“Oh my God.” I practically squeal as I scoot toward her and throw my arms around her. “I’m so happy for you, Amelia.” I let her go, then squeeze her shoulders. “Does this mean you’re in love now?”
She starts laughing and shaking her head. “Gosh, no. Not yet. But I feel like I’m getting there, faster than I ever thought I could, and it’s scary and exhilarating all at the same time.”
“Have you told her?”
“Yes and no. We talk about how much we like each other all the time. That feels like enough for now.”
The ecstatic look on her face makes my heart feel full. “Update me the second something changes. The millisecond, actually. Like, you should probably just be writing out a text to me as you tell Kira you love her.”
At that, Amelia laughs. “Of course. But tell me about you! How did you enjoy the Spring Festival? And Bri-an?” She emphasizes his name like a little song, and I like it.
“Oh, you know…it was fine.”
“Don’t even! You will not hold out on me! So spill it. Tell me everything. You guys seemed pretty cozy.”
“We were, I think,” I say. “We may have kissed a bunch.”
And then it’s Amelia’s turn to squeal and grab me by the shoulders. She shakes me back and forth. “OhmyGodohmyGod! I knew it! That casual little peck at the locker this morning sold you out!”
“I know. I know!” I say. “I can’t believe it! He’s my first kiss.”
Amelia clasps her hands together and looks at me wistfully, like she’s equal parts proud and nostalgic. “Your first kiss,” she repeats.
“I feel silly that it’s taken so long…”
“Well, don’t! It doesn’t matter how long it takes. We all have our own timelines,” Amelia says. “And can I please just have a moment to say something important?”
“Of course.”
Amelia clears her throat. Then she’s singing, “Charlie and Brian sittin’ in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G—”
“Oh my God!” I shout over her.
“First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes Charlie with a baby carriage!”
We both erupt into laughter until Tess comes stomping down the hallway toward Amelia’s room. “Can you please be quiet? You’re being rude!”
“Get out of here, Tess!”
“Not until you shut up!”
“If you don’t get out of here, I’m going to call Mom!” Amelia shouts. “Go!”
Tess does, but not before sticking out her tongue at her sister and glaring at me. Amelia slams her bedroom door shut behind Tess. Then she sighs. “She ruins everything.”
“You mean she ruined you teasing me about pushing Brian’s baby carriage,” I say. “And by the way, I never realized how sexist that rhyme is.”
“Right? As I’m singing it, I’m thinking, jeez, why does Charlie have to be the one pushing the baby carriage?”
“And why are babies, like, an inevitability? What if I want to push a puppy carriage instead?” I ask.
“That’s your right,” Amelia says. Then she breaks into a huge grin. “Look at us! Just two best friends in relationships. Oh my God! Double date?!”
I laugh. “Are you being serious right now?”
“Of course I am!” She starts to chant: “Double date, double date, double date!”
“I’ll think about it,” I say, still laughing. “Now can we do some homework?”
I’m not sure about a double date. I kind of want to keep Brian all to myself while everything is still so new and exciting and full of possibility. But for Amelia, I’ll consider it.
Chapter Thirty-Three
It’s already late when I get home from Amelia’s house. Mom’s car is gone, so I have the house to myself. Perfect writing atmosphere.
I change into some pajamas, set myself up at my desk, and put on a coffeehouse playlist for a little inspiration. Maybe it’s the darkness, or maybe it’s the fact that it’s raining a little and I can hear it just beneath the music, or maybe the stars are finally aligning…but whatever it is, something about tonight is good for my writing.
My story is taking shape. I’ve opted to go with the story about the complicated mother-daughter relationship. I take Ms. Williams’s advice and use some of my own journal passages as inspiration (though I fictionalize them, obviously).
The story follows a mother-daughter duo who (shockingly!) don’t see eye to eye on nearly anything, from the daughter’s weight to the person she falls in love with to the career she chooses to, eventually, how she raises her own daughter. Over the years, they come together and they drift apart; this is chronicled through short scenes that take place at pivotal moments in their lives. The story ends with them spending Mother’s Day together in the kitchen of the family home. It doesn’t have a happy ending, only an ambiguous one, but it feels real, almost like glimpsing my future, where my relationship with my mom never morphs into the one I wish it were but is just the one I have and that’s that. For me, it feels raw, and I hope it resonates.
Before I know it, I’ve poured hours into the story, hammering out a first draft. It’s late now. In the morning, I’ll read it over, then send it off to Ms. Williams.
Feeling accomplished, I climb into bed with my laptop, not ready for sleep yet. I switch gears and open up a not-appropriate-for-the-writing-contest story I’ve been working on. It’s about a young brown girl who meets a cute Korean boy.
I know. I know. But I want to write about characters that remind me of me and Brian. They don’t bear our names, but the resemblance is there. They’re older than we are—college age—and the main character, Selena (named after Quintanilla, not Gomez), is Practically Perfect. She’s super focused on school because she’s working on becoming an astrophysicist—only she falls in love with Jae, and that’s not part of the plan. I live for these kinds of romance plots.
