Girlfriend for Christmas | CURRENTLY EDITING

chapter one

The plane from Dallas to Sioux Falls is small and rickety and full of white people in matching "Feliz Navidad" shirts who seem to be coming home from some church mission trip. We're hardly allowed to walk around during the two and a half hour flight, which suits me just fine, because I desperately want to take a nap. I have this crazy, skull-splitting migraine that blurs my vision and makes me feel like I might puke. It's so bad, the male flight attendant gave me extra cookies. I don't know if it was him trying to hit on me (even though I look like fried dog crap) or if I look like an actual flight risk right now. It's probably the latter.

Peeking through the window, I send a picture of the barren South Dakota landscape to Amari, the girl I've been chatting with on Hinge the past few days. She's my type for sure, with short hair and a penchant for bucket hats and a seriously cute septum piercing. I could never manage a septum piercing, even if I feel like it would only further my attempted "girl in red" vibe. But on other queer women? Gosh. Frick. Yes.

        Amari: stop that is so gross i am so sorry ew

        Amari: how can it look SO EMPTY

        Amari: pretty sunset tho

        Me: okay but texas sunsets are fire too

        Me: could have stayed in texas, met up with you

        Amari: don't make me sadder :(((((((((((

I smile to myself. I actually like Amari—it feels like we've known each other for much longer than we actually have. She reminds me of my ex-best friend, before she turned into a complete and total ass-canoe. Talking to her feels warm and nostalgic and like I'm with a better version of myself, because we have so much in common.

Out of everything that makes me nervous to go home, I'm most nervous about potentially running into Ivy. My town isn't the smallest town in South Dakota by a long shot, but it's still small enough that I know she and I are going to cross paths. It's inevitable. When we do inevitably bump into each other, I'm going to do what she did every time during my senior year: keep my head up and completely ignore her.

Ivy stayed at our local university for her—I think—geology major. That's what she always wanted to do, after all. It was part of her whole "I would be such a good gay" joke, too. Because, even though I don't think real people can queerbait, like the Kit Connors and Becky Albertallis of the world, Ivy definitely took every chance she could to rub in my face that we'd be perfect together yet would never be. She loved pointing out that she would be the perfect little lesbian dreamboat for me, if not for the fact that she were unfortunately attracted to cis-het men and cis-het men alone. Which definitely sucked. Big time.

The yellow lights of Sioux Falls slowly appear, all shallow buildings, with the traffic on the I-29 not far off. The only city in east river South Dakota and the biggest in the state, I never thought of Sioux Falls as being some sprawling, endless metropolis, but I also never thought it was incredibly small either. But seeing it now, after being in Dallas so long, it feels miniscule. Sad, even.

My headache is still raging by the time the plane lands. I'm seated at the back of the plane, so it takes me forever to get to the exit. My head pounds the whole wait. Finally, I step onto the jetway, backpack weighing down on my shoulders. My breath fogs up around my face. The line shuffles out towards baggage claim, because the plane is so small that we can't keep our carry-ons in overhead storage; they check one for free.

My mom has texted three times already. I text her back, telling her I'm here and that I have to wait for my bag. She calls immediately.

"Why did you check a bag, Cate?" she demands.