by Emery Lee
“Well, I think you said more actual words to this guy than you did at the ice cream shop, so it’s already a step up.”
And I suppose that may be true, but what I really loved about the ice cream shop meet cute was the tension in the air, the aesthetic backdrop, the setting. So much cuter to think I actually found the love of my life surrounded by my favorite dessert than at some sweaty frat party, though I guess it doesn’t really matter either way since they were both only “reality-inspired.”
“I guess the fans will choose which story is true love,” I say. “The ice cream shop meet cute’s already one of my most popular stories. Clearly he was my soul mate.”
“You know real relationships take actual work, right?” Becca says. “You’re never gonna find a real soul mate if you keep living vicariously through the blog. You have to look at actual, you know, real life.”
“The blog is real life,” I say, because it’s my life. It’s the single greatest thing I’ve ever made and probably ever will. It’s the entirety of my life’s work and my hopes and dreams all perfectly packaged to share with a world of strangers.
“No, it’s fantasy. It’s not like everything just cruises after the meet cute.”
“Which reminds me!” I sing, picking up my phone to look for the file.
I knew Becca would say something like this, so I’ve been working on the perfect solution. See, Becca constitutes the more cynical side of our duo. Even when we first met over a science project, she was a take-no-nonsense, get-the-work-done kind of person, and I respect that even if it’s just not the way I prefer to do things. I like to believe in happy ever afters and hidden magic because, well, the world kind of sucks, and sometimes, the hope for a fairy-tale romance is all we’ve really got. Meanwhile, Becca’s always been a bit skeptical about finding the perfect romance ever since her parents got divorced back in seventh grade, but she’s not her parents and neither am I.
Once the file’s sent, I look to my phone and meet her eyes. She looks studious for a moment as she skims the note before finally breaking out into a fit of uncontained laughter.
“What the hell is this garbage?” she says between laughs.
I roll my eyes. “It’s my twelve steps to the perfect relationship! You know, because it doesn’t just end with the meet cute.”
Becca groans. “Noah, I meant you have to commit yourself to a relationship and put in the work to stay with the person, not wait for”—she squints at the screen—“The Trip, aka The Fall Part One.”
She bursts out laughing again, but I just ignore her. She can be as skeptical as she wants, but where she’s all about facts and logic, I’m the love expert, and there’s no doubt in my mind I’ve struck gold. “It’s all about monitoring the steps so you know your relationship is on the right track,” I say. “That way I can cut it off early if it’s doomed to fail anyway.”
“This is literally the opposite of what I meant.”
“Well, then maybe you should be more specific next time.”
She sighs that I’m too tired to keep calling you out, so whatever, do what you want sigh, but the way she looks at me now is just painful. I know she’s worried about me being out in the world on my own. Well, out in the world, and out to the offline world for the first time, but I’ve assured her I’m okay. Things are different now.
Sure, my parents were a little awkward when they dropped me off in Denver and kept driving for Cali, and yeah, my brother’s a bit of a jock and a frat boy, and I don’t think he even knew what the word “trans” meant until I told him it applied to me, but things aren’t all bad. Really, they aren’t. I’m finally away from our old high school—a place so conservative that the only trans girl who ever came out was bullied into a suicide attempt before dropping out during my freshman year. A place where prayer and God came before all things, and that God was even less convinced of my existence than I was of his.
And sure, we’re doing the long-distance thing, but I still have Becca. She’s still my best friend, and even while I’m on a quest for love and she’s doing some super elite, online college program with the University of Colorado this summer, I feel pretty confident she’ll never be able to completely replace me. I’m too damn special.
And every time she opens her transcripts, she’ll see Colorado and hopefully think of me, so there’s that.
“Noah.”
“What?” I ask.
“Did you see this note?”
My phone lights up with the link she sent me. I click on it and find some account called KissyKissyBangBang—which is surprisingly not a porn bot—reblogged the most recent Meet Cute Diary story with: this whole blog is a pile of bs. none of these stories are real. stop buying into it.
Which, I mean, okay, I get all sorts of hate on the Diary blog, but this one is different. Really different. They included a link at the bottom of their spiel, and just like that, I’m looking at an entire blog called DebunkingMCD dedicated to finding all the plot holes and inconsistencies in the Meet Cute Diary stories and “proving them false.” I can feel my face mask cracking as stress lines form across my forehead.
“Noah, are you okay?”
But I’m not hearing anything Becca’s saying. I’m scrolling, endlessly scrolling, heartily reading each and every post. And they’re good. Really. They point out errors in the timelines, locales, everything. It’s like this person has been following every post over the past year just to have enough ammo to prove none of it was real.
And if that wasn’t bad enough, they have a whole section for shitting on me, calling me a teenager who’s probably never even been on a date. Saying I can’t possibly know a thing about love, and I’m pathetic for being invested in trans romance. They even go so far as to link posts about psychology and how these relationships could never work out.
“Noah!”
I freeze, my voice shaky as I say, “Yeah.”
