH.

  “You should livestream these public appearances,” I say after the song curves and swoops to its finish.

  Josh jolts, just like last time. I smile. Even here, in a hugely populated area, he’s still surprised to see another person. I wonder what that’s like, to not be constantly hyperaware of who’s around and what they think about you.

  He recovers quickly. “You’re just full of advice, aren’t you?” But he’s grinning.

  “Always.” I smirk.

  He brings the instrument to a ukulele-esque position and absently begins strumming the strings. “CeCe, right?”

  “Good memory.”

  “No Abraham today?”

  I shrug. “Grocery stores only allow service dogs inside. I tried to pass him off as an emotional support animal once, but they saw through it.”

  Josh laughs.

  “That song you were playing was pretty,” I say, and it was. Light and springy, like a butterfly landing on flower after flower.

  He brightens. “You think so?”

  I nod. “You know, I was serious about the livestreaming—you can do it from your phone, so more people get to hear you play. I know you’re not on social media, but it would only take a couple minutes to get something set up.” I almost offer to help, but stop myself.

  “Maybe someday,” Josh concedes. “For now I’m fine to just use busking as a way to practice playing in front of people. And I have about five hundred CDs to sell, so … yeah, that’s kind of my focus right now.”

  “How are CD sales?” I nod to the stack of discs.

  “Uh, I’ve sold six.”

  “Today?” That’s not bad.

  “No.” His smile goes sheepish. “Since we moved here in January.”

  I laugh, and take that as a “case closed.” But I’m not sure Josh realizes I’m the one who won.

  “Well,” I say, holding up my canvas shopping bags. “I’ll let you get back to your playing. My mom’s waiting for me to bring groceries home. Nice running into you again.”

  “Hey, CeCe?” he says quickly.

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you on spring break this week?”

  “Yup. You?”

  He nods, and shifts his weight awkwardly. “Would you maybe want to … do something? Hang out, I mean. With me.”

  “Oh. Um …” I freeze, racking my brain for the right thing to say.

  If this were an online exchange, I could test out a few punctuation and emojis options before replying. Worst case, I’d just disappear, and then come back later after taking a long time to mull, and say Sorry for delay, just saw this. But I can’t do that now.

  It’s not that I don’t like talking to Josh—actually, I’ve really enjoyed both our conversations so far. I’m just so used to being cautious around new people, given the whole public persona thing …

  Josh is already shaking his head and flipping through his sheet music. “Never mind. Stupid idea. Go do your shopping. Beat those lines.” He’s smiling, so I smile back and take the out.

  “Okay.” I give an awkward wave. “See ya.”

  But the blast of icy air as I enter the store shocks the stupid out of me. Josh isn’t a creepy internet stranger. And I already know some things about him: Violinist. Florida. Technology-impaired. Has a sister. Likes dogs. The sum of all this information might not equal a whole person yet, but it also isn’t nothing. It’s more than he knows about me, anyway.

  What’s the worst that can happen? We get together, confirm we are polar opposites who have zilch to talk about, and go our separate ways. The end.

  Or maybe we’ll end up as friends. That wouldn’t be terrible.

  I’m CeCe Ross, I remind myself. I am strong. I am an influencer. People like me.

  I duck back through the still-open automatic door. Josh has already started a new song, but if I wait for him to finish, I’m going to lose my nerve.

  “Hey, sorry,” I say loudly enough for him to hear me over the vibrating strings.

  His bow screeches to a halt and he opens his eyes. “What? I couldn’t hear you.”

  I smile. “Do you like donuts?”

  “So you know that guy whose CD you’re obsessed with?” I say to Mom as we unpack the groceries. “He was playing outside Trader Joe’s again today.”

  Mom sets a bag of rice onto the counter and clasps her hands together in delight. “Oh, I’m so glad you got to hear him play! Isn’t he talented?”

  “He is,” I admit. Too talented to not be findable online, that’s for sure. “Actually, this is the second time I ran into him.”

  She tilts her head, surprised. “Really?”

  “Yeah. I forgot to tell you. He was
playing at the park a few weeks ago too.”

  “Well, that’s quite the coincidence!” Mom says.

  I bend down to offer Abe one of the dog treats I bought him. He carries it to his bed under the kitchen window and lies on top of it. Abe is a strange dog.

  “Anyway, Josh is a junior too, and new to Ohio, so we figured, why not hang out?” I don’t mention the part about me having turned him down at first.

  “Hang out?” Mom lights up even more. “In person?”

