“Yeah.” It’s all I can say. He’s not wrong.
“Gabby said you’re famous. Is that true?” He’s looking at me as if through new eyes. It’s horrible.
“Internet famous,” I clarify. “It’s different from, like, movie- or pop-star famous.”
He rolls his eyes. “Whatever. You have a million followers. You make money just from having an opinion.”
“Eight hundred thousand,” I say again, this time so he can hear. “Followers. It was at almost million, until last week.”
He studies me long and hard, and for the first time ever with Josh, I feel uncomfortable. I don’t know what he’s thinking, I don’t know what he’s feeling, I don’t know if my explanation is helping or hurting.
I take a tiny sip of my drink. His remains untouched, moisture pooling around the glass onto the table. “I was going to tell you,” I say, scrambling for a positive slant. “Last Friday, at the game. I’d decided it was time.”
“It was ‘time’ to tell me the first day we met,” he bites back.
My insides twist. “I’m so sorry, Josh. I didn’t know the pictures were being taken, I swear. I’m suffering the consequences too, believe me—”
“Yeah, I saw. So sorry that’s happening to you.” His tone is derisive now, and he levels me with his gaze.
I swallow. “I didn’t mean it’s equal to what you’re experiencing or anything. I just mean I understand what—”
“No, CeCe. You don’t.” He sits back in his chair, his jaw tense. “You’re not the one who got pulled into this garbage against your will. At least you knew what was happening. If Gabby’s friends at school hadn’t been talking about you, she never would have seen the pictures of us, and I never would have seen them, and I would have had no clue that this thing was happening. Or that my freaking girlfriend was responsible for it and didn’t see the need to mention anything to me.”
“You can’t see your face in the pictures,” I say, desperate to make it better.
It doesn’t work. “Really, CeCe?” Josh asks, his posture turning rigid. “That’s what you’re going with? That it’s all totally fine because it will take people an extra five minutes to figure out who I am?” Then, after a pause in which I can tell he’s thinking hard: “Who knows who I am? I mean, that it’s me you’re dating? My name?”
It’s not the question I expect. But at least it’s one I can answer easily.
“Silvie does.”
“Anyone else?”
I swallow. “My mom. And Nikki from Holtman’s—but she only knows your first name. Mackenzie. She lives in Australia, though. And Silvie might have told Mia, I don’t know. And Gabby’s friends, maybe? If she told them she knows me? I don’t know.” It’s not a long list, and I know he realizes that too. I should have told more people about him—he’s my boyfriend. But I’m also relieved I didn’t.
“But it’s not just them,” he emphasizes. “Anyone who’s seen us together, or will see us together, will be able to connect the dots. They know you, and they’ll have seen the pictures. So even if only a few people know now, everyone will know eventually.” There is no question mark at the end of his sentence; he knows it’s a foregone conclusion.
I lean forward. “Josh, I’m going to do as much damage control as I can, when it comes to you and your privacy.”
He doesn’t look hopeful. “Like what?”
“Like …” I hate that I’m going to say this. But I have no choice. “Like eliminating any further opportunities for the public to spot us together.”
Something clicks behind Josh’s eyes, and I know he understands. It’s a stab to the heart, clean through. “That’s why you’ve been blowing me off.”
“Nothing makes sense right now. We needed … we need some time.”
“Time away from each other.”
I nod. The effort it takes is obliterating. My palms are clammy. “I guess so. Yeah.”
Josh shakes his head. “Did you ever stop to think what I needed? I didn’t need to be your boyfriend, CeCe. I wanted it, but that was when I thought I knew you. There were things I needed, though. I needed a friend, I needed to be able to focus on my music and on my family and on getting through high school without being dragged into … this. Whatever this is.”
“I know. I’m sorry, Josh,” I whisper, my lower lip beginning to tremble. “I screwed up.”
He holds my gaze, but there’s so much hurt in his that I have to blink. Tears I didn’t realize were there spill down my cheeks.
