Kiss Her Once for Me (7)

I find myself thinking about last Christmas again—about the bridge and the snow, about thinking I could become a different version of myself, even if only for one day. “Andrew Kim-Prescott does not date people like me.”

“He winked at you.”

“He probably had something in his eye. Dust keeps gathering in these sprigs of holly, and I’m the only one who cleans them.”

“Come on. You know you’re adorable. You’re tall. You’ve got this thick, luscious hair going for you, and huge”—I self-consciously cross my arms over my ample chest—“blue eyes,” Ari finishes. I drop my arms. “You’re like if Zooey Deschanel stopped taking her Lexapro.”

I hold my hands in a prayer pose beneath my chin. “My kingdom for off-brand escitalopram.”

“See? That whole quirky vibe. Men love that shit.”

“I’m not quirky. I have generalized anxiety disorder, and trust me, there is nothing cute about it.” Unless you find chronic gastrointestinal distress, anxious vomiting, and shutting down at the first sign of conflict cute.

“Dude, this is Portland. We all have GAD. Get yourself a therapist already.”

“I have a therapist,” I mumble. Her name is Anna, I see her twice a month through an online service. Based on the fact that she told me I’m “thriving” at our last session, she’s obviously awful at her job.

“I think you should ask Andrew out,” Ari reiterates.

There is nothing worse than happily coupled people meddling in the romantic lives of the perpetually single. Though, I guess in Ari’s case, it’s happily throupled since she’s been dating a married lesbian couple for the past two years. They both come into Roastlandia sometimes, and the three of them are sickeningly cute together. “Ari. You’ve known me for nine months now. Do you really think I’ve ever asked someone out? Besides, Andrew isn’t really my type.”

I can feel Ari’s eyes on the side of my face. “Because he’s Asian?”

I wheel around. Ari is Filipino and five seconds away from garroting me with Christmas garlands. “What? No! Of course not!”

She looks slightly less murderous. “Because he’s a dude? I thought you were into dudes.”

I shift anxiously on my feet. I came out to Ari my first week at Roastlandia, when we caught each other checking out Hot Yoga Janine in her Fabletics. It wasn’t a particularly profound moment.

“You into women?” Ari had asked me point-blank.

To which I’d eloquently said, “Uh, yeah, I’m generally into everything,” like I was commenting on which pizza toppings I prefer.

This was followed by Ari punching me in the shoulder and saying, “I thought you were one of us.”

And sure, I fell a little bit in love with Ari in that moment, but we didn’t exactly dive into the nuances of my sexuality. “I mean, I’m bi,” I stammer now, “so technically, yes, I’m into dudes, but I’m also demisexual, which means I don’t experience sexual attraction at all without a strong emotional bond.”

“I know what demisexuality is,” Ari cuts in.

Right. Of course. This is Portland. It’s not like all the times I tried to explain myself on third dates back in Ohio and was met with blank, uncomprehending stares. “Okay, well, for me personally, I can look at people and find them physically attractive in, like, an objective way. And I can develop crushes. But unless there is deep trust there, that crush is always going to feel kind of distant and abstract.”

Ari—who proudly wears a trans flag pin beside a lesbian pride pin on her Roastlandia apron—gives me a look that says my question did not require a dissertation. “But if you do form that emotional bond, you are capable of being sexually and romantically attracted to men?” she asks slowly.

I nod. “In theory.” In practice, it hasn’t happened before. Needing emotional intimacy in relationships while also having an anxiety disorder that makes emotional intimacy nearly impossible is just rude as hell on the part of my brain.

“Well, if I were into dudes,” Ari declares, “I would be all over Andrew, so you should definitely form an emotional bond with him.”

“It’s not really that simple. And besides, Andrew is almost too attractive. The money and the suits and the hair… Andrew’s life is perfect and being around him would only remind me of how imperfect my life is.”

I’m content with my distant and abstract crush on Andrew Kim-Prescott.

Ari adjusts her fedora so it sits jauntily over one eye. “No one is perfect, Ellie.”

Before I can respond, the swinging door opens again, and Greg and Andrew emerge. As Andrew asks Ari to transfer his latte into a to-go cup, Greg turns to me. “Ari mentioned earlier that there was something you wanted to discuss with me?”

Andrew and his hair are suddenly the furthest thing from my mind. It’s this conversation or eviction. I take a deep breath. “Yes, uh… did you… um, did you have the chance to, uh… Did you make a choice? About the new assistant manager?”

Greg sighs. “I’m not sure what you want me to do here, Ellie. I need an assistant manager I can depend on, and you were six minutes late today.”

“I’m sorry,” I say instinctively. “I’ll never be late again. It’s just—I really need this promotion. I just found out my building is raising my rent January first, and with my student loans, I can’t afford to pay fourteen hundred a month making fifteen dollars an hour—” I don’t tell him where most of my money actually goes. Greg Radzinski doesn’t deserve to know about my fucked-up family dynamics. “And I know you want me to have schedule flexibility, so I can’t get a second job unless—”