Meet Cute Diary

by Emery Lee

  “I’m here to see Drew,” I say.

  He gives me this look like he’s about ready to punt me off his doorstep before walking back into the house and closing the door. I’m about to turn around and leave when the door opens again, this time Drew peeking his head out. “Noah? What are you doing here?”

  “Brian told me you came by, so I thought I’d return the favor. Did you wanna talk?”

  He steps out onto the porch and closes the door behind him. “Yeah, I do, but I don’t really wanna do it here.”

  “Because of your parents?”

  He nods. “Let’s just—do you wanna take a walk?”

  I nod even though Drew lives in a totally suburban neighborhood, and it seems kinda sketchy for us to just take a walk down these residential streets. The neighbors are probably used to him being around, though, so hopefully no one will try to shoot us.

  Drew’s house is the third from the end of the street, but we reach the stop sign before he starts talking.

  “I’m sorry about Saturday,” he says.

  “Can’t imagine why.”

  He smiles. “I didn’t mean to drink that much, and then I just kind of got caught up in everything, and I’m sorry you didn’t get to go to your friend’s party.”

  There’s something about the way he phrases it that kind of rubs me wrong. “Didn’t get to go” as if I got lost and just didn’t make it as opposed to him actively telling me I could only go if I wanted to break up.

  “Forget it,” I say.

  “Wait.” He takes my hand, turning me to face him. “I love you, Noah. I wanna make it up to you.”

  My heart skips a beat. I knew he loved me when we hit the Fall—I mean, that’s the whole point of that step, really—but it’s still nice to hear him say it. It clears my head, reminding me of the importance of what we’ve built between us. “Oh? How?”

  “I have a friend who’s hosting a night out in the woods for the Fourth. It’ll be super cool.”

  I wince, the picture-perfect image of us feeling more like cracked glass.

  “Is that a no?” Drew asks.

  I shake my head. “No, it’s not a no, it’s just—Devin’s parents are having a party and I promised em I’d go.”

  Drew groans. “Devin again? Really?”

  “What does that mean?” I ask, shoulders tense. “E’s my friend, and I already missed eir last party.”

  “It just seems like you two are getting awfully close. Were you with em today? When I came by your apartment?”

  I roll my eyes. “What difference does it make?”

  “Look, I don’t care who you hang out with, all right? But when you’re constantly trying to bail on me for the same person, it’s hard not to be a little jealous.”

  “Bail on you? We agreed to go to the party together, and today, you showed up without telling me you were coming,” I say. “None of that’s my fault.”

  Drew sighs. “Just, tell me something. Did you tell em about the Diary?”

  I pause, an eyebrow raised. “And if I did?”

  “God, Noah, the Diary’s supposed to be our thing. Now you’re just sharing it with anybody?”

  “I made the Diary,” I say. “It’s my thing. I can choose who I tell about it.”

  Drew pauses like he’s digging for the right words. Finally, he says, “I know, and I don’t want to fight with you. It’s just . . . After everything that’s been happening lately, I just want to be able to spend time with you. You know, without Devin coming between us.”

  “E’s not coming between us,” I say. “I’m going to Devin’s party for the Fourth. We can do something afterward if you want. I’ll be free after seven.”

  I freeze once the words are out of my mouth, expecting him to fight back—to say that’s just not acceptable. His face is scrunched, his eyebrows pulled taut like he can’t possibly relax them, and he’s obviously pissed at me, but I came all the way out here for an apology, and it barely feels like I got one. Hell, it feels like this whole thing got flipped around, and now I’m supposed to feel sorry for something I didn’t do.

  And I hate knowing that if he tells me I can’t go to Devin’s, I won’t. Nothing’s changed, and if he insists the only thing holding our relationship together is his friend’s terrible nature gathering, I won’t have a choice in the matter. Because I can’t lose the Diary, and right now, the only thing keeping my followers around is their love for Drew.

  My love for Drew. Because we love each other, right? That’s the whole point.

