Chapter Seventeen

Maeve

"Come on, come on, come on," I say through a closed mouth. "Close the fucking door."

I'm sitting next to the window in a thus far otherwise empty row of seats. If they close that door, I can relax knowing I've got the whole row to myself, which I sorely need. I've already done one flight this morning where I was squished up next to some man-spreading suit who didn't understand the concept of personal space, and now I have to wait to find out if I'm going to be dealt the same fate on this final flight from Heathrow to Las Vegas. Studiously watching the cabin crew to see if any of them go to close the door, I am practically holding my breath.

"Hi!" a voice says and brings my gaze to the end of the row. A woman of a similar age to myself with a full face of heavily contoured make-up and what looks like designer brand sportswear is dumping several bags into the middle seat beside me. "I sat on the wrong bloody seat, didn't I?" she says in a clipped South England accent, Kent or Essex perhaps. "I'll move all my shit in a minute, just got to get my bag up there without breaking a nail."

I should offer to help, I think. It would be the decent thing to do. But I find myself sitting still and doing little more than mustering up a half-hearted smile for my new companion.

Quickly, I pull my phone out and decide to avoid her eye contact and further conversation by replying to some emails.

"Oh my God, it's you, innit?" the woman's voice says a few moments later. I turn to see her sitting in her seat by the aisle, her many bags still in the seat between us.

It's fine, Maeve, I tell myself. It's not a big deal. You don't need that seat. You'll pop a pill in a minute, drink a glass of red wine and you'll be asleep in no time.

"You're that girl off TikTok!" the woman continues. "May something."

My next smile is even more difficult to reproduce. "Yeah, hi," I say, keeping my voice low in the hope that she will do the same.

I used to love being recognised. Years ago, it felt like a sign that I'd made it. That these people who rushed up to me, phones ready to take a photo, or others who were more shy and awkward about it, were all validation that I was on the right path. But then it would happen more and more, and it would interrupt shopping dates with Ma, park walks with Jenna and her dogs, or dinner catch-ups with Arabella, and I'd find it so hard to turn on my smile and share the same old, same old small talk.

I hated how grumpy that made me feel, to begrudge these people who had effectively made me the success they deemed me to be. They didn't deserve my shitty attitude. And God forbid they revealed it to the rest of the world.

So I do what I always do, and I grit my teeth and smile again, this time with as much energy as I can find.

"MaeBae is my handle," I say.

"That's it! You're Irish, right?" she says.

"I am indeed." I nod.

"Is Mae your real name?"

I think on this for the briefest moment before replying. "It is."

"Cool. I'm Lauren," she extends her hand my way and I reluctantly shake it. "I love your TikToks. All the beauty stuff you share, and your clothes," she says and gives my body a once-over with her eyes. "I mean, look at you even now."

I glance down at my skinny black jeans, ankle boots and oversized cream knit sweater that hangs off one shoulder.

"And your hair," Lauren says. "How do you get it to look like that all the time?"

"You pay a very talented Brazilian hair stylist called Fernando far too much money, that's how," I reply honestly.

That has her bursting into laughter. "That must be why I follow you. You're funny."

"I'm also about to be very blunt." I point at her bags. "Any chance you can move them? Then we can lift the armrests up after take-off and both have a bit more space."

"Oh, yes, I like your thinking," she says, and she starts to push the bags under the chair in front.

"Thanks a million," I say, and then I take full advantage of her being occupied and get out my book and start to read, hoping this will signal to her that I don't want to talk.

"Ooh, what are you reading?" Lauren asks, her voice closer, and I'm not surprised when I look up and see her leaning more my way. Begrudgingly, I hold the book up for her to see the title, Star Power: A Modern Guide to Astrology.

"Astrology, like star signs and shit?"

"It's just a book I'm reading," I say, and I drop my eyes to the pages again.

"Let me guess what you are," she says, not getting the hint in the slightest.

I sigh but still look up with another energy-demanding smile.

Fuck me, this is going to be the longest flight in the history of all flights ever.

