Page 62 of Director's Cut

She bites her lip. “You’re happy with how this is going, right?”

“Yeah, absolutely—”

“Because I am. You—I mean, you know. I’ve…always had such a hard time finding people who kept me engaged, pushed me to grow. Met me on that special brain level, you know?”

I find myself laughing. “So, like, you’re happy I comment on your papers?”

She flusters. “No, I—I mean, yes, but I’m talking about connection in a broader sense. You have this incredible wealth of knowledge, like I learn from you every time I see you. Even among academics, that kind of passion is rare. It’s important to me in a match and I’m, like, giddy that I’ve found that with you. I’m so glad you chose to guest-teach and we met and—” She exhales. “I really like you.”

Something in me lights up, despite the tension I still feel. I reach my hand out to stroke her arm, just to feel that connection. “I like you too.”

“And now I’m going to meet your family and I still don’t even know what to call you.”

I let my heart leap and forget about my anxiety for just a moment. Just long enough to say, “How about girlfriend?”

Maeve grins. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”

She pulls me in for a kiss.

Dr. Maeve Arko pulls me in for a kiss.

Dr. Maeve Arko, my girlfriend, pulls me in for a kiss.

We kiss. We weave our fingers into each other’s hair, draw them along the lines of our clothing and tuck them under waistbands and onto hot skin. We kiss as girlfriends, with the ease that comes from weeks of experience and trust and something bubbling up that looks like love with just the L and the O set in stone for now.

All that, and I haven’t told her about the film festivals.

I pull away before Maeve’s hand drops into my pajama bottoms. “Wanna go with me when I buy my niblings a birthday present? We can make sex a nice treat for being real adults?”

Maeve sits there and stares at me for a moment before lightly pushing me away. “You’re my girlfriend.”

My heart’s buzzing harder and harder every time she says it. It overshadows the anxiety. I need her to keep saying it. “I am.”

She giggles. “Oh god, my girlfriend’s a—”

“Academy Award–winning actress?”

“Libra.”

And I let myself collapse on her and laugh. I let the anxiety melt away. It may be poking the bear more and more each time I avoid bringing things up, but for now that bear is stuck in its cave.

There’s literally an indie store called the Dinosaur Farm in Old Pasadena, so I figure that warrants a little trek east. Not that Maeve seems to mind much. Conversation fills the air, blending perfectly with the playlist she’s curating from my Spotify. It hits me in little waves. Maeve is my girlfriend. I haven’t had a girlfriend in five years. I haven’t had a girlfriend since I started acting. The last time girlfriend meant anything to me, I was in England TA’ing Irish–African American Relations at King’s College, coming back to a dorm room planning my marriage proposal. Maeve is my girlfriend, I’m teaching again, and do I dare toy with the possibility that Maeve and I could be marriage serious? I haven’t made plans more than two years in advance since I got accepted into my PhD program. Hollywood just isn’t built for that.

Yet as I take Maeve’s hand to walk her down the Old Pasadena streets, I let myself run the film of our future. I imagine holding on to this hand for decades to come, seeing a ring on her left hand. Embarrassment creeps up my neck and, well, there are more than a few butterflies fluttering again.

“So this is your hometown?” Maeve asks as I open the door to the Dinosaur Farm for her.

I consider keeping my sunglasses on, but that’s more conspicuous. Besides, I’ve been back to Pasadena more than a few times since becoming famous, and people tend to leave me alone. Some of them even remember me pre-fame and will ask how my parents’ dental practice is going. I glance over at the cashier, the only employee currently in my line of vision. She’s somewhere between teenage and early twenties, with short black hair and a nose stud.

“It’s too cute, isn’t it?” I reply.

Because this store truly is adorable. There’s a light green jungle facade on the walls, and the shelves are lined with dinosaur-themed children’s books and puzzles. A breakout section is stuffed to the gills with dinosaur toys—cars, plastic tchotchkes, stuffed animals, Jurassic Park–type LEGO playsets. I head to this toy section first. Part of me wants to pick the most obnoxious one to mess with Gwyn, but I can’t tell if Maeve quite shares my jokingly petty/childish streak when it comes to my sister.

“I can’t picture you growing up here,” Maeve says. “It’s so quiet. Your hypothetical children”—she visibly hesitates—“would be too edgy to live here even when they’re in diapers.”

In order to keep my cool, I try to focus on the bit of pink that raises to Maeve’s cheeks at the mention of my future progeny as she picks up a dinosaur set that reads 3+. She can see me having kids? I know Gwyn’s always joking when she says I shouldn’t have kids, but no one has gone so far as to say that they could actually see me having them. I’ve always loved the idea of being a parent. I’ve been in love with tiny humans since Oz and Lily were born. Sometimes, on the hard nights when I was closeted, my only self-soothing tool was to imagine my future family. One day you’ll have your own world that’s full of gay love. You’ll have a wife and raise kids who’ll never go through what you’re going through now.

Of course, my phone dings with a text right in the middle of that little euphoria moment. It’s from the group chat.

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