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Romy shrugs. “I’ll just keep sending them articles and hope for the best.”

As far as I know, Romy’s Bay Area–based parents have been pretty chill with her gender identity and will listen to her talk about the woes of living in a world that’s on fire, but she still sends her extended family a lot of articles. I’m not sure if they actually read them.

She slides me two lattes, close enough to me that I can clearly see the tattoo behind her ear: six dots arranged from red to purple in a line. It’s possibly the only moment since I talked to Julia that I’m reminded of how excited I am to come out. At least to Romy. Thinking about that will be enough to get through the day.

“We’re on for drinks after work today, right?” I ask.

She pushes one of the drinks closer to me. Our hands brush as the cup is exchanged, making my stomach flip. God, these coming-out nerves are killer. “Yes. I’m stoked for shitty Long Island Iced Tea Monday.” She mimes lifting a cup. “Before you go. It’s a new flavor.”

Romy’s only a barista because she tried to work as an assistant and quit in a week. Set screenwriting aside to pursue playwriting. But she embraces this barista job like it’s her life passion. I leave every interaction with her at work with the energy to appreciate my job a little more.

I take a sip of the coffee. “It’s really good. What is it?”

“Café bombón. If you think it’s ready, I’ll add it to the secret menu.”

Romy has one of those fluid, honeyed, Angelina Jolie–type voices, and I’m almost tempted to ask her to explain how she made the new flavor just to hear it. But I’m at work. I’ll suggest she start an audiobook-narrator career later.

I take another tug, the caffeine a welcome relief. “Do it.”

I taste the words mixing with the sweetness and bite of espresso: I’m bi. But I swallow them along with the coffee. “See you later, Rom.”

“Later.”

Back to the wolves.

Work is fine. Which is to say Alice is short with me and her demands make zero sense, but I don’t get yelled at or get fired or completely humiliate myself. Honestly, if Romy and Wyatt ask how my day was, I don’t think I’ll be able to recall it any better than I can recall the podcast from this morning. I guess the prospect of coming out for the second time in my life is more distracting than I’d anticipated.

But it’s just about seven thirty, I’ve changed into a new shirt that doesn’t smell of literal stress, and we’re all sitting down to order drinks at our favorite terrible dive bar near work. Two Long Island Iced Teas and a glass of soda water for me. Romy or Wyatt will give me some of theirs, and I don’t like tempting myself knowing I have to make the commute back to our place in Koreatown. That and, well, I’d like to be sober when I tell two of the most important people in my life that I’m bi.

“Any Alice stories, Film School?” Romy asks as she takes a sip of her drink.

Most executives, managers, and agents, once they reach a certain level of success, lose all ability to function as a basic human being. It’s common. But Alice also has a certifiable personality disorder. You know how they say there’s a certain gene common in serial killers, but that some percentage of people with that gene won’t ever murder anyone? Alice is that percent. It’s painfully obvious why her desk opened up so quickly and how I got the job with so little competition from other floaters.

“She was relatively tame today,” I reply. “Still shit-talking one of our best client’s agents, but that’s standard.” I sip my drink, the fizz stinging on the way down. “How’s the play?”

After years of nose-to-the-grindstone writing and revising before and after shifts, Romy’s undergrad playwriting thesis was accepted into this really cool diverse writers festival that tends to attract a handful of playwriting agents every year. Even though the festival is two months away and the writing’s been done, the director still wants her around for rehearsals to tweak lines.

Romy’s barely-subdued grin says it all. “I have to resist tearing the script apart, but it’s surreal.”

The urge to hug her overcomes me, even though we’ve hugged over this particular accomplishment countless times. I’m assuming it’s the jitters from this coming-out thing. I settle for a smile back. “Look at you, achieving your dreams.”

“Speaking of dreams, any word about Alice moving you?” Romy asks.

I shrug. “I’ll ask soon.”

“Do it with me!” Wyatt says. “I’m gonna make this my summer. Convince Steven to give me a promotion, upgrade apartments, get a summer fling…”

“No one says ‘summer fling,’ and bless whoever decides to fuck you,” Romy replies as she runs a hand through her hair, pulling out a wisp that’d fallen into her eyes. She’s got this really thick hair, and I zone out for just a moment wondering how it feels when she runs her hands through it. She uses, like, Pantene, but I imagine it’s salon soft.

I take a swig of soda water, inevitably unsatisfied. Back in college, we all used to go out to drinks for fun. Now it just feels like we do it to relieve massive amounts of stress.

“Okay, English Degree, and what ladies have you fucked lately?” Wyatt asks.

“Any partner I have isn’t a trophy for gossip.”

Which is something Romy’s maintained nearly the entire time I’ve known her. Things she’s made clear about her identities over the years: I reject society’s ideas about gender, but I do find comfort in some things that would be considered feminine. I’m nonbinary, and I hate that people think being nonbinary means you have to be androgynous all the time. I use she/her pronouns, will only date non-men, and mostly identify as a lesbian. But she never brings partners around. She mentions dates and occasionally drops names, but there are no faces to the names. I’m her roommate, and I’ve certainly never seen her bring anyone home.

While the idea of Romy’s love life still mildly intrigues me, Wyatt drops the topic instantly and turns to me.