*****

Lauren kept talking to me until they served our meals and then some ancient episodes of Friends kept her otherwise occupied for long enough that I could pop my pill, drink my glass of red wine and demolish my own food quick enough to be all wrapped up in my blanket, ear plugs in, immediately after our trays were taken away.

But again, Lauren appears a little lacking in understanding visual clues as she starts talking to me again about ten minutes later. Stupidly, I open my eyes and take an earplug out, but it's hardly surprising when I hear what she asks me.

"Hey, didn't you come out as," her voice drops to a whisper, "queer, recently?"

I swallow and pull out my other ear plug. "Yes, I did."

"Does that mean you have a girlfriend now?"

I close my eyes but still I smile. These are the kind of conversations I find both hardest and easiest. They're hard because this type of follower is the kind of person who was likely taken aback by my recent change of direction with the content I make and share online. They're the kind of follower who originally clicked Follow because they wanted beauty tips and fashion advice, and now they get confronted by my honest Lives and longer-form videos and captions of me talking about the challenges of being asexual, and that has to be jarring, right? But that's also what makes it easier, because there's also this possibility that maybe that disinterest doesn't make them not care, rather it makes them see it for the big deal it isn't. Because what does it really matter that I'm asexual? As long as I still continue to review face washes and share which style of coats I'm buying for the coming winter season, they're perfectly happy.

"Not exactly. I came out as asexual," I say. "Do you know what that means?"

"Oh, yeah, I remember you saying that now. It means you hate sex, right?"

I hold back my cringe. "No, it means I don't experience sexual attraction to people."

"You don't fancy people?" Lauren's thick eyebrows rise.

"Yes, that."

"Like, nobody?"

I swallow again, this time a lump in my throat making it a little more difficult. "So far, nobody, no."

"Well, that's shit," she says, and her accent only adds to the bluntness of her statement.

"Actually," I say, and my next words jump off my tongue before I'm even aware of them, "it's quite nice. How much time do you spend thinking about your crushes?"

"Oh, way too much time."

"Exactly. And how much energy do you put into impressing them, trying to make them notice you, or trying to please them?"

"Oh, I've practically broken my back trying to get some blokes to notice me."

"Well, I don't worry about that. I used to, not because I wanted them to like me but because I thought that was what I was supposed to do, because I thought if someone showed me attention, I'd feel something. And because it felt validating. Somehow, somewhere along the way growing up, I learnt that someone's sexual interest in me was a validating experience."

"But you… you always look so good. Why make such an effort if you're not trying to get someone's attention or impress them? Why bother if you don't fancy anybody?"

Her words fall out of her mouth innocently enough and yet they sound so very ugly. I shift in my chair so more of my body is turned to hers.

"Well, firstly, wanting to look attractive – sexual or otherwise - and experiencing sexual attraction are two very, very different things. But to answer your question, I do it for myself. I like to look beautiful. I like beautiful clothes. I like putting make-up on and having Fernando work his magic with my hair every two weeks. I do all of that for myself. And let me tell you, it feels good. Probably much better than it feels to do it for someone else."

"I…" She falters. "I honestly don't know if I do it for myself or for men."

A strange expression alters every single one of her features and I recognise the look immediately. She looks lost.

I reach over and nudge her arm gently. Her eyes snap onto mine and her face looks a little more composed. "Next time you get all dressed up, tell yourself, hell, even talk to your reflection in the mirror, and say, I'm doing this for you. I'm putting on my earrings and my lipstick and my little black dress, just for you."

"I'll do that tonight," Lauren says with a shimmer in her eyes. "I'm meeting my best mate over there. She's got some conference this week and asked me to meet her for some of the parties."

I hold my breath. "Is it XXXCon?"

"Yeah! You know it?" Lauren looks around before leaning closer. "She does MyFans. Makes a killing. She paid for my flights and everything."

"I'm giving a speech there, actually."

"You?"

"Me," I confirm.

"Wow, what about?"

"Underrepresented queer identities and how we can improve their representation in the adult industry."

"Sounds… interesting."

