Follow Your Arrow

by Jessica Verdi

  That’s true, I write back. Nothing is ever as it seems on social media. I know that better than anyone.

  Thirdly, she says, you are not the Beatles. Get over yourself.

  * * *

  Tuesday morning I’m getting ready to meet Josh, doing my makeup under the bright lights of the bathroom, when a DM pops up on my phone.

  I stare at it for a full minute before allowing myself to believe it’s real.

  Treat Yo’Self is a hugely popular line of pop-culture-based novelty and self-care products. They sell things like bracelets with Leslie Knope’s face on them, and massage oils with a #retro Spice Girls theme. The “Baby” Powder–scented one makes me gag a little, but I really like the “Scary” Cayenne. Lots of feminist, girl-power stuff, but things that are actually cute and trendy and funny.

  They’re way bigger than any of the other brands I’ve partnered with before. Like Tawny said, I have posted about some of their products here and there, just as a fangirl of their company. And they want to work with me! Not Silvie. Me.

  Hi, Tawny! I reply right away, my fingers shaking a little. Yes! Let’s discuss!

  A few back-and-forths later, I send Tawny my cell number and she gives me a call. Turns out it was one post in particular that caught their attention—the one I posted from my solo lunch date, with the nod to Lizzo’s song “Soulmate.” Their CEO, Tawny’s boss, is recently divorced, and approached Tawny and the rest of the marketing team with the idea of doing a social campaign around the universal experience of heartbreak.

  “We’d love to have you come on board as a brand ambassador,” Tawny says. Her tone is equal parts pep and business as she runs down the details. “You can be as personal as you want in your posts—in fact, that’s what we’re looking for. Talk about life post-breakup.”

  “But no one seems to care about Cevie anymore,” I say, fully aware I might be talking Tawny out of her offer. No point in not being upfront about the situation, though. “What would I even talk about?”

  Tawny volleys back to me. “You still care, don’t you? You’re still hurting?”

  I’m silent for a beat. “Yes.” I wonder how she knows that; I haven’t posted about it at all since that first day.

  “Exactly! Your breakup might be old news on social by now, but there are people of all walks of life struggling with heartbreak every single day, and who better to connect with them than someone who knows what it’s like? Plus,” she adds, “we absolutely love your style. We’re confident this could be a great fit.”

  I couldn’t agree more. The excitement bubbles back up.

  Tawny runs down the basic points of the contract with me. It’s a lot of the usual stuff, like the hashtags Treat Yo’Self wants me to use in each post (#treatyoself, #selfcare, #mystory) and the ones the Federal Trade Commission requires me to use (#ad, #sponsored). They’d like me to post at least three times per week for two weeks, with the option to extend. The posts can be in any format (photo, video, GIF) but each must include an image of me wearing or using at least one Treat Yo’Self product, with a direct link to the company’s site. I’ll also have to grant the Treat Yo’Self marketing department access to my app metrics for each day that I upload a post so they can view how many eyeballs landed on the posts. For each post I’ll be paid $2,000 per 100,000 views. I have close to a million followers, so, even if only half of them view the posts … yeah. A lot of charities are about to get some big donations.

  I accept on the spot, and Tawny promises to email me the contract by the end of the day and overnight me a bunch of products. Looks like I’ll be doing a supersized #unboxing video tomorrow!

  When we end our call, I place the phone gently down on the sink and look into the mirror. My expression is equal parts disbelief, joy, and disbelief that I’m feeling joy.

  Everything’s going to be okay. For the first time in ages, I’m certain of it.

  I blot my smiling lips on a tissue, do one last check of my hair and outfit, and skip out the door.

  As Josh and I stroll through downtown, I point out spots here and there, and Josh tells me about all the differences between here and Miami. I’ve never been to Florida, but from the way he describes it—the beach, the colors, the weather, the Cuban influence, the food, the music—Miami and Cincinnati might as well be on two different planets.

  “Why did you move?” I ask.

  “My dad got a new job.”

