Bi-Furious

Excerpt

Bi-Furious
Chelsi Robichaud © 2022
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One

It’s over between us, he wrote. I’ve fallen in love with her.

And that was it. It was all over. Well, not everything was over. I still had my job, after all. Not all was lost, but the relationship was clearly and irrevocably damaged beyond repair. I didn’t even bother to try to fight his choice to end it or beg him to reconsider or debase myself in any way really.

I had found out about Mélodie, the other woman, a few days ago. We had been talking it out. I had been willing to let it slide, if he was willing to let her go. It seemed he had decided she was worth it more than me.

Okay, I wrote back, as if I were whispering it. I felt weak. Part of me had known the breakup was coming. But at the same time, I was furious. How could he have dared to do this? And while I was at work, for god’s sake? I had thought maybe we could work through our issues. I clutched at my chest. I was having difficulty breathing. The sensation was like having the wind knocked out of me. A panic attack?

I tried not to cry. I wasn’t even certain why I felt like crying, anyway. It was pretty clear he didn’t care about me. He had met someone else. Why bother being sad? Why waste my time? But despite my best efforts, the emotions broke the surface. I pressed my nails into my palm to distract myself. I thought maybe I was distressed because I was worried about getting my things back. Or because of the nasty things he’d said to me, or because I’d lost a best friend.

I decided to quietly wipe a few tears from my face and cry more later, in the privacy of my own home, when I had ice cream. Oh, yes. There would be a lot of ice cream eating.

I closed the chat. Not much left to say. He left no room for discussion.

“How’s the work going?” my co-worker Julia asked, peeking over at my workspace.

Julia was one of those women who had been raised by an affluent family and gone to the best art schools. She had the shiniest blonde hair I had ever seen, and she always wore it up in a tight high pony. She was always dressed to the nines (and when I say always, I mean always, even when she was relaxing at home). I had quickly discovered after meeting her during my first day at work that she spent money like it was nothing. I had seen her shopping online during her break, and the things she bought were not cheap.

But despite her spoiled nature, she was a friend. Well, more of a work-friend, but she still cared about me. And so, despite her flaws, I liked her (but only in tiny doses).

I smiled faintly. “Oh, fine.”

I worked as a background artist for an animation studio in Montreal, Quebec. Painting had always been a passion of mine, and I got to do it as a profession. I thought it would’ve been great to do what I loved for a living, and in a way, it had been great. In another way, though, it kind of spoiled things. It was difficult to find work-life balance with art. I tended to burn out pretty quickly. And after the message I had received from my ex… I cringed. It felt weird to think of him that way. But after his message, I wasn’t certain how much more work I could get done. My work wasn’t very glamorous. My name barely appeared anywhere. I was a nobody, even in geek groups. So, in the moment, I didn’t have much motivation to keep working.

Julia caught my mood.

“What’s going on?” she asked, peering over the top of the cubicle.

I pressed my lips together into a thin line. “It’s Clark. He dumped me.”

Her eyes widened. “What? When? I thought you were just about to move in together!”

“We were,” I said quietly, pressing my hands into my lap. I was wearing my favourite dress: white satin. It was his favourite too. Or at least, it had been.

“Know what you need?” she asked abruptly.

“A drink?”

“No, something better. Smashing.”

“I don’t think I’m quite ready to ‘smash’ yet. I literally got dumped like five minutes ago.” Uh-oh. Here came the tears. Soon I’d be ugly crying and my co-workers would think I was mental.

She rolled her eyes. “Not smashing as in sex. Breaking plates and cups and things. It’s therapeutic.”

“Is it?”

“Oh yeah. I’ve done it myself a few times. Really cathartic.”

“Okay, then after work, let’s break some plates.”

She gave me a sympathetic smile before sitting back down. “Don’t worry about it, hun. Everyone knew there was no future with him.”

But I had thought there was…

Since I had been ceremoniously dumped like all my old art Clark had thrown out to “make space,” I had to tell my parents. They had been eagerly awaiting a marriage proposal, and so I had to give them the bad news that that was never, ever happening now. I didn’t want to do it in person, and besides, I had already agreed to go break things after work with Julia. If I told them in person, they’d give me the face, and I wanted anything but the face right now.

I decided to text them. I pulled out my phone and opened the messaging app, my finger hovering over the chat. Did I really want to do this? Telling them would only cause trouble, after all. What if I just let them believe we were still together?

I put my phone face down on my desk and concentrated on the screen again. I was working on concept art for a new show we were putting on, kind of a fantasy type thing. Lots of forests and sunsets and hills. I did it all through digital painting. I tried to focus on shading, but my mind was whirling.

How could Clark have broken up with me like that? At work of all places? Thank god we didn’t have a place together yet, but I still had the whole trouble of retrieving my things from his place. He had a few of my best brushes over there, so I definitely wanted them back. I didn’t often paint traditionally, but it was soothing to paint watercolours in my free time.

I tried to pull my mind away from Clark. I needed to focus on work. But every little thing reminded me of him. Drawing hills reminded me of our trip to Iceland. Drawing horses reminded me of the time we went riding together (he loved to ride).

By the time I clocked off, I was emotionally exhausted from the torture I had been subjecting myself to throughout the day. I brushed my fingers through my hair and redid my makeup in the lobby, as if that would heal the emotional scars, and took a deep breath.