  Finally, he sighs, running a hand through his hair. He steps away from me like he’s going to disappear into the night before turning back, his eyebrows finally relaxed. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll plan something fun for us.”

  I force a smile onto my face because I should be grateful. I can hang out with Devin and spend time with Drew doing whatever cutesy date he plans for us.

  But really, I just feel tired.

  Wednesday, July 4

  Perrilicious posted:

  I’m kind of ashamed to be a Meet Cute Diary fan now. I’m sorry to all my followers I promoted this blog to. I’ve officially unfollowed them, and I won’t be talking about them anymore.

  Bunbunbun replied: Oh hell, what did they do??? I missed it???

  Judgingbyyourmakeup replied: You don’t have to apologize. I fell for it too.

  Donttrustabro replied: All good things come to an end, I guess. I unfollowed too.

  Load more comments . . .

  Wednesday morning, I wake up to three messages—one from Devin, one from Drew, and one from that asshole on Tumblr.

  Devin says, Happy 4th! with a bunch of little celebratory emojis, and I smile as I scroll through the other notifications on my phone.

  Drew says, Everything’s set! See you at 6! which pisses me off because I specifically told him I’d be free after seven.

  And the Tumblr asshole’s message comes in the form of a blog post circling across my dashboard, but it definitely comes through loud and clear.

  Noah, the mod for the Meet Cute Diary blog, has reached out to me asking for his victim to retract their statement. He didn’t even have the nerve to reply to the post I made, instead trying to do all of this in private so the rest of Tumblr wouldn’t be able to hold him accountable or might forget about his actions, but I won’t let this stand. Noah’s victim doesn’t think the stolen story was a coincidence at all, and they’re not retracting their statement unless he promises to stop posting stolen meet cutes and change the blog to a blog about his relationships or something. Anything else feels like a mockery of the hurt he’s caused, and we won’t stand for it.

  And just, wow, fuck that. Not interested.

  Do they not understand that the whole point of the blog is to give trans people hope? To show them that we can have all the same opportunities as cis people? If I make the blog just about Drew and me, all I’m showing is that some fluke can happen and the occasional trans person might find someone. That doesn’t mean anything!

  And yeah, I used Drew to save the blog, and sure, those may be my most popular posts, but is our relationship really strong enough to shine as a beacon for trans people everywhere? Even as I remind myself that I love him and that we’re perfect for each other, I can’t help but feel like I’m floating in some liminal space trying to find the ground. It’s like I can’t differentiate what I want for the Diary versus what I want for me, or, well, what I want at all.

  I push the thought out of my head because it’s ridiculous, and I’m not in the Hesitation anymore, and I’m already running late for work.

  So by the time I get to work, I’m half-ready to punch a baby. Okay, maybe I won’t punch a baby, but I definitely snatch my coffee out of the holder and chug the thing hot like a rabid gremlin.

  “Whoa there,” Devin says, gently taking the cup from my hand before I can hurl it across the room. “I know things are a little rough, but drowning yourself in coffee won’t fix it.”

  “I don’t know
what to do anymore,” I say, and it feels like a weight off my shoulders. “I don’t know how to save the Diary.”

  “Maybe you don’t have to,” Devin says.

  I raise an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to be some philosophical shit?”

  E grins. “I just meant, maybe you’re stressing out about finding a solution to something that’ll resolve itself. Maybe you’ll feel better if you just take a step back and breathe for a while.”

  And I know e’s probably right because e usually is, but I hate knowing that it’s out of my control.

  When the kids come rushing in, I try to distract myself with catering to their needs. I walk around the room offering to replace their crayons and help them organize their sketches, which just results in one kid flinging a crayon at my face and telling me to go away.

  Devin pulls me aside and says, “Do you want to take a walk? I can cover for you.”