I’ve sketched parts of this story out, but I’m ignoring all that plot stuff right now because it’s late and I really just want to write a love scene.
To be clear: I have not even fully made out with Brian yet. But it’s like kissing him has made it so that all I can think about is sex.
And if I’m not ready to have it yet, I can at least write about it.
I get into it. Serena and Jae are at the library late; they get caught in a rainstorm. They run back to her dorm and by the time they get there, her clothes are drenched and so are his and they’re so into each other they can’t help but kiss.
I’m typing a paragraph about how they barely make it into her dorm room before Jae is kissing the nape of Selena’s neck, hands roaming her body, when my phone vibrates against my leg and I’m jolted out of the scene.
A text from Brian.
Heyyy.
Timing!
Hiii, I write back.
What are you up to? it reads.
Well, he’s not getting an honest answer. Should I go with something coy?
I type Wouldn’t you like to know? and then immediately delete it and send Can’t sleep. What about you?
Can’t sleep either.
I had fun today. Being a couple.
It felt good to hold your hand walking down the hall. I’ve been wanting to do that forever.
My heart feels like it skips a beat and I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose—habit. I had no idea Brian even liked me as a friend, let alone had given any thought to holding my hand. He kind of pined? For me?
Really?
Of course. I’m just glad you finally noticed me.
I write I’m glad you noticed me, too.
You’re the only girl worth seeing, he writes.
I can’t think of anything remotely cute or clever to say back, so I just text a blushing emoji three times in a row. Sometimes, words escape even writers.
Well, as it turns out, day two of holding hands with Brian at school is better than day one. Day three is even better than that. Day four is the best—but only because with each passing day, it feels a little more normal, a little
more like it’s me who’s holding his hand and not some character I’ve dreamed up in one of my stories. This is real life.
At work, I find it hard to focus on my duties. I’m supposed to be writing some thank-you letters for Nancy, but I keep finding excuses to work in the back with Brian. We haven’t shared with our coworkers that we’re dating, which makes it feel even more exciting.
So, instead of writing those letters, I’m stacking boxes with Brian in the warehouse. Brian keeps bumping his hand against mine, and I don’t stop him.
Then he doesn’t stop me when I start stacking boxes high enough to construct a wall between Dave’s cubicle and the stock room. And he doesn’t stop me when the wall is tall enough to hide us both. And he doesn’t stop me when I start to kiss him.
We come up for air for just a second and he grins so big at me I feel it in my chest. “We could get caught, you know,” he says, taking both of my hands in his.
I interlock our fingers. “That’s part of the fun,” I say. “And who’s going to catch us? Dave has never even set foot in this part of the building.”
“You make an excellent point.” He pulls me closer to him. He smells nice, like the cologne from our date. “So, I was thinking…”
“Yes?” I ask.
“We should go on a proper date.”
“A proper date?” I repeat.
He nods. “Yeah, like, I could take you somewhere nice.”
“I don’t need to go anywhere nice.”
“You deserve to go somewhere nice,” he insists.
“Nice makes me nervous,” I say. “Let’s do something fun. Something we both like.”
“We both like this,” Brian says, leaning in to kiss me.
I laugh when we pull apart. “Definitely. Yes. But what else?”
“We both like music.” Then Brian scrunches his nose. “But not the same music. I’m not about to listen to Beyoncé.”
I pull my hands away from him like I’m hurt. (Maybe I am a little. It’s BEYONCÉ. How can he not like her?!) “Don’t you even say that! You’ll listen to Beyoncé and you’ll like it!”
Brian rolls his eyes. “We’ll see.” Then his face lights up. “I’ve got it.”
“What? Were you just struck by the magnificence that is Queen Bey?”
“No. Our date. I’ve got it.”
“Well?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Nope. It’s a secret. Are you free Saturday?”
It’s cute that he asks, like I’ve ever had Saturday plans beyond hanging with Amelia.
“I’m definitely free on Saturday,” I say.
“Great. I’ll pick you up at two.”
I grin. Okay. I like the sound of that.
Chapter Thirty-Four
I’m a feminist. Let’s get that straight.
But I’m also the kind of girl who changes her outfit a zillion times before a date. You can be both, okay?
I don’t know exactly where Brian and I are going, but I do text him to get a hint about how I should dress. While I wait for his reply, I finish editing the draft of the short story I wrote for the writing contest, then quickly email it to Ms. Williams and ask for her honest feedback. I’m a smidge late (she wanted this by last night—oops!), so I’m apologetic when I email her, hoping Saturday morning offers enough time for her to take a peek. Regardless, it feels really good to cross that one off my list.
Brian eventually texts me back to say casual dress is fine and I sigh. Boys. What kind of casual?
I decide to go with a simple T-shirt dress that I belt at the waist and some ballet flats. Something cute but also relaxed should carry me through either an outdoor or an indoor adventure. I grab a jacket, too, just in case.
Brian picks me up right on time.
“So…,” I say after we’ve been in the car for a bit. “Where are we off to?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Can I get a hint?”
