Page 52 of Sizzle Reel

“The one in that flower horror film you love.”

Oh. Florence. God, maybe I do have a type. “I’m sure Florence Pugh is doing great, but I—” I suck air in between my teeth. I usually kinda like catching up with my mom, but tonight her voice feels like a mosquito buzzing. “I’m working right now.”

But instead of grumbling to my dad about me always working, she keeps going. “Oh, what’re you working on?”

I stare at Valeria’s adorably scrunched-up face as she inspects one of the wings mid-lineup. “Video editing.”

“Of what?”

Of a one-on-one outing with a woman within my dating age range. Of an outing that, despite how spectacularly bad it got, still resulted in another woman pressing her leg to my leg and touching my lip and it—it making me horny enough to do something about it while Romy ran out to the grocery store hours later. Because I’m bisexual, Mother.

“Stuff.” It comes out curt. Unexpectedly curt.

But I can’t even give her the G-rated version. She calls random blond actresses “my girl,” but the idea even right now of her calling Valeria my girl and it being romantic—it makes me nauseated. Talking about my crush shouldn’t do that. If it were Wyatt, it wouldn’t be like this. I told her about Wyatt the second he asked me out. The muscles in my arm quiver as I try to navigate the editing program.

“How’s work?” She continues trying to make conversation.

“Fine.”

I can’t talk to Mom about Valeria touching me and saying nothing about my scene. I can’t talk to her about Wyatt outing me, about Alice tokenizing me, about Julia and the Rachel Brosnahan thing, about whether she really supports marriage equality, about whether she’d cry if I said I might not marry a Nice Jewish Boy. I can’t even really talk to her about Florence fucking Pugh on fucking SNL. And it’s her fucking fault for being such an opaque—

“Fine? Is that Valeria—?”

My heartbeat slamming in my ears, I snap. “Fine, Mom! It’s fine and I’m working! Can you just—?”

But Mom, a stone-cold New York bitch, doesn’t just cower and hang up. She never will, and I’m the idiot for thinking she would. “Jesus Christ, Luna. Call me back when you’re feeling less bitchy.”

Then she hangs up, leaving me to scream into a pillow, my whole body flushed. She didn’t even say anything homophobic; why am I so mad at her? Will this feeling really only go away if I come out and get my answer once and for all?

As the guilt pricks cold along my arms, I do my best to focus on editing. Like the hardworking daughter she loves so much.

When I drag myself out into our living room hours later, for once I think I’m less seeking out Romy for comfort and more being drawn to her effortless queerness. I hear the comforting lilt of her speaking Spanish.

Romy’s from a San Francisco suburb, and because I’m Jewish and my family doesn’t have Christmas plans, I get to revel in Romy’s family drama one day a year. Romy’s dad gets tired of traveling, demands his Spanish relatives fly out to California, and ends up angrily making fancy entremeses, roast lamb, and turrón for me, Wyatt, and Romy’s older cousin who’s doing a Ph.D. at Stanford. Romy constantly apologizes for it, but it’s like music, listening to her, her dad, and her cousin argue and tease one another in Spanish. Even now, hearing Romy speak the language brings me back to specific memories of curling up with her ancient family cats next to a roaring fire, leaving a spot for her in the La-Z-Boy her mom hates so we can watch Home Alone in peace.

Still, there’s nothing particularly peaceful or friendly about the way Romy’s speaking on the phone now as she sits in front of the television, the Netflix menu open and static. I retained only high school–level Spanish, and Spain-Spanish accents are impossible to understand, but I can usually tell whom she’s talking to through little phrases, her body language, her expression. In this case, it’s her grandma, and Romy is muttering, “Lo sé lo sé lo sé,” in her customer service voice.

She watches me as I join her on the couch. We’ve bitched to each other about family so much by now that we don’t really care if the other listens in on phone calls. Still, I give her thigh a couple of pats as I pull up my phone and check my messages. Valeria confirmed she got my reel, but nothing more.

“Nieto, Abue, por favor,” Romy says. She winces as she says it.

The plea hits me, piques cold in my chest, but it’s the soft, almost defeated way she says it that keeps the feeling there. Sorry and hopefully she’ll get it next time hover in my head, but I don’t want to intrude where I’m not welcome. With Romy, it’s a toss-up if she wants to acknowledge gender stuff. So when she wraps up the conversation and lets out a long sigh as she leans into the couch, I let her lead.

“You look upset,” Romy says, leaning on her fist, clearly setting the tone.

I chuckle. “You always say that about me.” Still, I’ll give her one chance to talk. “Are you?”

Romy takes a deep breath, eyes on the TV, but she doesn’t do anything. “Doesn’t matter. She’s paying my rent because she thinks I’m a wonderful writer; how mad can I get about a conjugation she doesn’t even realize she’s doing?”

I think back to my conversation with my mom, shame settling in the back of my throat. If Romy’s this forgiving with her grandma, what am I doing? “Pretty mad, I’ve found. And mine haven’t even done anything yet.”

Romy gives this sad smile. “They’re centrist and aggressively heterosexual; that’s enough.”

God, it feels so good to be surrounded by queerness, to be seen for who I am. But since Romy is the one making me feel seen, let me focus on her.

The conversation pauses.

“You can be mad at your family too, you know.”

---