  And I feel like a total asshole saying yes and leaving the room, but I know I kind of need to. It feels like everything’s falling apart around me. I’d convinced myself that as long as I followed the rules in my relationship with Drew, things with the Diary would work themselves out, that he was the glue I’d been missing to keep the whole thing together and a perfect romance could save everything. But now things with Drew feel faker than when we started, and I don’t know where I stand with Becca, and the Diary’s slipping out from between my fingers.

  At the end of the day, my twelve steps did nothing except leave me empty and surrounded by more shit than I can handle. God, they’re basically the diet pills of romance. And what does that make me? Even after I put everything into trying to prove that troll wrong, it’s like all I really did was prove them right.

  I wipe my eyes, tears coating my fingers. I hadn’t even realized I needed to cry until the tears start coming, and before I know it, I’m sitting in the grass, tears pouring down my face in an uncontrollable stream.

  I head back to the hall a half hour later once I’m out of tears. Devin looks up at me like e’s concerned but e doesn’t say anything, and I’m grateful for that, the way e always seems to magically know what I need.

  We clean everything up, and finally get out a little after three. I slip into the passenger seat of Devin’s car, voice low as I say, “Do you mind taking me to Drew’s later?”

  “Sure, I don’t mind.”

  “He wants me to meet him at six.”

  “Oh.”

  And I hate knowing that Devin’s probably hurt that I’m bailing early, but e’s not going to say anything about it because e thinks it’s eir fault instead of mine. And I hate that we get less than three hours together even though I’d rather be spending the rest of the day with em instead of pretending to love whatever super-not-me date Drew has planned for us.

  “I’m glad you invited me,” I say, half hoping e’ll hear the undertone of what I’m trying to say. I’m really glad I get to go to your party, even if it’s only for a little while.

  Devin smiles at me. “My dad always makes homemade croquetas for these things. You’ll love them.”

  I smile back.

  Devin’s house is the epitome of white suburbia. I mean, they literally have a picket fence even though it’s gray instead of white. There’s a line of cars outside the house, and a line of smoke trailing up from the backyard. A small gap in the driveway sits waiting for Devin’s car, and e slides into it expertly before turning off the engine.

  “My parents are gonna be so happy to meet you,” e says.

  I raise an eyebrow. “Do you talk about me?”

  E blushes. “I—well, sometimes I—they really like meeting my friends.”

  I step out of the car and look at the little white house with the little wooden porch, and the little colorful garden snaking around it. It’s almost comical how quaint it is.

  We enter the backyard through the open fence. The patio’s really nice, with a little stone spread. There’s a grill, which is the obvious source of the smoke, and a long picnic table with food already laid out.

  A small group of middle-aged people—maybe ten or twelve—stand around with glasses of champagne and bottles of beer as they chat about mowing lawns and joining golf clubs. Honestly, I have no idea what they’re chatting about, but looking at them, it just feels like those are the most likely topics of conversation.

  Only one woman in the crowd looks like she’s under fifty—maybe in her late thirties or so. She’s really pretty—plump red lips, voluminous dyed blond hair that cascades in waves down her shoulders, light brown skin, and a curvy figure pressed into a body-conscious red dress. Devin pulls me over to her and gives her a hug, which she returns while carrying on a conversation with this white couple, probably in their mid-fifties.

  Devin hangs on to her as she wraps up the conversation and finally turns over to us. “Mom, I want you to meet Noah,” e says, and I pause, eyes wide. Mom?

  She looks at me and smiles, and I can kind of see the resemblance. They have the same wide, uninhibited, dimpled smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Noah,” she says, and she has a little bit of a Miami accent. “You can call me Luly.”

  “Nice to meet you too,” I say because I always feel awkward addressing parents by their first names.

  “Is all the food done?” Devin asks. “I’m starving.”

  Devin’s mom looks at em with a raised eyebrow and says, “When aren’t you? Your father put some stuff out already.”

  Devin smiles and flips me a pair of finger guns. “Let’s get food.”

  We cross the yard over to the long picnic table, and lo and behold, there is in fact a lot of food already out. Devin grabs two little plastic plates and passes me one so we can make our way down the line. It looks like some of the food was brought by the guests, and it’s pretty obvious which portions those are—broccoli casserole, tuna casserole, tuna salad, potato salad. Ugh, actual salad.