And then … that’s it.
Josh scrubs his hands through his hair and stands up. “I’ll see you around, CeCe.” He picks up his phone and leaves the kitchen, stopping briefly to crouch down and rub Abraham’s face. The screen door bounces behind him.
I watch through my tears as he drives away. I should feel lighter—Josh knows. It’s all out there now, no more lies or secrets. But I’m heavier than ever. My body wants to crumple to the floor, pulling Abe’s warm body against mine.
A new text pops up on my phone. It’s from Dad. Got a table in the back.
Another weight stacks itself on top of me. I’d almost forgotten.
On my way, I text back, and grab my keys.
I weave through tables to the back of the café, where Dad’s scrolling on his phone.
Anyone would be able to pinpoint us as father and daughter—same nose, same smile, same straight hair. I’ve always resented how much I look like him; there’s literally zero chance it’s all been a huge mistake and my true biological father is somewhere out there, ignorant of my existence.
With a nervous breath, I slide into the seat opposite him. He looks just as I remembered, but with a little more gray in his hair. A deeply familiar stranger.
He looks up. Smiles. Clicks his phone off. “Hi, CeCe.”
He starts to stand up to hug me, but I remain firmly seated and stop him with a guarded wave hello. “Hi,” I say. I was going to say, “Hi, Dad,” but I refuse to give him a single thing he hasn’t earned.
“What can I get you?” He nods at the big menu above the counter.
“Just a mint tea, please.” It’s dinnertime, but I’m not hungry.
He gets up to order, and in the two minutes before he returns to the table, I start to second-guess this whole thing. I should have canceled, after what happened with Josh. At the very least I should have asked Mom to come with me. But didn’t even tell her I was coming here. I used to think I could handle anything on my own. Maybe it was true, once.
Dad places a mug in front of me and sits back down with his own mug of coffee. I square my shoulders and keep my gaze trained on the steady flow of steam, using the tea bag’s string to dip it in and out of the water. I wish I had a tether like that attached to me, with someone holding on tightly, making sure I don’t sink or float away or keep bobbing long after the water has gone cold.
“How have you been?” Dad asks, wrapping his hands around his mug. His cuticles are jagged and scabby, like he’s been picking at them.
It’s the dumbest question I’ve ever heard. Isn’t it obvious? I’ve been very much not okay.
“Fine,” I say, set on single-syllable words only.
“How’s Maggie?” he asks.
“Mom’s fine.”
“And Abraham?”
“Fine.”
He nods. “Good.”
We lapse into awkward silence. He’s probably waiting for me to ask how he’s doing. But I don’t want to.
The air between us grows thick and sticky, more uncomfortable with each passing second. I can’t help but notice the glaring lack of a “happy birthday.” In a flash, I’m certain he’s forgotten that I’m seventeen years and one week old, that him reaching out today was pure coincidence. I don’t really care, ultimately—it just adds an extra layer to it all. Like a blurry filter over a terrible snapshot.
We don’t know each other, my father and I. And the parts we do know, we don’t like. I take a sip of tea just to have something to d
o. It’s too hot, and my tongue goes a little numb from the shock. Even more perfect. I almost want to laugh.
“School is out soon?” Dad asks, and you can practically hear the effort it took for him to dig the question out of his stock of old, dusty standbys.
I nod. Take another scorching sip. “Three more weeks.” There. A whole phrase. Hope he appreciates it.
“You’re a junior now, right?”
Part of me thinks he shouldn’t have to double-check; the other part of me is impressed he got it right. “Yup. One more year.”
He sits back in his chair, pulling his mug closer to him with one hand. “Does your boyfriend go to school with you? Or does he go somewhere else?” He says it so casually, his face so placid, that it takes a second for me to remember this is not a normal question. Not from Joe Ross.
My eyes narrow. “What?”
“Your boyfriend. Where does he go to school?”