  “Oh.” I nod. “What does he do?”

  “He’s a nurse anesthetist. Back home—I mean, back in Miami, he was working as an ER nurse and studying to become an anesthetist at the same time because the pay is so much better. So when he got offered this job at the medical center here, he couldn’t turn it down.”

  I remember now what he said about his dad working and going to school full-time, and often being late to pick him up from violin lessons.

  “Does he have more time off now?” I ask.

  “Not really. The job is really demanding, so he still works six days a week.”

  I nod. “My mom’s a vet tech. That’s kind of like the nurse version of veterinary medicine. She works a lot too.”

  “I bet the two of them would have a lot to talk about,” Josh says.

  “Totally.”

  On a whim, we hop on rental e-scooters and take them down to the water. It’s a really nice day, and the wind on my face as we zoom through the streets feels good. I make sure to take a few quick selfies to post later.

  “Can I ask you a question?” Josh asks after we park the scooters and stop to gaze over at Kentucky across the river.

  “Sure.”

  “Have you ever dated anyone other than … what was her name? Silvie?” The words come out in a rush, as if he had to dare himself to say them.

  I smirk at him sideways. “In other words, have I ever dated a guy?”

  “That’s not what I meant!” His cheeks have those specks of pink again.

  “Uh-huh,” I say, teasing. “Suuuure.”

  “No, really! I just knew you’d been together for a long time and, you know, you’re only sixteen, and I’ve never even dated anyone, and, oh jeez, I don’t even know what my point was anymore—” He scrubs his hands down his face.

  “Josh, it’s okay,” I say, laughing. “I don’t mind. I’ve had a grand total of two girlfriends, if you count the totally innocent thing with Rebecca H. at day camp the summer before eighth grade. I have had a grand total of zero boyfriends.”

  “Okay.” He nods. “Got it.”

  “I’m definitely more drawn to girls than boys. Always have been.”

  “Have you ever kissed a guy?”

  “Nope.”

  There’s a brief pause, and I’m pretty sure I know what question is coming next.

  “So how do you know you’re bisexual and not gay?” he asks, and I smile to myself at his predictability.

  This is something I’ve thought a lot about, and I have my answer at the ready.

  “Because sexuality isn’t experience-based. It’s feelings-based. How do you know you’re straight, even though you just said you’ve never dated anyone?”

  More thoughtful silence as he takes that in.

  “And I guess technically I’m pansexual, because obviously there are more than two genders, and the person’s gender or sex isn’t the thing that makes me attracted to them anyway—” I stop, suddenly self-conscious. This is too much explanation. Josh literally only asked if I’d dated anyone other than Silvie.

  But actually, he seems interested. He’s nodding to show he’s following, and waiting for me to continue. Huh.

  “So, anyway, bi was the term I felt comfortable with when I came out when I was thirteen, so I’ve decided to stick with it.”

  The term bisexual also often requires less explanation and definition than pansexual to those not in the know, which I’ve found to be helpful in getting past semantics and straight to the point of the matter.

  “Also, real talk, I’ve had a massive crush on this Yo
uTube star Noah Lim forever, and I totally would, if he were offering.”

  Josh bursts out laughing. “Point taken.”

  I grin, partly because it’s funny, but mostly because that’s apparently the end of the conversation. Josh doesn’t push back on anything I’ve said, or try to make his own point. He’s accepted my answer as fact, and that’s enough for him.

  We continue our walk, meandering in the direction of the Krohn Conservatory. I pull a bag of gummy bears from my tote and we snack on them along the way. Josh prefers the orange and red ones, which is fine by me. #yellowandclearbearsforever

  “Hey, is your last name really Haim?” I ask as we stand side by side on the lawn, gazing up at the majestic aluminum-and-glass greenhouse.

  “Yeah.” He squints. “Why?”

  “It made me think of the band Haim. And I know you like women-fronted music, so I was wondering if that was, like, a stage name or something.”

  Josh laughs. “No, it’s really my last name. No relation, though.” He perks up. “Wait, do you like that band?”

