Page 4 of Sizzle Reel

“What about you, Lune? Need me to set you up with any sensitive guys?” he asks.

A) I know he would never set me up with anyone.

B) No.

I rub my forearms. “It’s cool.”

A moment of silence passes. I can feel the words forming in my throat and I just have to let it happen. Ignore the possibility that when I open my mouth, instead of saying anything, I will have a heart attack. The lighting in here is bad. It casts shadows over Romy’s and Wyatt’s faces, and there are sparkles of light being picked up in glassware, reflections of orange off a weak electric candle on our table. I’d do a medium shot. Focusing on their expressions in the seconds before they know my secret is too painful, so no close-up. I’m too sober, my vision too clear, for that. I take my hand off my drink, force myself to stop fidgeting.

I force the words out. “I’m bi.”

Much like what happened with Julia, there’s a split second when Wyatt and Romy blankly process what’s just happened. As if no one expected in a million years that I’d be the one who’s secretly gay.

Then Romy breaks into a smile and pulls me into a side hug. “Hey, welcome to the club!” she says, her voice going higher.

My cheek rests against her shoulder, and I experience the same heat and lightness in my chest that I did when Julia reacted positively. It’s an almost out-of-place feeling, like something ripped from a more innocent time in my life—the mind-numbing joy of making my first friend in kindergarten, of receiving exactly what I asked for for my birthday, of that night during fall semester of freshman year when Romy and I lay among a pile of take-home finals, never thinking we’d end up this connected to a friend from a general education course.

“Did you, like, kiss a girl and figure it out?” Wyatt asks.

Not to say the moment’s gone, but the rush is really slowing.

“Uh, no,” I reply, heat settling in my cheeks.

“Note for the straight: You don’t have to have kissed girls to be sapphic,” Romy says. “No one expects literal children to have fooled around with—”

“Okay, sorry,” Wyatt says.

Both reactions are something I’ll have to get used to. I take a deep breath.

“It’s fine,” I say. “No, I’ve just been thinking about it and it kinda hit me last week. And then I told Julia…” The embarrassment shoots its way back. “And…mentioned The Marvelous Mrs.Maisel.”

Romy smirks. “You know, she probably doesn’t know she looks like Rachel Brosnahan. When I saw her, she just…maybe had the vibe.”

“You’ve met her therapist?” Wyatt asks.

“We briefly made awkward eye contact when I dropped Luna off a few months ago.” Romy turns to me. “Did she say anything about me?”

“She asked why I brought my friend to therapy.”

“You know what? I could seduce her. That’s not illegal.”

I put my hands over my face, even though this is a routine teasing. “Please don’t.”

“What’s her last name? I wanna confirm or deny this Rachel Brosnahan thing,” Wyatt says.

“We can’t. Luna won’t tell us her last name.”

“There must be some way…”

I take Romy’s drink and swig. It burns more than usual. “Thank you two for once again convincing me I’m never letting you get close to my therapist.”

Romy throws her arm around me and rocks us back and forth. It could be tipsiness, but I think it might just be excitement. Either way, I melt into her embrace. I feel a massive weight lift off me. “Man, I can finally not feel bad dumping pictures of hot actresses in suits on you! Please send me every gay thought you ever have.” Romy removes her arm and scoots out of the booth. “Like, literally, text me your thoughts in the two minutes I’m gone.”

It’s not like I didn’t think Romy would react positively to this, but it’s a head rush watching her walk out. I’ve been lighting her in a glimmering halo filter for so long, and I feel lucky to be able to share my queerness with her. It makes me feel even more connected to her—a feeling I’ve experienced only to varying degrees with Jewish friends and partners. I can’t even imagine what being with a Jewish queer partner would be like.

Once Romy is gone, Wyatt scoots in to take her place. He leans in, like we’re going to discuss something secret. “So…what’re you gonna do now?”

I shrug, running my finger along the condensation on my soda water. “Try to talk to Alice in the next few weeks about working under a D.P.” The cinematographer, a.k.a. the director of photography (D.P.), is the top gig in my field. The master to my apprentice. “Maybe apply to grad school if it doesn’t work out—”

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