There are those warning bells again. “I don’t have a boyfriend.” Not anymore.
Dad nods congenially. “It’s not official yet, then?”
A lighter flickers to life, deep in my gut.
I’m pretty sure my father stalks my app page regularly. He may even have a Google Alert set up for my name—back before I cut off contact with him, he was always bringing up things to me that he couldn’t have possibly known about otherwise.
I hate that he has this access to my day-to-day life; I’ve always hated it. A million strangers seeing me in my pj’s or knowing what I think about scrunchies being back in fashion? Great! My father getting access to that same information without having to work for it? Infuriating.
“Are you referring to the photographs that were taken of me and my friend without our permission?” It nearly kills me, but I manage to keep my tone level the whole way through that sentence.
Dad ignores the question, and asks one of his own. “Are you saying they weren’t real?”
“No, I’m not saying they weren’t real. I’m asking if that’s what you’re choosing to bring up right now.” The lighter touches its flame to the walls of my belly, and the fire spreads.
Dad holds his palms up. “No need to get defensive, CeCe. We’re just having a conversation.”
I push my tea away. “Did you bring me here to talk about those pictures?”
I’m fully expecting him to say, “No, of course I didn’t. I brought you here to talk about XYZ.” I don’t know what XYZ is, but surely it’s something other than those damn photographs.
But apparently the man still has the ability to surprise me. “Actually, yeah,” he says, shrugging. Yeah? YEAH? “When you broke up with that girl, I’d hoped it was a sign that you’d seen the light. But I wasn’t sure until I saw the pictures.”
SEEN THE LIGHT?
The words are gasoline on the flames. I’m actually surprised it took a whole ten minutes to get here—roaring blaze of fury is the level my father and I exist at.
“WHAT?” I shout, gasping for air, not caring who can hear us, not caring who around us might recognize me, not even caring that people could film this on their phones and put that online too. “You’re not seriously doing this right now.” I shake my head in disbelief.
Dad’s looking back at me all innocently, like there’s nothing horribly, terribly wrong. “I’m trying to tell you I’m proud of you. Can you just let me say it?”
“Proud of what?” I shout. “What are you talking about?”
He blinks, actually confused. “You’d asked me to stay away unless I found a way to embrace who you are, did you not?”
I gape at him, struggling to play catch-up.
“Did you not?” he asks again.
I nod once.
“And did I not respect your wishes?”
I nod again.
He puffs his chest out a little, like he’s proud of his ability to follow a simple directive. “Then you and that girl split up—”
“Her name is Silvie,” I say through clenched teeth.
“And you started seeing this boy. I knew you’d come around, CeCe.”
He is worse than the thousands of anonymous, faceless trolls online. I want to scream, cry, throw a chair, throttle him, do whatever else I can in a desperate reach for him to see me. Seventeen years and one week of fighting, of pushing, of protecting myself, of using the scalding pain to do something good, to give back to the world in a way that feels positive.
After the divorce, I closed off a part of myself. I stopped shouting. I’d thought it was self-care. I’d thought it was productive, me being kind to myself, allowing myself an injection of happiness.
But the truth is, it wasn’t proactive—it was reactive. It was because I was broken. Beaten down, so tired, so utterly sick of losing. The energy left me; it flew off and found a new home.
When I stand up and open my mouth, all that comes out is a weak croak. “This was a bad idea.”
I could scream at my father until I’m purple in the face, and nothing will ever change.
“CeCe, please,” he says. “Sit down. Let’s talk.”
There are people watching; I can feel their eyes on me. I should save face, sit back down, act pleasant. They have no context for any of this; my father is acting calm, and I seem like the irrational one.
But that’s the thing, isn’t it? No one ever knows the whole story. They think they do, because of a few overheard words or some stolen photographs, but they don’t. And when you keep forcing a curated, fake life into their feeds, day after day, hour after hour, they never will.