  “I do. They’re great.”

  He sighs exaggeratedly. “Finally! A musical interest we share!”

  “Guess you’re not so out of touch after all, old man.” I smirk, because he’s totally still out of touch.

  Grinning at each other, the sun warming us from top to bottom, we stand there. Just for a second, the trees and the greenhouse and the blue sky begin to fall away. Birds chirp from unseen places, all around us. Strange that I hadn’t heard them before. Or noticed the slight dimple in Josh’s left cheek.

  Suddenly, out of nowhere, a big, shirtless, tattooed guy barrels toward us on his bike, picking up speed as he zooms downhill, yelling at us to “get the hell out of the middle of the path!” and Josh grabs my arm and yanks me onto the grass just in time for us to miss getting plowed over.

  “Watch it!” he shouts after the guy, who doesn’t turn around.

  When my breath returns to me, I cough a little in shock. “Holy crap, that was close.”

  “Are you okay?” Josh asks, breathless too.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.” I push my hair out of my eyes. “I don’t think that guy was going to try to go around us.”

  He shakes his head. “Guess there are jerks everywhere.”

  I smile. “You mean you have jerks in Miami too?”

  “You have no idea.” His fingertips gently squeeze my arm, and in unison, we look down, as if we’re realizing at the same time that he’s still holding on to me. He quickly drops his hand down by his side and clears his throat. “His, uh … his tattoos were cool, though.”

  This boy is really good at knowing when I need a change of subject.

  “I didn’t get a good look at them,” I say, and deliberately resume walking. “Would you ever get a tattoo?”

  Josh takes a few quick steps to catch up with me. “I’m not sure. I’ve thought about it. I like other people’s. I just don’t know what I’d get.”

  “I’ve always wanted to get a little rainbow on the inside of my arm,” I tell him.

  “Like the rainbow flag?” he asks.

  “More like an actual rainbow, done with five or six hand-drawn, semicircle lines. But yeah, the LGBTQ connection would obviously be a big part of the meaning. Silvie and I talked once about getting the same tattoo together, but it never happened.”

  “How come?”

  “Lots of reasons. She didn’t think her parents would approve, and I started to worry what people online would think.”

  Josh stops walking again. “Wait, what?”

  I stop too, and look up at him. He’s not smiling. No more dimple. “What?”

  “Why would people online have anything to say about it?” He looks genuinely confused.

  I can’t help laughing a little at his naivete, though it is oddly charming. “People online have something to say about everything.” But I decide to tell him the whole truth, the real reason behind my hesitation. “And sometimes people give bisexual people crap if they boast too much about their queerness.”

  “Huh?”

  “You know, like ‘You’re not gay enough’ or ‘You could pass as straight if you wanted to, so why should you get to wave the flag as high as those who don’t have that privilege?’ That kind of thing.”

  He nods slowly, in thought. “So you didn’t get the rainbow tattoo you wanted because you were worried those people would be mad at you for it?”

  I shrug. “Kind of?”

  This time, when Josh places his hand on my shoulder and pins me with his gaze, it’s intentional. We’re exactly his arm length apart. His eyes are so dark I can see my reflection in them. “CeCe.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Why would you ever apologize for being you?”

  I blink. That’s the last thing I expected him to say. I don’t have an answer.

  “This is what I mean about the internet being … unhelpful.” I suspect he meant to use a stronger word, but censored himself.

  “You don’t get it,” I say, shaking my head.

  “Maybe not. But it seems simple to me. You are bisexual, right? That’s a real thing about you?”

  I nod.

  “And you’d like to get this particular tattoo?”

  I nod again.

  “And the thing it would symbolize is not only something you’re not ashamed of, it’s something you’re proud of?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So then you should get it.” He’s so certain, so decided. “Who cares what anyone else thinks?”

