I lift a brow, and—in the end—I just can’t help myself. “One’s a tormented antihero fighting for social justice,” I say. “And the other is the Juggernaut, bitch.”
This earns me another screech from Ophelia and a hearty eye roll from Diego, who covers his face with both hands like he’s in physical pain.
“Sorry, Diego, normies wouldn’t get it,” Ophelia declares. “So exactly how many arguments did you get into on Tumblr about whether or not Erik could have controlled the direction of the bullet that paralyzed Charles in First Class?”
“At least three,” I say. “I also wrote a forty-chapter Phantom of the Opera crossover fan fiction starring Magneto as the shadowy opera ghost.”
“Wait, I’ve read that one,” Ophelia says, jabbing a finger toward me. “That was you? No shit!”
I make a face. “To my great shame.”
“No, shut up. I commented on like every update. You aren’t allowed to be embarrassed.”
Diego groans loudly. “Please stop talking about bad comic book movies. I literally cannot stand another second of this.”
“We’re actually talking about a fan fiction crossover of great comic book movies and Broadway musicals—” Ophelia starts, but she’s interrupted by a piece of prosciutto flung in her face.
Dinner ends up being a mishmash of Diego’s cheese-and-pork towers plus some leftover lo mein and a rather impressively green salad that Ophelia concocts out of lettuce, scallions, cucumber, and a slightly overripe avocado. I’ve never been happier to consume what I imagine “college food” would have looked like if I’d ever actually attended college and explored its culinary idiosyncrasies.
“We have to go out,” Diego declares once dinner is finished and the dishes are cleaned and it’s getting close to the time that I would normally start making excuses to turn in, especially with tomorrow being my first day at Parker. “It’s Ely’s first night here; she needs to go to Revel.”
“Right,” Ophelia says, “it’s Ely’s first night here. She does not need to go to Revel.”
“What’s Revel?” I ask from my spot on the sofa, where I have beached myself for the past half hour, still waiting for my overstuffed stomach to deflate.
Diego fixes me with his laser gaze, which is extra piercing thanks to his lime-green mascara. “You’re gay, right?” he asks.
“I…”
Ophelia grimaces and says, “You don’t have to suffer the Inquisition if you don’t want to, Ely. Say the word and we can punt Diego safely back into his bedroom where he can’t bother anyone.”
“Do you like guys? Girls? Hot nonbinary people with lots of piercings? All of the above? None of the above?”
Diego says it so matter-of-factly, so easily. I wish I could do that. It’s not like I haven’t been honest with myself. It’s not like I haven’t had relationships. But I’ve never felt the need to label myself before now—that felt like it would have been claiming something that didn’t belong to me. Even though that doesn’t make sense, because identity is something you belong to, not the other way around.
But apparently I’m giving off major gay vibes, at least per Diego’s radar, so.
“I guess…Well, I’ve dated both girls and guys,” I venture at last, which seems like the safest answer. “But gender doesn’t really matter much to me. It’s more about the person.”
Don’t overthink it, I order myself, but of course it’s too late; I’m overthinking it. What I said is true, but I worry it comes across as pandering. That maybe Diego and Ophelia can tell how badly I want them to like me—and if they can tell that, they might think I’m making this up to seem tolerant or whatever.
Only I shouldn’t have worried, because as it turns out, most people don’t have my habit of being bitterly suspicious of everyone they meet. Ophelia and Diego simply exchange looks, some silent conversation passing between them that my anxiety desperately wants to hyperanalyze, and Diego rubs his hands together like a Disney villain. “I knew it. You’re coming to Revel with us, pansexual icon.”
2
Revel, as it turns out, is a gay club.
A queer club, to be more accurate, as the crowd mingling out on the sidewalk is a mishmash of genders, not the standard flock of cis gay dudes I associated with places like this in LA. No, these are New York queers—painfully, effortlessly cool queers—and…I can’t relate. I tried the baggy jeans trend once, and it made me look like Gumby. The only style I typically muster is best described as “grunge meets cottagecore.” Not that my day-old airport clothes even rise to that level.
Diego’s brought a flask, which he surreptitiously offers to me as we stand in line. I shake my head and one of his eyebrows flicks up. “Don’t like tequila?” he asks.
“Not my favorite,” I say, because I don’t drink, period is always a bombshell to drop on people. As soon as you admit you’re sober, they start asking questions. Worse, they start insisting that you should loosen up. Have a drink. Or three. Or six. What, are you watching your figure?
Half the time they don’t let up until I lose my temper and snap that I’m clean, I’m in recovery, my brain literally wants to kill me and I cannot be trusted with the weapons of my own destruction.
Which tends to put a damper on things, and I want these people to like me. So, personal-disclosure hours can wait.
But to Diego’s credit, he just shrugs and passes the flask to Ophelia instead, and by the time we’re at the front of the line, they’re both slightly tipsy. I’m better than I used to be; I can be around drunk people now. Good thing, considering the nature of the photography social circuit out in LA, a booze-drenched, drug-fueled fuck fest where the quantity and lethality of the drugs you consumed while creating a given work were treated almost like accolades. I heard she went into rehab right after the gallery opening, someone would whisper. Heroin. And they’d all hum discerningly and make comments about artists and their vices.
We make it through the line faster than I expected. The bouncer up front barely even glances at our IDs before letting us in.
Stepping into Revel is like stepping into the past. Forty years into the past, specifically; the décor is firmly eighties chic, all neon lights patterned like the zigzag slashes on vintage dad jackets, everyone dressed in polyester and denim. Some guy with bleached-blond hair has taken over one of the poles and is doing an impromptu show up there, and he’s wearing overalls for some reason. The DJ plays a mash-up of Madonna and Hayley Kiyoko, and honestly, it kind of slaps.
Being here wakes me up, as if I’ve been underwater for years and have finally surfaced into the sun. It’s the feeling I used to chase with whiskey and drugs and the bodies of strangers. I take a breath and my lungs expand. My head clears.