Suddenly the bubble I’ve been floating around in pops. It’s been stretched too far. I blink away the residue.
Maybe these people, online and in this too-public café, don’t need to know the true story. Maybe that’s not what’s important. They’re going to see what they want to see anyway.
Maybe what’s important is the few people who do know you, faults and mistakes and all, and love you anyway.
Tears fill my eyes again and begin overflowing. I let them do what they will. It doesn’t matter. None of this matters.
“Sorry,” I say lightly, looking around at the people working and dining at the café. “Father-daughter disagreement. You know how it is.”
I’m exposed. I’m a mess. But I don’t sit down. Bracing my hands on the back of the chair, I lean in so that my father is the only one who can hear me.
“Bye, Dad,” I say, and with the words comes a sense of peace I haven’t felt in ages.
I can’t just keep going as I have been, hoping things will magically get better. I hoped Silvie’s post would make things return to a place of shiny, happy placidness; it didn’t. I hoped my father wanted to see me because he missed me—that we could find a way to have the tiniest fraction of what Josh and his dad have; we can’t. I hoped Josh would understand why I kept so much from him; he didn’t. Of course he didn’t.
I need to stop hoping. I need to do something.
* * *
It’s Saturday. Pride day.
Three days ago, mere hours after I turned the tables on my father and walked out on him, I sent Kathleen my revised speech. I couldn’t get the words out of my head and onto the page fast enough. Once it was all down on paper, I knew this was the speech I should have written all along. I had a feeling Kathleen and the other organizers might agree, so I took a chance. I’m so glad I did. It would have sucked to miss this.
The city has been transformed. News vans are everywhere you look. Helicopters hover high above the streets, getting overhead shots. Security scrambles to redirect traffic as eager participants overflow onto streets that haven’t been officially closed off. Shouts and cheers and chants and bursts of music rise up from the massive crowd at Fountain Square, where the pre-march rally is taking place. Thousands of homemade signs bob above people’s heads, declaring IF BEING GAY IS WRONG, WHY ARE WE ALL SO FABULOUS?? and BINARIES ARE FOR ELECTRONICS. Rainbow flags wave in the breeze, as far as the eye can see.
“Are you ready
?” Silvie asks, straightening my necklace. Her voice cracks on every syllable.
“Are you crying?” I ask, aghast. “Don’t worry! It’s going to be great.”
She nods, sniffling. “No, I know. I’m just really glad we ended up here.”
I know she means “here” both literally and figuratively—and I’m glad too. Here and here are both very good places to be.
Mia’s standing a few feet away, listening to the current speaker and giving Silvie and me space to talk. Mia and I met for the first time this morning; she’s really nice.
“Thank you for being here,” I tell Silvie now. “I’m not sure I could do it without you.”
Her smile is a freshly charged battery to my operating system. “Of course you could. You’ve never needed anyone, Ceece.”
I shrug. Maybe, maybe not.
My phone, gripped tightly in my palm along with my printed-out speech, chimes with a new text.
Rooting for you today, babes! Mackenzie has written. Watching your and Silvie’s feeds for the livestream—will repost as soon as it goes up. I’m so excited I even skipped bedtime!
I shoot her back a long string of heart emojis.
Kathleen Khan comes over, headset on. “We’re about two minutes out,” she tells me. “Once the current speaker is done, she’s going to introduce you. Any last-minute questions?”
I’ve never been more ready to give this speech, but I do have one question. “You’d said you were going to send me the livestream link?”
Her expression jolts as she remembers. “Right. Sorry about that. Organizing this thing has been a logistical nightmare; it slipped my mind.”
“No worries. Just wanted to share with my followers.” And one non-follower.
She takes out her phone and types something. “Of course. Thanks for the free press.” She looks back at her phone as the text goes through. “There you go.”
“Cool, thanks.” The link comes through to my phone, and I quickly share it on the app and air drop it to Silvie. She shares it on her page too.
Follow Your Arrow Page 18