“Nope.”
I sigh dramatically, but I don’t let up, not for the whole car ride, and I don’t even care if I’m being annoying. I think Brian thinks it’s cute that I’m curious because he’s playing along and that feels good and right and like we’re in a rhythm. It isn’t long before we’re pulling into the parking lot of an art museum. From the outside, it may not seem like very much—just two stories, though there are large picture windows all around that let in breathtaking amounts of natural light—but I know the inside houses a mix of awe-inspiring modern and classical art that’s not admired nearly as often as it should be.
I look over at him and he seems pleased with his choice.
“Well? Is this good?” he asks.
“Yes! So good! I used to come here as a kid. I haven’t been back in years!”
“You’ve been missing out, then. It’s incredible.”
We pull into a parking spot and start to walk into the building. We pay to enter the museum—Brian tries to pay for me, but I insist on paying for myself—and then we head into the first room.
Art museums are the best. They’re quiet and allow for contemplation and reflection, which is perfect for an introvert like me. I really like to take my time and appreciate each piece of art—I even like reading the descriptions next to each painting. (I mean, I’m not super pretentious about it or anything. I just really love a good art museum.)
Brian seems to be the same way; we’re mostly quiet throughout our tour, pointing out things we like or dislike about certain paintings, talking about artists we love and those who are overhyped. Turns out, Brian is not a big fan of Andy Warhol. When we reach one of his pieces, Brian actually scoffs. “Totally overrated.”
I blink. “But it’s Andy Warhol!”
“The Campbell’s soup can? Marilyn Monroe? Gimme a break. It’s easy art. Boring art.”
“He’s, like, one of the biggest artists of all time,” I say.
“I will give the guy credit for his impact. It’s massive. And I get that he was making a statement about consumerism and blah blah blah. But I can’t get behind his talent. There’s just no heart. When Warhol was at his peak, he wasn’t even making the art himself! He had conveyor belts set up and workers doing the screen printing for him. I’d take a beautiful Bob Ross painting over one of Warhol’s so-called masterpieces any day.”
“You’re really fired up about this!”
Brian nods emphatically. “I am! Guy’s a loser.”
I turn to the Warhol piece. “You hear that, Andy? Brian Park thinks you’re a loser!”
We both stifle our laughs, and I loop my arm through his as we walk to the next painting. “You know, you do make some good points,” I admit.
“Of course I do,” he says with a grin.
“He’s convinced me! Sorry, Andy!” I call over my shoulder.
“Andy’ll get over it.”
“Will he, though?” I tease. “Ooh, I think there’s a Monet around here somewhere. Please tell me you’re not going to roast him, too?”
“Nah,” Brian replies. “Monet’s my boy.”
We talk a little about how they never have enough work by female artists displayed, and when Brian agrees and says there are female painters beyond Georgia O’Keeffe that deserve recognition, I could kiss him. I’m not one to think that men deserve a cookie every time they show some humanity, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel pleased that the guy I’m dating is at least a little woke.
I’m smiling to myself when I notice a painting by Peter Paul Rubens. I discovered him on a body-pos art Insta I follow, and since then, I’ve really appreciated his work.
“You a fan?” Brian asks.
I nod. “It’s not typically my style—I like Impressionism—but I love that he paints women with bigger bodies. It’s beautiful.”
Brian inspects the painting, his lips spreading into a smile. “Yeah. It is.”
It can be difficult for me to look at paintings like this, at bodies like this, and see that they are beautiful but still sometimes struggle to see myself in the same
positive light. I think about my body, about all of its imperfections, and I don’t necessarily see beauty. Yet. But I’m working on it.
“I wish my mom agreed that bodies like these can be beautiful,” I say.
“She doesn’t?” Brian asks.
I shake my head, not removing my gaze from the painting. “No. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve been taught that fat is bad. Even when my mom was fat, back before she lost a ton of weight. She’s constantly trying to get me to lose weight.”
“Mine, too,” Brian says softly.
Without thinking, I say, “But you’re perfect,” and he laughs.
“Far from it. I mean. I struggle,” he says, motioning toward his stomach. “This could use some work. At least according to my mom. Ma always tries to get her to chill out, but…Mom’s got opinions.”
I try to imagine Brian’s mom Susan being anything other than pleasant, but I can’t. Then again, if you asked anyone else about my mom, they’d probably tell you she was wonderful, too.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“I’m sorry for you, too.” Then he holds out his hand to me. “But they’re wrong about us.”
I give him my hand, which he takes and uses to gingerly pull me close to him. I rest my head on his shoulder, look at the beautiful bodies in the painting before me, and think, Yes. They’re wrong about all of us.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Just a day after our museum date, I seize the opportunity of an empty house to invite Brian over. I mean, we’re not going to do anything but, like, maybe a little.
“Can’t believe I get to come inside this time,” Brian teases when I answer the door.
“My mom barely liked you being in the driveway working on the car. There was no way you were coming inside that day,” I say with a laugh.
“Fair enough.” He steps inside, closing the door on a beautiful mid-April morning.
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