Natalie Weiss

As previously published on September 28, 2020 on LAUNCH without fear.

Hi. It’s been a while since we’ve talked. I guess, if I’m honest, most days I don’t think about how I don’t talk to you. I hope that isn’t hard to hear.

Life is busy, or at least that’s what I tell myself.

I get caught up in my own little world. I wake up. I make coffee and eat breakfast. I read and write. I run. I go to work. I come home. A lot of the time I feel lonely. So I watch a show or go for a walk. Distract. And then I go to bed, and I wake up, and so many days look damn near exactly the same.

If we weren’t still dealing with COVID, and if I was a little braver, I think I’d call you. Ok, I’d probably send you a text or a Facebook message. And I’d say, “Want to go get coffee? I have a story to tell you.”

You’d probably see my name, and you’d think I had made a mistake. Texted the wrong person. But maybe you’d feel a little bubble of hope rise within you, and you’d understand. You’d know that I was finally ready to tell this story. And maybe I’d feel more comfortable around you afterwards. Because you’d finally know. And maybe I’d stay in touch with you then.

And so we’d meet at Starbucks. The one on Main Street. The OG Mishawaka Starbucks. I’ve had a few serious conversations there before. The shop is narrow, and there’s that little bar top to the left. There are the leather chairs. And there are the tables in the back, hugging the wall.

We’d walk up to the counter to order. You’d get your favorite drink, and I’d get mine – a tall Vanilla Latte. I know it’s Pumpkin Spice Latte season, and, yeah I’ve already had three of those so far this year, but there’s something about vanilla that soothes me.

You’d be able to tell that I was already jittery, even before the caffeine. It’s been a while since we’ve talked. So maybe I’m just like that now. But I have a story to tell you.

We’d sit in the back corner. It’s a little more secluded. I’d lead us there. I wouldn’t really think about it. How many things do we do subconsciously?

The lighting would be dark, and there’d be some music playing, something like “Slide” by the Goo Goo Dolls. Starbucks has really nailed the coffeehouse vibe, or else we just compare every other coffeehouse to Starbucks now. I don’t know if that is a good thing.

I’d sip the foam off the top of my latte, the liquid too hot to drink. And we’d catch up.

You’d tell me about the things that you have been up to.

And I’d tell you about the roller coaster ride my life has been the past few months. How I chose to drop from full-time to part-time at my current job (and very nearly lost the job entirely in the process). How I am still living in my one-bedroom apartment by myself, the same one that I moved into last January. 2019. When things were normal. I mean, mostly.

I’d tell you that I adopted a cat about a month ago. So I’m not entirely alone. And that is good.

But I wouldn’t tell you some things. I’d wait to see if you’d ask about the story. Maybe you’d think that I had already weaved it into the tale of my last few months. But I’d like to think that I’m a better storyteller than that. I’d like to think that you’d have noticed a story. One worth announcing.

You wouldn’t ask. And like so many times before, I’d feel my heart rate quicken, the sweat gather on my palms. My stomach would start churning. I’d play with the sleeve on my coffee cup. I’d need something to do with my hands, something to do with my fingers.

“So,” I’d start, glancing at you. “I guess I left some things out that have happened to me these past few months.” My eyes would dart to the employees behind the counter.

“Did you?” you’d ask.

I’d smile. A chuckle would escape my lips. It’s a nervous tic.

“Yeah,” I’d say.

“Like what?” You’d look at me, an eyebrow raised. I’d have your attention. You’d sip your drink, waiting. I’d take a sip of mine. It would be cooled off enough by now. The smooth, sweet vanilla syrup would stir my taste buds. It would taste like comfort. Like the familiar. Like a warm hug from an old friend. A genuine hug that I wouldn’t pull away from. It would make me brave.

Should I tell this story in reverse? Should I start at the end and lead you back to the beginning? Or should I start with the start?

But the start is complicated. There were a lot of false starts – times when I thought I knew who I was but I didn’t. Times when I really did know who I was but I told myself I must be mistaken.

And the end is messy too. Because there are choices I’ve made that you might question. There are things that I am grieving that could’ve had a different outcome, if only I was different, or they were different, or she was different.

I am 27 now, and this story really is 27 years long. Don’t worry; I’ll condense it for you the best I can. But where to start?

Should I start with my mental health – with the depression and anxiety I’ve struggled with for as long as I can remember? Or maybe I should start with religion. There’s a reason this story is 27 years long. Should I start with the TV shows I watched when I was younger, the movies and the books and the music I consumed that taught me who I was supposed to be? Or maybe I’ll tell you what I’m writing, and why I’m writing it.

There are a million places I could start.

Can you tell I’ve been procrastinating? Dancing around what I’ve actually come here to say? It’s a dance I know well. And all along I imagine you probably already know. I am just confirming your best guess. And yet we’ve never talked about it. You’ve never asked. You’ve never lobbed a pitch in right over the middle, damn near impossible for me to miss. At least that’s what I tell myself.

Ok.

I’ve left some things out that have happened to me these past few months, these past few years. So let’s just start here, with the truth.

I’d take another sip of the latte. I’d look you in the eyes and inhale, exhale.

“Well,” I’d say, “I’m not sure if you’ve known this.” This is that point that I get to every time, at least six times by now, where I always pause to remember: the next words I can’t take back. It’s not that I’ll want to take them back, but a shift might occur. There might be a distinct before and after this event.

The moment of silence would pass.

“I’m gay.”

And then I’d tell you the story.