“Are you lesbian now, or what?”
Vignettes of a love story still unfolding.
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My ex-husband and I are driving our toddler to swim class, sharing war stories about dating apps. When we started dating over 12 years ago, Tinder hadn’t even been born. He tells me about his policy of no talking over the apps, telling women if they wanted to get to know him, they’d have to do it in person—a tactic I think sounds serial-killerish and am not afraid to tell him.
He shrugs. “It works.”
I tell him about dinners at good Italian restaurants and daytime dates going birding in local parks. I don’t go out often, but when I do, the women are chatty. Nice. People I can be friends with.
“So, are you lesbian now, or what?” he says.
I blink, breaking as the car in front of me slows for a red light.
What the fuck, I think.
2010
The back of the truck bed was hard and cold under my shoulders. Keith Urban or some other generic stadium county star was filtering in through the open windows of the cab. The lake was a dark, silent pit beyond us.
To my left, the girl I loved was under a blanket with the boy she loved.
Above, the stars winked slowly, aided by the cherry vodka sitting heavy in my stomach. First time drinking, check. It made everything feel sticky and more dramatic.
“Wanna make out?”
I tipped my chin up to look at the boy seated in the corner of the truck bed, water bottle of booze between his fingertips. He was carefully not looking at the blanket or its occupants, but his mouth was slouched. Sad. I’d wondered if he was in love with the boy under that blanket, and I felt like it kind of confirmed my suspicions.
“Sure,” I said.
Two queer teens kissing each other, trying to ignore the fact that the people they really wanted to kiss were kissing other people. Small town rite of passage.
2011
“I was, like, really drunk,” she said. Loudly. For the fourth time.
I wasn’t sure what she wanted me to say. Sure, we’d indulged in a Tuesday evening box wine, but we hadn’t partied like we did at the frats on Saturdays. It wasn’t even the first time we’d kissed like that.
“Want to watch a movie or something?” I decided on.
“Sure!” She pulled back the comforter on my bed and slid in with the ease of familiarity. “Your bed is so much more comfortable than mine, oh my God.”
For a moment, I felt awkward. It was my dorm room, my 10,000 pillows and posters and stuffed animals, but now I wondered if I should stick to the rigid stiffness of my desk chair.
She raised her eyebrows at me and wiggled so there was a little more room under the blanket. “Are you coming?”
I still wasn’t sure what the rules were, and I didn’t know how to ask. But this something was better than nothing.
2016
“Anyway, it’s called asexuality, I guess,” I finished lamely.
We were an hour into our trip to the beach, my engagement ring heavy on my finger. I stank of nervous sweat, all my Tumbr research coming out fragmented and stumbling.
He nodded and put the car in park in front of a gas station.
“I think I’m asexual,” I said. To be clear.
“I know,” he said. “Do you want a snack or is this just a bathroom break?”
“You—wait. You know.”
“Yeah,” he said. He turned and looked at me fully, his expression calm. “I googled this, like, years ago. Maybe a year after we started dating.”
“And you didn’t tell me?” I felt hot and clammy all at once. This was not at all how I thought this conversation would go.
“Kind of felt like something you needed to figure out for yourself.” The corners of his mouth tensed a bit, like he was bracing. “And it doesn’t change anything between us, right?”
“Right. Not for me, anyway,” I said.
“Not for me either.”
He leaned over and kissed me before grinning. “And I was there in college, remember? We kissed the same fucking girl.”
2017
“I’ve never needed anyone to complete me,” I said into the microphone, trying to keep my voice steady. “But I’ve found someone who accepts me completely.”
He grinned, his eyes bright.
I got through the rest of my vows, only breaking once to wipe my face. The pastor wrapped things up. We kissed.
The guests went wild.
2024
Seven years later, we walked through Gettysburg, the same place we had our honeymoon, discussing the end of our marriage.
“So that’s it, then?” he asked.
“We should end it before we hate each other and can’t work together.”
At least until she’s in college, I didn’t say.
“That’s fair.”
We wandered through shops, ate at our favorite places. He drove us home, and we talked about finances, custody, logistics.
All in all, it wasn’t a terrible trip.
2025
I opened up Hinge, fully prepared to delete the app, when their profile popped up. Their photos were fun but not forced. The top prompt was “What are you ordering for the table?” Their response: A potato. Any kind of potato.
I swiped right immediately.
I deleted Hinge officially after our first date.
Their text said: If I made you a first date playlist, would that be cute or cringe?
Their text said: I really love that both of us have made it into bed by 8:35 on a Friday
Their text said: Your hair is giving Danny Phantom in the best nonbinary way possible
We went to bookstores and walked neighborhoods and binge-watched Bridgerton. They listened to me yap about trends in cover designs for traditionally published books. On Valentine’s Day, we sent each other Heated Rivalry memes. Winter ebbed away and we sat outside an ice cream shop on a chilly spring evening. We talked about summertime farmer’s market trips and going dancing and a dozen other little things that meant this is moving forward, this is going somewhere.
Their text said: I can’t wait to see you
Mine said: Ugh SAME
“So, are you lesbian now, or what?” he asks.
I carefully don’t look at my ex-husband, reminding myself not to be reactive, not to be annoyed by his (very pointed) comment. A mean part of me wants to say maybe you turned me off cis men forever, but our friendship is standing on shaky, starving legs. I don’t want to take it out at the knees.
In the backseat, our toddler yodels along to the Spotify Sesame Street playlist.
“I’m not a lesbian. I’m asexual. I always have been,” I say instead.
“Yeah,” he says, in a tone I can’t read.
The light turns green, and I press the gas.
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I can imagine not being clearly defined could be tremendous.
Wishing you so many joys.