  “Yes, Mom, that’s what ‘hang out’ means.”

  “Well, I didn’t know if you meant in a chat room or something.”

  I burst out laughing. “A chat room? Do you still expect to hear ‘you’ve got mail’ every time you open your email too?”

  Mom sticks her tongue out at me, but otherwise ignores my snark. “I think a new friend is exactly what you need right now, CeCe. And Joshua seems like a sweetheart. This is a great idea.”

  * * *

  This is a great idea, I repeat to myself as I enter Holtman’s Donut Shop on Monday. This is a great idea. My stomach takes a sickly little dip. The truth is, I’ve been nervous all morning.

  Why is this great idea again?

  I’m better in pictures and writing. I know my angles and how to find my light. I know how to market myself. It’s easy to be witty when you can craft and delete and revise.

  This, though. This is what I imagine going to a job interview would feel like. Josh and I have almost zero context. And apart from living in the same city and apparently frequenting the same places, I doubt we have much in common. What if we run out of things to talk about right away?

  He’s already here, sitting at the window counter, headphones on, sipping from a coffee cup. He doesn’t see me. For a split second I consider bailing. Instead, I send off a quick text to Mackenzie: It seems I’ve forgotten how to function as a regular person. Or maybe I never did?? S e n d h e l p.

  I sit on the stool he’s saved for me. At least, I’m assuming it’s for me. His foot is wrapped around one of the legs possessively. “Hi.”

  But he still doesn’t notice me; he just gazes unseeingly out the window, wrapped up in whatever’s piping through his headphones. Unreal.

  I tap him on the shoulder. Hastily, he pulls the headphones from his head, his face becoming flushed as he realizes I’m sitting right here, and have been for who knows how long. “Hi! Sorry.” He takes his foot back and carefully places it on his own footrest. “Hi.”

  “I really have to stop doing that to you,” I say, laughing.

  He shakes his head. “My fault. I’m not great at staying present.” It’s as if he’s admitting some character flaw, but one he’s grown to embrace.

  “Your podcasts are that riveting, huh?”

  He stares at me blankly. “No, I was just listening to music.”

  I smile. “No, I know. I mean, I figured. I was just … teasing. Sorry.” Aghh, this is so awkward.

  “Oh.” After a beat, he smiles too, and visibly relaxes. I wonder if maybe he was nervous about today too.

  “So … should we get a donut?” I ask. Holtman’s is a Cincinnati institution; I can’t believe Josh hasn’t been here yet.

  “Definitely.” We hop off our stools. “What do you recommend?” he asks.

  “Literally everything is good here. Want to get a few and share?” I haven’t eaten today; I could devour three donuts myself, probably.

  Josh agrees, and I step up to the counter—and immediately regret it. Of all the employees who could serve us, of course it’s Nikki who’s come over. I’d forgotten about Nikki when I suggested Josh and I come here. She graduated from Armstrong High last year, and is very active on the app. She’s also a massive #Cevie fan.

  I’d hide, or grab Josh and duck us both out the door, but it’s too late.

  “CeCe! How are you? I heard about you and Silvie! What happened?”

  I glance at Josh. His eyebrows are raised in quiet curiosity.

  “Hi, Nikki,” I say with an even smile. The same one I used on the busybodies at school right after the breakup. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine, but oh my god, I’ve been thinking about you!” Her eyes actually begin to shimmer with tears. “I just can’t believe it! You know Silvie and Jasmine came in here a couple weeks ago to see if we’d be able to cater the desserts for the prom.”

  “Oh?” I say as neutrally as I can. Having Holtman’s donuts at the prom is a great idea—I’m annoyed I didn’t think of it myself.

  “So we got to talking about how, you know, prom last year was a disaster. And Silvie mentioned that you’re not on the prom planning committee anymore?” Nikki frowns.

  “No, I am. I’m just not vice—”

  “I let her know that was very uncool,” Nikki continues, “and that you two promised everyone you were still going to be friends, and she’d better not show her face in here again until she apologizes to you and lets you back on the committee.”

  “No, no, don’t do that!” I say, horrified.

  “Don’t worry, I told everyone here what happened,” she says conspiratorially, her voice a little softer now. “We’re all on your side.”

  “Nikki,” I cut in, acutely aware of Josh watching me. I can’t believe this. I could have chosen literally any other place to meet him today. Any. Other. Place. I just really wanted a freaking donut. “Everything’s fine, don’t worry.”

