My roommate thinks I’m gay, and I haven’t corrected her. I mean, sure, Kara and I met in our fashion design class, and sure, she knows I crush on Oscar Isaac, and sure, I told her fiancé as much so he wouldn’t be jealous, and sure, I might’ve kissed him when Kara was passed out on Malbec and he and I were sharing a joint, and sure, I told him—swore to him—I wouldn’t breathe a word to her.

And so I don’t. I mean, I swore on my grandmother’s grave, and maybe she’s not technically dead yet, but it’s not like he has anything to worry about. It’s not like I’m going to brag I kissed some guy with no chin and a lopsided franken-smile. I still don’t know how he got with Kara (unless it’s his trust fund; of course it’s his trust fund) because she’s way too good for him. That’s what I’ll say when she wakes, after I hand her some Gatorade and tell her to drink up. And when she says Stop, you sound jealous, I’ll let myself blush even though I’m good about hiding that sort of thing, have known how to hide it since eighth grade and that time with Jay behind the band room, but now—now I’ll let her see the desire coloring my face, turning my lips red like the time I borrowed her makeup. And I’ll want her to say she understands, to not pull away saying she needs a shower, to not shoo me out even though she’s been naked in front of me tons before, to not click the bathroom door shut so I can’t smell her body wash, leaving me on the other side thinking about my promise to her fiancé, about the word fiancé and how cloying it sounds—so fucking French and upper class—and I’ll realize they’re probably made for each other, right?

Or maybe I do tell her about the kiss, but not until she has downed her Gatorade and three Advil and is munching on the avocado toast she loves, thanking me for being such a good roommate then pausing when she sees my face darken. What is it? she’ll say. Tell me. So I’ll sit down and hold her hands and say I didn’t mean to hurt her, because isn’t that what they say in the movies? And sure, she’ll laugh at first, as if I’m fucking with her, until I tell her it was all my fault, until I insist that I’m the one to blame, and maybe I am, though of course she won’t believe that. She’s seen the warning signs for months now—not that her fiancé likes guys, but that he can’t be trusted, could never be trusted. Wasn’t he in another relationship when they first got together? Wasn’t she the other woman, maybe she’s always been the other woman? That’s what her eyes will say when she says thank you, just murmurs it, then says she needs to be alone. And I’ll realize what a stupid thing I’ve done, all over a kiss, and not a very good one—lasted only seconds with barely any tongue—and her bedroom door will click shut like it never does and there’s nothing left to do but slide the remains of her avocado toast into the trash.

Or no, I really don’t tell her, not when she wakes up the next morning, her hair smelling of weed, a string of drool plastered across her cheek. I say she looks like shit, but she hears the love in my voice, so she showers and calls me into the bathroom to tell me I simply have to join her at her bachelorette party, and I sit on the toilet and smell her cantaloupe body wash and say sure, why not, even though I’m not up for it, even though the party will end with me crammed into the corner booth at The Eagle, empty shot glasses scattered around us, and her girlfriend Tiffany next to me, insisting I switch teams for the night. And sure, I might be tempted, but it’s Tiff. Tiff, who still attends Young Republican meetings, who’s engaged to some MBA who everybody knows she’ll divorce in two years, Tiff who wears fucking body glitter—and there’s no way I’d let that rub off on me even if she is hot—so yeah, I might be tempted, but by then Kara will be crying, bawling huge drunk girl tears about whether she’s ready—really ready—and I’ll want to scream NO! but instead I’ll say Look at me girlfriend and snap my fingers in my best parody of the queen they think I am, and I’ll say You’ve got this though of course she doesn’t, none of us do. And if I let anything slip about how I kissed her fiancé, it’ll be later, to Tiff, when I lean into her mouth even though I know I shouldn’t since Tiff can’t keep a fucking secret about anything, and it won’t be out of spite, no matter what everyone says.

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Header photograph by Jen Ippensen
Header artwork by Jordan Keller-Wilson