  I grab a huge helping of arroz con pollo to help clear my head of all the unnatural salads in the world. And, of course, I grab some croquetas since Devin raved about them earlier.

  There’s a small garden in the corner of the yard, and a smaller version of the long picnic table out there. Devin and I sit, and I start shoveling food down my gullet because I have no shame.

  Devin smiles and says, “How is it?”

  “Amazing,” I say, because it really is. “Best Cuban food more than a mile out of Miami.”

  Devin laughs, but despite eir earlier eagerness to get to the food, e’s not really eating, just kinda pushing stuff around on eir plate.

  “Something wrong?” I ask.

  Devin’s eyes widen, but e shakes eir head. “No. Nothing’s wrong.”

  We sit in silence for a moment before Devin says, “I’m actually going to run to the bathroom really quick.”

  “Okay,” I say, but e’s already crossing the yard.

  I pick up a crispy little croqueta and bring it to my mouth. Shit. Devin wasn’t kidding. They really are good, and strangely enough, they make me feel a little homesick. Or maybe it’s not home I’m missing. Maybe it’s the simplicity of things back then and the feeling that things would just work themselves out.

  I clear my plate and check my phone. It’s just after four, and I have a missed message from Drew saying, Can’t wait to see you tonight. Don’t forget, 6 p.m.

  Like, no shit. Did he think I was gonna show up at six o’clock tomorrow morning?

  I sigh, slipping my phone back into my pocket. Devin’s been in the bathroom a while, but I don’t know if it’s weird for me to go after em. Hell, I don’t even know if I’m allowed in the house.

  I wait a few more minutes to see if e’ll just casually stroll out, but once e’s been gone for fifteen minutes, I decide to check on em and make sure e’s not sick or something.

  I walk over to the patio and slip through the sliding glass door into the house. The kitchen is beautifully upgraded, with an open floor plan that spills into a woodsy living room. Now, if I were a bat
hroom, where would I be?

  There’s a hallway, and just before that, a little door. I decide to knock on it before pulling it open to find that it’s just a storage closet. I take a quick glance around to make sure no one’s watching me pardon myself before entering a fucking closet, and head down the hallway. I step out into the front entrance with vaulted ceilings and a ton of natural lighting. Jeez, it’s fucking beautiful in here.

  And then I see the staircase. I take it up and look around. The door to the master bedroom is open, though I imagine Devin’s not in there. I continue down the hallway and find another bedroom, probably eirs. It’s simple and clean, the walls an olive green and the bed made up with little mouse-ear throw pillows. The bookshelf sits completely unkempt, and Devin’s pink uke sits on a desk next to an open laptop.

  And just across the hall is another door with a light on underneath it. I step across and quickly knock on the door, saying, “Devin, I really hope it’s you in there.”

  I wait a minute and consider if maybe I should slink away quickly before the door opens and one of Devin’s parents’ friends finds me creeping on them outside the bathroom. Then the door opens slowly, and Devin peeks out at me. “What?”

  But eir voice sounds kind of shaky, so I say, “Are you okay? You’ve been gone a while.”

  Eir breath hitches, and e says, “I’m sorry, I just—”

  “It’s okay,” I say. I pause a moment before adding, “If you’re not okay, that’s okay too. I mean, if you want to talk to me about something, you can. I’m down to listen.”

  Eir eyes widen a little, and then e says, “Can you just give me a minute? I’ll meet you in my room.”

  I nod, and e closes the door.

  I sit on eir bed because I don’t really know what else to do. I don’t want to go through eir stuff because that seems horribly invasive, but I also feel awkward just sitting there staring at the sketches e’s hung from eir wall. They’re nice, though—some concrete landscapes and some abstract swirls of color. It almost feels like I’m getting a peek into eir head for a moment even though I’m not entirely sure what any of it means.