  She blinks. “So you two haven’t broken up?”

  Huh? “No, we have. I just mean … don’t be mad at Silvie, okay? She didn’t do anything wrong. We’re both just trying to move on. As friends, like you said.” I cross my fingers behind my back at that last part, to negate the fib. “Thank you for your concern, though,” I add. “You’re really sweet.”

  Nikki purses her lips and nods, somewhat mollified, if not totally convinced.

  I clear my throat. “This is my friend Josh.” I gesture to him and he gives a wave. “He just moved here so I’m introducing him to the best donuts in the world. Josh, Nikki is amazing. She knows everything there is to know about this place.”

  Pro tip: When you just want to drop the damn subject already, kill ’em with kindness. It works online too.

  “We’re going to share a half dozen donuts,” I tell Nikki. “You pick! I trust your judgment.”

  Mercifully, a line has begun to form behind us, so Nikki has no choice but to get to business. She recommends a few of their staples, as well as a special s’mores donut and a blueberry and lavender cake donut, and cuts them all up into bite-sized pieces for us. I pay for everything (waving off Josh’s protests), leave Nikki a ten-dollar tip, and scurry us back to our seats.

  After a suspended moment, Josh asks the obvious. “What was that about?”

  “Try this.” I hold out a crème brûlée custard–filled bite.

  He obeys, and I watch in triumph as his eyes practically roll back in his head. “Okay. That’s amazing. Wow.”

  It’s almost enough to make me glad we came here, after all. Almost. But he’s still waiting for an answer to his question. I guess I have to tell him now. He’s going to find out the whole story eventually anyway. #sigh

  “Nikki follows me online,” I explain. “I haven’t seen her since my girlfriend and I broke up, and I guess the whole thing came as a bit of a surprise to her. She shipped us big-time.”

  All of that is probably completely obvious from context, but I say it anyway, more for my benefit than Josh’s. I need to make sure the situation is clear to him. We’ve spent about five collective minutes together and already we’re at the first major test of our friendship or whatever this is. I’m a girl, Silvie’s a girl. What will he have to say about it?

  I watch him carefully for his reaction. He finishes his bite of donut, then says slowly, “What does ‘shipped you’ mean?”

  I exhale in a short burst of laughter and relief. “It’s internet slang for when you’re a fan of someone’s relationship, or for when you really want two p
eople to be in a relationship. Like, I totally ship Eleanor and Chidi on The Good Place.”

  Josh takes another bite of his donut. “I haven’t seen that. But they’re fictional characters, aren’t they? You and your girlfriend—ex-girlfriend, I mean, sorry—are real.”

  A rubber-band-snap twinges inside me at ex-girlfriend. “Right. You can ship anyone; it doesn’t matter if they’re real or not.”

  “Or if they’re actually together or not?”

  “Totally. It can be either—like, there are lots of Gigi and Kendall shippers out there, even though they’re just friends.”

  Josh frowns. “Who are Gigi and Kendall?”

  “Oh. Models, is the short answer.”

  Josh appears to be thinking really hard, trying to make this all make sense. For a second I think he’s going to space out again, but then he bites into one of the cake donuts and it’s like he’s zapped into the present. He even makes a little gleeful noise.

  “Good, huh?” I ask.

  “Legitimately incredible.”

  I take a bite of the same donut. Man. What do they put in these things? A cup of sugar, two cups of flour, and a pinch of childhood whimsy?

  “Anyway,” I say through a mouthful, “when there’s one relationship you worship above all others, that’s your OTP. So, like … hmmm, what’s a good example?” I’m thinking out loud now. “What kind of things are you a fan of? Have you ever watched The X-Files?” That’s an old show, and Josh apparently likes old things, so …

  “Wait.” He raises a hand at me. It’s that one tiny movement that does it—any lingering weirdness vanishes. He’s teasing me now too. We’re both here, both in this conversation, both amused in our own ways. “I have questions.”

  I laugh. “Lay ’em on me.”

  “What is an OTP?”

  “Sorry. One True Pairing.”

  The next hour flies by, and the donuts disappear, as I explain OTPs, slash (same-sex) and plus (hetero) ships, shipper feuds, and stans.

  Josh doesn’t recognize a lot of the examples I use, so he tries to use his own, but they’re all old and mostly music-related and I have no point of reference for them. Like, I’ve heard of the band Fleetwood Mac, but I don’t know who the members are, let alone the intricacies of their marriages and affairs and divorces.