The Christmas Pic

17. Ava

CHAPTER 17

AVA

I crash into my hotel bed, perplexed by my kind-of-almost-maybe-not-kiss with Jo. Am I…? I can’t be attracted to her. It does not compute.

It was probably the sherry. That’s it. I’ve never been great at holding my liquor, even a little. I like to keep a clear mind, and that is not what we were doing tonight. Perhaps the lack of oxygen, too, from running around throwing snowballs at each other like a couple of kids.

No, I’m a good liar, but I can’t lie to myself. Her lips were so close… beckoning me in… then my stupid SyncCircle went apeshit due to my fluttering hummingbird of a heart, and Jo pulled back. It’s a good thing she made that call, although a small part of me–okay, maybe not that small–still stings from her rejection.

I’ve never experienced this sort of raw magnetism toward anyone before, much less a woman. I thought I was attracted to the men I’ve been with, but at the same time, the sex always fizzles out once the thrill of the conquest subsides.

My sparse dating life has led the press to speculate that I’m asexual, and at times I’ve questioned if there was truth in that. In my early years on the internet, a 4chan message board led me to wonder if I might be sapiosexual, attracted to highly intelligent people. But it’s not just about the smarts for me. Otherwise the CTOs and CFOs I’ve had flings with, Ivy League degrees hung in their offices, would have been doing more for my libido. In my experience, men are too fucked up by societal measures for me to connect with them in the deeper way I yearn for.

Ew, yearn ? What is this town doing to me?

I admit that I have maintained a locked room, deep within my ice-cold heart, in which lives a faint idea of the person I’ve always imagined to be my person. Someone with personality, humor, soul. Sappy for me, I know. As far as I can tell, this heart of mine is like a glacier: frozen over, but huge, and likely only capable of thawing due to a global climate event.

Max is the one person who melts me a little, more like family at this point than the one I was born into. I’m closer to them than anyone, and not just because they’re aware of every intimate detail of my existence. I was able to support them through their transition–in fact, Gramsta became the first major corporation that supported gender-affirming surgeries, all because a young Max sobbed in my arms about how they felt so out of place in their body.

So… a global climate event, or Max. And now Jo? She’s unlocking feelings in me that certainly no man has ever made me experience.

I’ve been closed off for a long, long time. My relationship with my mom was the beginning of the end of my being open to anything like love. I got a lot of good things from her–my work ethic, my passion, my fashion sense. But I’m also stubborn as hell, and I will definitely be blaming that on one Ms. Garcia.

Despite the distance between my mom and I, I unlock my phone, the conversation with Jo swirling in my head. It may be worth having a talk with your mom. Someday you won’t be able to.

I pull up my mother’s contact card, featuring a photo of us decorating a Christmas tree. I must’ve been around seven or eight in the picture, long before we had our falling-out. As someone who grew up outside the often narrow interpretation of 'American,' my Puerto Rican mom always encouraged me to keep my head down, focus on my work, and avoid drawing attention–just like she had to do. “Try to be normal, Ava,” she would tell me.

But those docile qualities are (obviously) not in my nature. As a kid, I would fail math tests because I came to the answers too easily and would spend the designated time finding ways to make them more difficult, never actually finishing. I used to challenge my teachers on textbook interpretations, arguing that while calling mitochondria the cell's powerhouse sounds catchy, it oversimplifies cell biology because ATP production isn’t exclusive to mitochondria, making this metaphor a way to dumb down cellular functions–and, more broadly, science itself–for kids.

Shockingly, I was not a pleasure to have in class.

I’m sure it wasn’t easy for my mom to deal with me, but that pressure to behave a particular way pushed me in the opposite direction.

Before my eighteenth birthday, I had already developed what was to become Gramsta, and through a programming class at school, was able to pitch my work to a local web developer. That developer was worth his salt and recognized the potential my creation had, so it got passed up the chain, somehow ending up in the laps of some of the most high-powered tech financiers at the time. I wanted so desperately for this to work, to bring me and my mom money that we’d never had. My mom, tired of seeing my unconventional choices backfire throughout my childhood, put her foot down, and forbade me from pitching the app. But I saw the vision when she couldn’t.

I made the decision to go behind her back, flying up to San Francisco by myself right before Christmas, and signed a document I had no business signing. I was a smart kid, but I was naive, and the investors clocked that. I was so desperate to make something of myself that the legalese didn’t even concern me. Why would someone take advantage of me, a young, impressionable woman? Ha.

When I returned on Christmas day, she was furious I had disappeared. I explained that I didn’t tell her because it was the right choice, even if she didn’t agree. I told her about the contract and the money I was about to bring in, expecting her to be, for once, proud. She wasn’t.

After our blowout fight, I left home and never came back. She never reached out either–not until after Gramsta took off. She sent a phony congratulations text that made me furious. Of course, after all this time, I thought, she contacts me to get the one thing we never had: money. So I sent her a check and haven’t spoken to her since.

Despite the awkwardness with Jo, I was having an okay evening, but the mere thought of my mom ruined it all. I carry my resentment of her around like a sack of unwanted White Elephant gifts, and I’m not yet ready to lighten the load.

