The LGBTQIAP+ center is smaller than I imagined it would be. But sitting in the parking lot, staring at it through Wesley’s spotless windshield, it feels massive.
I explained what happened last night on the ride over. We’ve been waiting here for a few minutes now, not entirely on my accord, but because Wes has to double-check who is running the front desk today. Not-Straight Emergency or not, I’m a minor who legally should be in school right now. He finally gets a text that seems to please him, and we head inside wordlessly.
He opens the door for me, and the first thing I notice is the wall of family photos. Dozens of sloppily cropped photos are pasted up. Families of all colors and ages make up the collage, and I find myself searching for Talia’s without realizing it.
“Wait here,” Wes says, nodding to the small collection of plastic chairs surrounding a weathered coffee table and bright blue rug that looks like the newest thing in here. I take a seat and watch him head farther down the hall to the help desk. I can’t see him from here, but his voice echoes.
“You really want me to lose my job. That’s it, right?” a feminine voice hisses. I assume she’s who he was texting.
“One time, Addy, come on. I covered for you when you showed up hungover.”
“That was over a year ago, and don’t pretend like you were doing me any favors. You were too chickenshit to tattle on an employee.”
“You were a volunteer,” he corrects, but I can hear the smirk. “You weren’t being paid.”
“Well, now I am, so you can go get your ass back to school.” I hear the finality in her tone and take Wesley’s silence as surrender. I stand up, prepared to head back to the car and find somewhere else to kill a few hours, when Wesley speaks.
“My friend is with me. She needs help.”
A beat of nothing. “What kind of help?” the girl, Addy, asks.
“The kind we’ve all needed before,” he says. After a beat of silence and a sigh, I hear the jingle of keys and Wesley’s sneakers against the floor as he comes back to the waiting room.
“I want to show you something,” he says, dangling the keys.
He leads me down the opposite hallway, and I’m admittedly disappointed I don’t get to meet Addy. I’m so distracted by this thought, I run into Wesley’s back when he stops suddenly.
He doesn’t say anything as he unlocks a plain blue door in front of us, opening it for me to enter before him. I step inside and gasp. The family photo collage was nothing compared to this.
The room is small, but the ceilings are high and the walls are packed with string lights that Wesley turns on with a switch by the door. Beneath the lights are rectangles of vibrant fabric. It takes me a moment to recognize them for what they are: flags.
Pride flags.
My awe must show on my face because Wesley says, “I felt the same way the first time I saw it. They’ve replaced the flags since then, wanted to freshen up the colors and include more, but still. It takes my breath away like it’s the first time, every time.” He plops into an orange beanbag on the floor. “It’s usually saved for small-group therapy, but it’s free for lounging when no one is using it.”
“It’s beautiful,” I say, taking the yellow beanbag beside him. He leans over and points to a flag opposite the door.
“That’s for asexuality.” Black, gray, white, then purple stripes.
I look around for one I can recognize. I spot the familiar rainbow one, but it has stripes of black and brown I’ve never seen before. I ask Wes about it.
“The black and brown stripes represent queer people of color. Just because we’re a community doesn’t mean everyone’s experiences are the same, especially when race and ethnicity come into play. I’m glad this place acknowledges that.”
“Sounds like you’ve learned a lot here.”
He smiles. “I’ve definitely spent my fair share of time here. Not much lately, but it’s still the reason I want to minor in queer studies in college.”
“You should,” I say, and his smile deepens. My eyes freeze on another flag behind him, this one pink, purple, and blue. “That’s for bisexuality, right?”
He nods, watching my face. He looks away for a second to point to another flag, this one pink, yellow, and blue. “That’s for pansexuality.” He’s looking at me again.
“I should be feeling something, shouldn’t I? That’s why you’re staring? There should be a sign or fluttering that means I’ve found a label that gets me.”
“There’s no shoulds or shouldn’ts here,” he says. I roll my eyes. “You don’t have to label yourself as anything until you’re ready. Or ever, if you don’t want to.” He waits, fidgeting with a button on his shirt. “Was that why you wanted to come? To put a label on only one kiss?” If I hadn’t already rolled my eyes, I would now.
“I came to see if this felt right.”
“And?”
“And…” I run a hand over my face. “And, okay, what if it really was just a kiss?” I’m grateful Wesley doesn’t sigh and throw his beanbag at me for regressing, even if he has every right to. So I keep going. “I’ve never felt this way toward a girl before, ever, not a little crush or moment of attraction or flash of heat … nothing. What makes Talia so special? What is it about her that made my heart make an exception?”
“Don’t hate me,” he starts, which instantly makes me want to, at least a little bit. “But are you sure that’s true, about not feeling anything for any other girl?”
I think of Lindsay in her dress at Wes’s for the photo shoot. I think of Agatha reapplying lip gloss. I think of Dani in her tight leather. I swallow. “I don’t know.”
“You knew Talia liked girls before you knew you liked her; maybe that has something to do with it too.”
“Like she … unlocked this?”
He presses his lips together to hide a smile. “I wouldn’t use those words, but maybe you hadn’t considered it until you had an option, for lack of a better word. But it’s okay if you just plain don’t know. Or even if Talia really is the only girl you ever have or will like.”
“But is that enough?” I ask without thinking.
“Enough for what?”
I hesitate, anticipating his disappointment. “To label this as anything more than an outlier. To be allowed to use any of this.” I wave around at all the flags, dozens of rectangles of striped fabric with labels that escape me. But I know the power of language. If Mom’s profession and Dad’s bilingualism have taught me anything, it’s that words mean something.
“I love my heritage, but I don’t speak Korean,” he says suddenly. “Not well, at least. And my parents and I don’t regularly celebrate Chuseok like most of my extended family still does or Korean New Year for all three days.”
“Okay,” I reply, confused but attentive.
“Does that mean I’m not Asian ‘enough’?”