Becca’s voice is gentle when she speaks next, like she knows any one word could be enough to break me. “It’s gonna be okay. It doesn’t matter what this person posts as long as people disregard it, and they will. They love the Diary.”
And I’m nodding along because she’s right. She has to be. This Diary is a beacon of hope for trans people across the globe. I can’t believe the entire thing is being unraveled all because some troll had too much time on their hands. The Diary is important, and people will see that. They’ll ignore this troll and rally behind the Diary. They have to.
Monday, May 28
DebunkingMCD posted:
It’s honestly embarrassing watching all of you buy into this Meet Cute Diary crap. There aren’t that many trans people in the world, and I promise you they aren’t all getting happy endings. Why don’t you look at the actual FACTS for once? I’ll keep collecting more of them on my blog for people who actually care about logic and reason.
Danidani replied: Stop being a hater! You’re wrong about the Diary.
Everyelliotistrans replied: Are you sure though? Did you talk to the mod about it?
Toorealtofeel replied: I always knew there was something fishy about that blog. Thanks for putting it straight.
Load more comments . . .
Tuesday morning, Brian starts his job at some summer camp, and I head to town to find coffee. He doesn’t live that far from the city, but I catch a rideshare anyway because I can’t be bothered to walk.
Becca sent me a list of tastefully aesthetic coffee shops in the area, so I pick one at random and head out. I need something to keep me busy while Brian’s not around so I don’t spend my whole day checking in on the Diary. Just between Monday night and Tuesday morning, I lost almost a hundred followers. I keep telling myself that they were all bots anyway, and Tumblr’s finally cleaning some of those out, but really, no one believes that.
The line at the shop snakes out the door, and I consider turning around and going somewhere else. The truth is, though, it’s really a nice day out, and this place has the perfect vibe for my Instagram. I
want to make sure I’ve got enough adorable shots in Denver to convince everyone back home that my life has been nothing but rainbows and sunshine since I left.
Someone holds the door open for me, and I step over the threshold. The smell of coffee beans wafts over me, and I inhale deeply because damn, I love the smell of coffee. I’m so far away, I can’t even read the wide, handwritten menu behind the counter, so I pull out my phone and look the place up on Yelp instead. It’s got great reviews, you know, if I trusted people on the internet to dictate my life choices.
I flip on the selfie cam so I can swipe my hair out of my face. When my parents told me we’d be moving to California in the fall, and I wouldn’t be returning to my school, I hadn’t even thought about what any of it meant. It just felt like a sudden brush of freedom—a chance to live my truth. So I blurted out that I was trans, and while I sat there in their stunned silence waiting for them to respond, all I could really think about was how soon I could start transitioning. The thing is, I hadn’t even known what the word “trans” was until freshman year, when that girl had taken the dive and put herself on the line by coming out. Sure, there was a part of me that always felt a little different, but everyone does, right? It was only after learning about another trans person that I even started looking up the terms, searching myself, and researching transition. And really, it all felt like some distant dream I could never achieve until I realized I’d be leaving Florida behind for good.
That was only three weeks ago, but in that time, I cut off most of my hair and bought half a new wardrobe. The problem is I’ve never had less than shoulder-length hair before, and I don’t really know how to style it, so it just kinda lies in a poof around my head.
I’m almost to the register now, and I can just make out the cute cashier standing behind the counter. He’s got dark skin and the deepest brown eyes I’ve ever seen, and this pair of hipster glasses lying comfortably on his face. I wish I could do more for my hair, but it’s fine. I’ve got this.
I step up to the register, and the cashier says, “Morning. What can I get for you?” His name tag says Ben. Cute, clean, simple. I like it.
“Hi,” I say with a smile, “can I get a medium vanilla latte with no whipped cream?”
“Absolutely. I aim to please.”
I grin.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?”
Um, yes? You could totally be my boyfriend. But I just say, “That’ll be it. Thanks, Ben.”
He smiles, and I feel my heart speed up. This is the part where he asks me how I knew his name, and I make some joke about being able to read his name tag, and then we’re laughing, holding up the line, and he slips me his phone number on the edge of my cup.
He says, “Can I have a name for the order?”
“Noah,” I say.
He scrawls it out on a little paper cup before sliding it down the line. “That’ll be four twenty-five.”
I pass him my credit card—well, the credit card my parents sent me off with—and watch as he swipes the plastic without another word.
Finally, he looks up at me, a soft expression on his face, and I realize this is the moment when he tells me I remind him of someone from his childhood. We’ll talk a little about our hopes and dreams, and before I know it, he’ll be asking me to meet him out back after his shift because he can’t bear to part ways.
He says, “Your card got declined.”
“I—it what?”
“Do you have another payment method?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Can you try it again?”
He whistles, swiping the card one more time before shaking his beautiful head and passing it back to me. “Sorry, no go. Do you have another card?”
And like, no, I don’t. I only got this one a couple weeks ago because my parents felt bad sending me off into the wilderness with no money to my name. But then I see the opportunity Fate has presented me. I can tell Ben I don’t have any money, that I’m alone in the world with no way to pay, and he’ll grin and say, It’s on the house. I can’t turn down a smile like yours.