The only thing I know right now is this: I am Gramsta. And whatever it is I’m feeling at this moment, I cannot let it get in the way of the one part of me I am sure of.

We sprawl out in the snow as I stare into Jo’s deep brown eyes. Time slows, and we're the only two people on Earth.

My ring vibrates as my heartrate peaks, but this time, I don’t let my hesitation stop me. I go all in as my lips meet hers.

I climb on top of her, my boldness catching her by surprise. My face is cold, but she is warm. She brings my temperature up, up, up. I can barely stand it.

We taste each other and our fiery passion melts the surrounding snow, turning it into an endless ocean. My ring continues to buzz as we float through the water together, propelled by the electric current between us.

I awake in my hotel room to Max banging on the door. “Ava? Ava, it’s time to go!”

Shit.

I climb into the rental car examining my 69 sleep score on my SyncCircle. All of my mom and dream drama has me late, running on fumes.

“Usually I can’t crack a B, but this is even more dismal,” I complain to Max. “How do I break the threshold of sleep excellence?”

“Not be a CEO,” Max deadpans.

“Research that for me?” I ask, pulling up my calendar for the day. “We’re heading back to the same spot to watch another one of Jo’s shoots. It’s actually her sister. She’s super pregnant. Ooh, and we can stop for some coffee. You loved that Gay Hot Chocolate. Maybe I’ll try one, too. Can’t burn my mouth again. Oh, wait you weren’t there. We can get them for everybody! Great idea.”

Max waves their hand at me. “It’s giving… high-strung.”

“I’m always high-strung, Max.” This is the truth, but Max is picking up on something I am not ready to put down.

They eye me suspiciously, like they know I just had a wet dream about Jo.

“Drive?” I chide. They’re not getting anything out of me.

On the truck, I watch as Jo fluffs Lena’s hair. I’m in the corner on fan duty, because even very pregnant people deserve to look like Beyoncé at SoFi Stadium. It’s been awkward between Jo and me today, and we’ve been exchanging only micro-pleasantries– something that, in the short time we’ve been acquainted, is so not us.

I’m not used to being rebuffed. There’s a boiling pit in my stomach and I couldn’t even get my coffee down–which is fine because I’m already amped from this cocktail of confusion and rejection. I am usually so quick to read people, and her pulling away from our almost-kiss was the last thing I expected last night. It hurt; it still hurts. Toiling over this has me distracted, but I’m a multitasker: I can be insecure, resentful and a bright-eyed assistant, all at the same time.

“I know I needed a big belly for these shots, but god, I’m exhausted,” Lena grumbles.

“You look great,” I try. She’s got that pregnancy glow, despite her overly swollen digits.

“Aren’t you supposed to be mean?” Lena glares at Jo. “You said she was mean, but what I’ve seen so far… cold and socially awkward, sure. But not mean.”

Can’t knock her for calling it like she sees it, but Jo sighs. It’s like she told Lena not to say anything but was prepared she would anyway.

“I didn’t say she was mean , I said she was stubborn . There’s a difference.”

Jo reddens from her shit-talkery, and the pit in my stomach has officially turned into a black hole. They must’ve talked last night after I left. Lena must know what happened. And worst of all, Jo is embarrassed by me.

“Pot, meet kettle,” Lena snickers.

“Shut up and look pretty,” Jo ribs. Lena roars with the same adorable laugh as Jo, who nods at me–still avoiding eye contact–and that’s my cue to turn on the wind machine in my lap.

Lena basks in the fan. “That actually feels so good.”

Jo clicks her camera repeatedly, triggering the flash over and over, nearly giving me a seizure.

But when the images of Lena materialize onscreen, I can’t help but gasp. They’re stunning. And not only because Lena is beautiful, but because everything about the photos is perfectly imperfect. Her hair is messy, but in a way almost impossible to achieve without a stylist, and her smile is a genuine expression of some of the purest joy I’ve ever seen photographed. You can’t fake this kind of moment.

I turn back. They’re both staring at me.

“What?” Jo says, concern on her face.

I recover myself from the literally breathtaking photo. “Oh, sorry. It’s just…” I start to bake my humble pie. “I see what you mean. About the photos.”

Jo’s expression reads like she doesn’t believe the words coming out of my mouth. I probably wouldn’t either, especially if she believes I’m that stubborn, which I am. Which I am allowed to be.

“Oh, good, that means we can be done,” Lena sits with a thud.

Jo and I laugh.

Our eyes meet for the first time all day.

“Wait!” Emma shouts from the truck as Max and I head out. “Do you all have dinner plans?”

“I do. I have plans,” Max blurts. “But Ava doesn’t!”

“Max, what–”

“I have plans, too,” says Emma, “but you don’t, do you, Jo?”

“I don’t think–”

“Guess you two should get dinner! Together!” Emma shouts.

“Great, I’ll put it on her calendar!” Max points to their phone and slides into the driver’s seat. I hop into the car after them.

“What was that?” I ask.

“Just doing my job,” Max says, the smuggest of smiles on their face.