Page 9 of Square Waves (Big Fan #2)

VIII

When I get home that evening, I take a long shower.

I try to let everything drain out of my body: residual anger, which is quickly being replaced by a rising tide of shame.

I really did always think that Leon couldn’t be bothered to care what I said or thought about him.

That I couldn’t hurt him the way he hurt me.

I remember what Willa said about him the other day—that he was a perfectionist, and that’s why he never finished anything. At the time it was easy to brush off. I’m a perfectionist , I thought. That’s why I work so hard to get things accomplished .

But against my will, I start to see what she meant.

And I can imagine being sixteen and seventeen and scared and embarrassed, in part because I’ve been twenty-two and scared and embarrassed.

The way that his lazy stoner thing was as much of a pose then as my Don’t worry, I have it all together thing is now.

Which means I probably owe him an apology or something. I’m grateful to be able to put it off until Monday, at least. Tonight is Willa’s birthday party, but I overheard him telling her he couldn’t make it—one of his sisters is doing an open mic tonight, and he can’t miss it.

I lean into getting ready in a way I sometimes do when I need to declutter my head.

I blow-dry my hair until it’s soft and sleek.

I do my regular makeup, add a flick of eyeliner, and pull out the dress I’ve been planning on wearing all week.

It’s a billowy high-neck minidress that shows off my legs.

When I still thought Leon was coming to the party, I had been enjoying picturing his face seeing me in it.

I hoped he would blush. Choke on his drink.

Remember exactly how badly he wanted me and know that he couldn’t have me again.

But now that just seems like more evidence of who he thinks I am: a self-centered brat with a superiority complex.

I’m glad I don’t have to rethink my wardrobe choices before I head out into the night.

And yet I regret them as soon as I step outside.

Even a warm day here cools dramatically as the sun sets, and immediately, my bare legs prick with goose bumps.

I lament the outfit choice even more when Bryce opens the door to the house wearing a Henley, jeans, and a garden-worn pair of Blundstones.

It’s too easy to forget what passes for dressed-up in this city.

My self-imposed Instagram ban means I’ve only ever seen Bryce in a couple of photos Willa texted, but in person, he’s exactly as handsome and charming as I would have guessed.

Willa has consistently excellent taste in men.

(Unlike some of us.) He welcomes me, tells me that he has no idea where Willa is, and insists on giving me a tour of the house, pointing out the curtains made from deadstock fabric and the vintage couch he scored a deal on through Facebook Marketplace.

Willa was right—this place looks great, and he’s clearly put a ton of effort into making it that way.

Our last stop is the kitchen, where Bryce uncorks a bottle of wine while I choose a ceramic cup from a spread of them, all presumably made by Willa’s hand. “To you saving the birthday girl’s ass this week,” he says, lifting his drink.

“Honestly, she’s saving my ass. I don’t have any other plans while I’m here. I’d be climbing the walls if she didn’t give me something to do.”

“Tell me about it. Willa is always making fun of me for how many hobbies I have, but what’s wrong with liking to stay busy?”

“Yes!” I’m more emphatic than I need to be, but I feel affirmed. See? I want to tell Tilly. Not wanting to do nothing is hardly pathological.

When the front door swings open again, Bryce takes off to attend to his host duties, and I’m left to my own devices.

I’ve gotten over the worst of the social anxiety that being at the center of a public scandal gave me, but sometimes, it rears its head again.

Especially when I’m by myself at parties.

I worry that everyone is noticing that I’m alone—and then that they’re noticing me, period.

Wondering Why do I know her? and Why is she here?

and Who does she think she is? and Why the fuck does she —

My breathing is already starting to pick up as I slink from the kitchen into the living room.

Thank god Izzy Gregson is there. She and I weren’t particularly close in high school—Willa was kind of our only Venn diagram overlap—but we’ve always gotten along, and I’ve never been happier to see her than at this moment.

I barrel right into her conversation with a guy whose cheekbones could cut glass.

Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to mind. “Oh my god, Cassidy!” she crows. “You look amazing. Willa told me you’re in town. For how long?”

“Just another couple of weeks.”

“And then you’re back to DC? You’re still there, yeah?”

“Mmmhmm.” My stomach lurches at the mention of DC, but I try to ignore it.

Izzy turns to her companion. “Jo, this is Cassidy,” she says. “We went to high school together.” She directs her attention back to me. “And are you still at that nonprofit?”

I nod. One of the strange things about having a public-facing job—a public-facing life—is that people always remember what I’m up to. While not having social media for the same reasons means I’m mostly in the dark about them.

“I thought I recognized you.” Jo shakes my hand. He’s a couple of inches shorter than I am, and his eyes are a deep, almost navy blue. “You’re very brave.”