  It might just be because Josh is Josh, and the way he says things is always so earnest. But maybe it’s also the nuance that comes with having a face-to-face, real-time conversation with someone. Hearing their voice and seeing their expression, not just their typed words—which, no matter how creative you get with them, ultimately end up looking exactly like any other person’s typed words. But for a brief, precious moment I can’t think of an argument. I even forget for a sliver of a second that caring what other people think about me is one of the central driving forces of my life.

  Yes. I should get the tattoo.

  But then I remember cancel culture, and the dad who peaced out because I was too strong-willed for our little family. There are so many risks, so many mistakes one could make. Josh’s vision is nice, but reality is more complicated than that.

  I gently take his hand from my shoulder and squeeze it once before letting it go. “Want to go to my house?” I ask.

  Josh nods, and lets me lead the way.

  For some reason, after all that, I can’t stop thinking about how the gentle pressure of his fingers on my arm reminded me of how lovingly and confidently he handles his violin, as if it’s the most precious thing in the world.

  The second we come through the front door, Abe waddles over as quickly as his old legs and click-clacky nails will allow, and flops upside down, all spotted belly and tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.

  Just like the last time they met, Josh crouches down and showers Abe with pats and scratches and kisses.

  “I’d love to meet Ears someday. And your dad and sister too,” I add, pulling a pitcher of pomegranate juice out of the fridge.

  “Anytime.”

  “Want seltzer in yours, or are you a purist?” I hold up the juice.

  “Does anyone ever turn down a spritzer?” He seems appalled at the notion.

  I set to work mixing the drinks and mutter, “My dad always did. Said seltzer was hippie nonsense.”

  Josh’s eyebrows go high, but he doesn’t press. A small part of me wishes he would ask, because then I’d be able to ask more about his family. I’ve been wondering ever since he mentioned his dad was a single parent, but he hasn’t volunteered more information, and if there’s anything I’m extra sensitive to, it’s treading on uncomfortable family stuff.

  “Want a tour of the house?” I ask instead, handing Josh his pink-filled glass.

  “Definitely.”

 
Our house is small, so the tour doesn’t take long. Kitchen, with slate-gray floors and turquoise cabinets. Living room with the comforter-covered couch and the TV remote with the worn-away markings on the buttons. Hallway with the green shag carpeting that was here when we moved in and that Dad always wanted to pull up. Mom got that carpet shampooed after Dad left; pretty sure that little touch of TLC was her brand of peaceful protest against Dad. Bathroom that smells like lavender and vanilla and mint, with tampons on the shelf in full view because who cares. Mom’s bedroom, which I gesture at from the doorway but don’t enter. And my room.

  “Whoa,” Josh says as we step inside. He looks like he wants to start singing that song from Willy Wonka.

  I haven’t looked at my room through someone else’s eyes in a long time. The only people who’ve ever really come in here before were Mom and Silvie, and they’re as used to the decor as I am.

  Quickly, and a bit belatedly, I do a scan to make sure there’s nothing visible that would give away my secret-to-Josh life online. All clear.

  “Yeah, so …” I say to Josh, sweeping a hand out before us. “This is me.”

  “Yes,” he says. “It really is.” I turn to find that glinty-eyed smile again.

  I sit on the floor, and he does the same. There’s a pen lying beside one of the feet of my desk chair, and Josh uncaps it and starts drawing on his canvas high-tops. I watch, mesmerized, as the bones in his right hand manipulate the pen as naturally as they work the violin bow, sprouting a plant bud on the white sole. The bud grows into a vine, and the vine spreads into a vineyard, all around the circumference of his shoe, with stems and leaves and the occasional grape.

  “Is there anything you’re not good at?” I ask. “Apart from online stuff, I mean.” My voice is a whisper, but after the extended silence, it’s jarring.

  Josh looks up, his pupils adjusting. “Uh, yeah. Just about everything,” he says with a self-deprecating grin.

  I roll my eyes. “You play the violin like a professional. You dance without caring who’s watching. You can turn a gym shoe into a freaking canvas. You connect with animals in a way that most people are incapable of or aren’t interested in. I suspect you do the same with most people you meet too.”