“I don’t have anything else,” I say.
Ben winces. “Sorry, man. I’m gonna have to take the next customer.”
I don’t say anything as I step out of the line and make my way to the door. So, maybe things aren’t going to work out with Ben. It’s fine. Honestly, I don’t even really want to write about him in the Diary. I think it’s best we go our separate ways.
I pull out my phone and dial my mom. I haven’t actually spoken to either of my parents in a few days. I imagine they’re busy trying to close on the house or whatever.
The line rings for a few seconds before my mom finally picks up with a, “Yeah, honey?”
“My credit card isn’t working. Did you pay it off?”
The line is quiet for a moment, and I can hear some distant garble in the background, probably a car radio. “Yes.” Her voice cuts out again, and I realize that’s the point when she would usually address me by name. She’s been doing that less since I came out, probably having trouble remembering Noah since it sounds nothing like my deadname. “I paid off the card, but I’m not sure how you managed to spend almost four hundred dollars in one week.”
I freeze, standing in the middle of the sidewalk. The streets aren’t particularly busy, but the callout still makes me feel like I’m on display. “Well, I’ve had to take rideshares everywhere, and then, you know, expenses.”
“The card was just supposed to be for food. Brian said most things are in walking distance, so can’t he just drive you to the rest?”
The truth is, I’d been doing a lot of stuff on my own, partially because Brian didn’t want to spend a hundred percent of his time with his little brother, but also because I was hoping to find my meet cute, which is obviously still a work in progress. And frankly, I’m not a fan of walking. Besides, Becca picks the meet cute locations, and I’m not gonna tell her to stop sending me cute spots just because they’re a couple miles away! “Brian’s been busy,” I say, “and I have been buying food.”
“I read the names of the vendors. There was a bookstore, an ice cream shop—”
“Ice cream’s food!” I say.
My mom sighs, and I’m actually glad I called her and not my dad. He’s always been stricter when it comes to my spending habits. “Okay, well, we can’t afford to be paying a second mortgage so you can get ice cream. I froze the card.”
“Wait, what? What am I supposed to do now?” I ask.
She chuckles. “Be responsible and get a job? I’m sure your brother won’t mind dropping you off.”
Which, yeah, okay, maybe, but definitely not what I had in mind for my summer plans.
“I have to go,” my mom says. “We’re getting to the house, and I need to speak with the Realtor. Maybe ask your brother for some money if you think that’ll help.”
But I know Brian’s not gonna give me money. He’s worse than my dad and only about a fifth as wealthy.
“I love you. Call me if you need anything.”
I’m about to say I need money when the call ends. I know I brought this on myself by being too ambitious with the Diary posts. It’s not cheap stumbling into cute guys at every aesthetic boba, ice cream, and coffee shop in town, but that’s not what I want to think about right now. Hell, it’s like ten a.m., I haven’t had coffee, and I’m stranded.
I dig around in my massive pockets—they’re probably my second favorite part about transitioning—and pull out my wallet. I’ve got a couple bills in there and an Arby’s coupon, which I’m not even sure why I have. I check my Starbucks app, but I’ve only got like two bucks on there, which isn’t nearly enough for a latte.
I turn back down the street and start walking, hoping I’ll stumble upon a Dunkin’ or somewhere with cheap coffee that just so happens to be hiring teenagers. It’s pretty ridiculous that my mom expects me to get a job in a city without a car. I mean, I doubt there are that many places hiring out here, even if we a
re pretty close to the university and some decent shops, and frankly, I don’t want to rely on my brother driving me to work. That’s a no-go.
I keep walking until I find a coffee shop advertising a one-dollar special. I slip in, pay cash, and choose a small side table under a tall bookshelf. It’s not the cutest, but it’ll do. Once I get my cup with a little foam flower floating at the top, I hold it up just long enough to snap the perfect selfie. Okay, to snap fifteen bad selfies and one I like.
Going against my own best interest, I open the Tumblr app and check the Diary’s follower count. Damn. I’m already down another two hundred from this morning. Whoever this troll is, they didn’t come to play, and they’re killing off my followers like flies.
I go back to their blog to torture myself a little more. It really is convincing, using the smallest details I wrote into the stories to pinpoint exactly where they were supposed to take place and adding details about each location that seemingly refute the stories. Plus they’ve got sources and statistics about how many trans people even live in Miami—where they traced every early story to—and about how next to impossible it is for there to be that many meet cute stories.
And honestly, it pisses me off. I’m not the first blogger to get targeted by some rando with too much time on their hands and a working Google search bar, and they’re right that the meet cutes aren’t real, but they’re stories. What kind of loser do you have to be to spend your time debunking every cute story you come across on social media? And even if they aren’t real, they give people hope. Isn’t that what matters?
As my anger starts to burn hotter than my coffee, I give up on saving my day and text Brian to pick me up, saying, Mom stalled my credit card. Come get me.
I’m at orientation. Text me the address, and I’ll get you when I’m done.
So I do, and I find myself sitting out on the curb hating my life for the next three hours.