Any chance of developing a crush on this guy immediately deflates.

The self-consciousness I was just shaking off returns in full force.

I’ve never figured out the right response to either of those statements, even though I hear them all the time.

Is it Well, I don’t recognize you. And I’m not actually brave, I just did something selfish, and then I was broke and exhausted and qualified for exactly one job ?

I go with my usual awkward, “Oh. Thanks.”

“I actually work for an org that does similar work locally—Rainbow Route.”

I smile, now biding my time until we can change topics. For me, discussing work involves talking about the worst mistakes I’ve ever made. Not exactly something I want to do on a weekend night out.

“I’d noticed you weren’t doing as many appearances lately, actually,” he continues.

“Maybe it’s weird to say this, but I hope you’re.

.. okay.” Jo shrugs and looks away, and I feel a spark of recognition, the little flicker that alerts me that I’m probably talking to one of my own.

It’s not a particularly far leap—people don’t tend to randomly land in this line of work.

But it’s also just something I can sense, at this point.

Who’s ended up under a spotlight, naked and vulnerable, and who hasn’t yet had the pleasure.

That changes things for me, and without quite meaning to, I slip into ambassador mode.

It’s like developing a split consciousness.

One part of me is saying, “Oh yeah, I’m okay.

Just—the work is so personal. It can be hard to do for long periods of time,” and nodding when Jo says, “Yeah, I—I got into it after I transitioned.”

The rest of me is retreating into a shell, curling up, exhausted by the constancy of meeting people who already know about the softest parts of me.

It’s a privilege, the intimacies they offer me in return. But I’m also so fucking tired .

Izzy slings an arm around Jo’s shoulders.

“Jo’s doing incredible work with trans teens,” she tells me.

“He ran a summer camp last year, and I did some of the social media for it. Talking to those kids—it was so amazing, how much more confident they were on day fourteen than they had been on day one.”

“Oh, that’s so cool. It must have been wild, figuring out how to organize it. Cabins and food and activities and everything.”

That puts Jo at ease; his face breaks into a grin, and he starts telling me about the camp he went to when he was a kid and how he convinced the director to come out of retirement to help him do the first year of Camp Trans.

He regales us with tales of being codirector–turned–dessert chef and learning to make cookies for a hundred, instead of ten.

Izzy peppers in her own camp memories and does a reprise of her bunk’s theme song to a round of applause from Jo.

The two of them seem close in a way that makes me wonder if there’s something more between them, or if there could be.

I hope so; someone should be appreciating this man’s face up close and personal, even if it isn’t going to be me.

The nostalgia is just winding down when Willa descends on our little group, wrapping me up in a huge hug. She had a good day today, and it shows: When she got back from her meeting, it was with news that Richard Kerrigan is interested in her work, if not fully committed.

“Where did you disappear to?” Izzy demands. “I saw you earlier, and then—”

“Had to take a work call,” Willa says, brushing it off like it’s nothing. She’s in a low-backed jumpsuit and platform heels, and I feel a pang of gratitude that she’s as extra as I am.

“At 8p.m.? On your birthday?” Izzy is aghast.

“It was from an artist, making sure their work got delivered in okay shape. Thanks for helping with that by the way, Cass. Villeneuve is a genius, but his stuff is an absolute pain to handle. I’m glad Leon didn’t have to do it alone.”

“Oh, yeah it wasn’t really—”

“Oooh, you and Leon are working together,” Izzy cuts in. “Do I remember right that you guys were, like, basically rivals?”

I don’t know how to answer that, but Willa takes it for me. “To my surprise, they’ve been decently well-behaved.”

“Jesus, Leon Park.” Izzy’s taking every opportunity to reminisce. “Remember when he and his band played the talent show in tenth grade? I really thought they were gonna get superfamous.”

“Cassidy missed that one,” Willa says, giving me a little smirk. “She was busy making out with Jasper Frye in a bathroom.”

“Oh my god!” Izzy crows. “Jasper? God, Cass, you were such an icon.”

I put my hands on my face like I’m pretending to be embarrassed, but in fact, I am legitimately overwhelmed.

Too much is hitting me at once. The way Willa and Izzy know me best, of course, is as my high school self: just figuring out she was pretty and excited to enjoy the hell out of it.

Throwing myself at everything, hard. At a party, I wasn’t afraid to attract attention.

In fact, I was usually trying to find it.

But then there’s also Jo in this circle: someone I’m just meeting, who already knows so much about me. Who knows an entirely different person than Willa did, or does. He’s more familiar with the consequences of my recklessness than anything else.

This is why, if I’m being perfectly honest, I avoid coming back here. Because usually, Before Cassidy is just a memory. A phantom. Here, she’s someone people actually knew. And who I have to figure out how to reckon with.