I bite back my scoff. "I doubt it will be the highlight of the conference."

"Do you know anyone else going?"

"Not really. I have sort of made Internet friends with someone else who's going but I've never met them in person yet."

"Oh, who's that?"

I somehow manage to say Loncey's handle without my voice sounding completely normal, even though that's not how I feel when I think about them.

"ElBaby! I love him!"

I hold back another cringe and decide to try and subtly point out her error. "You subscribe to them?"

"Oh, yeah. His stuff is really good. He's so hot."

"Their stuff, you mean. They're hot," I correct her.

But Lauren doesn't appear to hear me. "Do you know him?"

"Them," I correct her again. "I know them, yes."

"But he's… you know."

I hold my hand up to halt this conversation properly. "Sorry, but Loncey is non-binary and their pronouns are they/them," I say again and stare at her a little harder.

"Oh, shit, yeah. Sorry."

"And I'm aware that they're a sex worker," I say. "Like your friend."

"Oh, she doesn't shag on camera. She only does solo stuff. Mostly boob stuff as she's got these massive double H bazookas."

"Her poor back," I think out loud.

"That's why she started," Lauren tells me. "To pay for her breast reduction. But now she doesn't know what to do because they're literally her gravy train." She laughs even though I'm not seeing the humour. "But how do you know ElBaby?"

"I…" I stop. I was about to say I don't know them, but that's so far from the truth it feels like an egregious lie, the kind of mistruth that will come back and bite me on the arse in the future. "We've had some conversations online. They seem… nice."

"Oh, you should totally fuck him," she says but then her eyes widen and I wait for her to realise what she just said to me, someone who just explained to her what being an asexual means. "Sorry," she says. "I mean them."

Pressing my lips closed, I barely contain the long exhale that pushes out of my nose. Longest flight of my fecking life.

*****

I lose Lauren in the queue for Border Control and by the time I've collected my luggage, I've stopped looking around for her. I'm not even thinking about the hours and hours of mostly awkward conversations we shared as I pull away from Las Vegas Airport in a taxi. By the time I reach the hotel I feel the full weight of my exhaustion, I wasn't able to sleep for much more than a couple of hours.

All I want to do is check-in, wash my face, find my pyjamas, and crash in bed for a few hours. I don't care that this will likely screw me over with jetlag for the remainder of my trip. I don't care that it means I will be up most of the night. I just need to not be conscious for a while.

God, or whatever higher power is in charge today, deems me worthy enough to get an early check-in and barely half an hour after setting foot in the hotel, I'm tucked up in bed, my blankie nestled under my cheek as I lie on my side and flick through the notifications I haven't yet seen after being offline for most of the last twelve hours.

My eyelids grow heavy as I open up TikTok and read through a few messages that have come in as a response to my latest video in which I announced I would be at XXXCon. One of the messages is from another TikToker who talks a lot about being asexual online and her message throws me.

I hope you're okay. Really surprised to hear you'll be at XXXCon, and I hope you know what you're doing. If it all goes horribly wrong, call me. I'm in Arizona so not a million miles away from Vegas, but still. Hope it doesn't come to that.>

Her number's attached but I don't save it. There's something about her message that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. It seems… prickly. Like she's assuming the worst. Like she doesn't think I'll be safe. It also reads like something I could have written, all her assumptions ones my brain wouldn't have had to work too hard to reach for. And that makes me feel a little dizzy with unease. But then I reassure myself that I'm doing something to try and undo these assumptions. I'm here to learn. I'm here to open my mind. I'm here to grow.

I tap out of that message and find myself scrolling down until I find my conversation with Loncey.

I read their last message to me and wonder for possibly the hundredth time why I didn't reply. I also don't know why I didn't tell them the news about my niece because I'd practically itched to do so the day I found out, and the next day, and the day after that. And I don't know why I'm not texting them now, telling them I've landed in Vegas and that I'll see them at the conference, if not before.

But more than all that, I don't know why I tap through to their profile and start watching their latest video, closing my eyes and letting their voice lull me to sleep.