It was time to drink wine and break shit.

As it turned out, Julia had a point about breaking things being therapeutic. She had a bunch of plates she reserved explicitly for breaking. (I wasn’t certain if this should worry me or not—I decided not.) We unloaded them from cardboard boxes delicately, as if we weren’t about to shatter them into a million little pieces.

“What did you see in this guy, anyway?” she asked.

I blinked back tears. “I don’t know. He was nice to me.”

“Nice to you?” she exclaimed. “Your relationship just ended on a whim, and the best thing you can say about it was that he was nice to you?”

“Well, he was. A lot of guys aren’t.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose and groaned. “Is the bar really so low now? Jesus Christ.”

I propped myself down on the kitchen’s barstool. “I’m going to be alone forever.”

“Okay now, spinster,” she chided. “You are not going to be alone for the rest of your life. You have wonderful friends and family who support you. You’re smart, creative, talented, and beautiful. You’re the real deal. Someone is bound to notice eventually.”

“But we had talked about marriage one day,” I sniffed. “I feel like such an idiot. I thought it was so real!”

“But did you love him?”

“What?” I asked, startled.

“Did you love him?” she repeated, with a tad bit more ferocity.

“I…I cared about him.”

“Jess, the man never supported your career. I say good riddance!”

“You’re right…”

“It wouldn’t have been an equal partnership. You would’ve been miserable because your creative life would’ve suffered. I know how important that is to you. You wouldn’t want to lose that for a man, would you?”

“No…” I muttered.

She gave a firm nod. “Good. Then let’s start this thing.” She held up two bottles. “Red or white?”

“Both. Everything you have. I’d rather forget the whole thing ever happened.”

“You got it.”

She poured me a glass of red first. I didn’t even really drink. Ever. But if it would take the sting away, then I’d do it.

“How does this work?” I asked, picking up a plate. “Do we just throw it?”

“Yep.”

“Won’t it be difficult to clean up?”

“Yeah, but that’s why I put the sheet down. Don’t worry about it.”

I hesitated. Usually, I worry about everything. She knew that. People had told me I was a bit neurotic about following the rules. But hey, if they were anxious messes like I was, they’d be worried about every decision they made too.

But at that moment I was hurt, pissed off, and a little buzzed, so I said, “Fuck it,” and threw the first plate.

She was right. It was satisfying. The high-pitched ring of the glass shattering vibrated through me, and it felt good. I imagined each little piece flying away as a piece of him I never had to deal with again. It was like I was breaking all those times he’d insulted me, or insulted my life choices or, or…

“Throw another one!” Julia encouraged.

I did. And another. And another. There was glass everywhere. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was aware of this being kind of dangerous. But I didn’t care. Like some kind of roller derby player, too caught up in the game to care about scratches and bruises (and potential shards of glass lodged into my foot).

Julia joined in. Her method involved exclaiming things like “Bastard!” whereas I was deadly silent. Neither of us even considered for a moment that what we were doing might, out of context, sound like domestic abuse, and so we carried on for about two hours, stopping only to drink more wine. Thankfully her neighbours didn’t call the police on us.

When the bacchanalian destruction was over, Julia and I sat on the floor (the part without the broken glass).

“You know what you need to do?” she asked, slurring her words.

I smiled. I was the one who had been dumped, and somehow, she had outdrunk me. “What?”

“Stay. Single.” She punctuated each word by splashing her wineglass at me. “Really.”

“I thought the best way to get over someone was to get under someone else,” I said, in an attempt to be coy.

She snorted. “With you though? Honey, no.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You get attached for the sole purpose of getting attached.”

“Do I?”

“Yes! You do! And I don’t know if you even realize it!” For a second it seemed like she had snapped out of her drunken stupor, but then she laughed. “It doesn’t really matter. If banging your way out of misery is what puts a smile on your face, then do it. But I don’t think it’ll make you happy.”

I considered. At the age of twenty-five, I had dated way too much. Imprudently, perhaps. And yes, I had settled for less than I deserved. I was a serial monogamist who wouldn’t just fall into love, but dive into it—except most of the time the pool was empty, or full of sharks.

“You’re right. I probably shouldn’t.”

“Promise me, for the love of all that’s good, you won’t download one of those dating apps.”

“I won’t,” I lied. I definitely would, if only to see what all the fuss was about and look at pretty strangers. That was about as bad as people watching at the mall, right? No harm in that?

I felt like Julia was looking at me so closely she could probably read my mind. Not wanting her to figure out I’d still probably be going on a digital flirtation escapade, I changed the topic.

“Maybe I should go back to the studio and try to get more work done. It’ll distract me.”

“Work? Like that?” She gestured at me.

“Like what?”

“Drunk!”

“Well, isn’t that how the saying goes? Paint drunk, edit sober?”

“It’s ‘write drunk and edit sober,’ and you’re not Ernest fucking Hemingway. You’re a grown woman who needs to go home, get in her PJs, and relax.” She smiled, maybe the first genuine smile of the night. “You had a rough day. You deserve it. Take a bath and go to bed.”

Wise words. “All right.” And yet, I was going to go against her advice. Because I’m an idiot like that.

I went back to the studio. It was dark, because most normal people had gone home. I turned on the lights and settled back down at my desk. For some people, cubicles were like a prison. I actually kind of liked mine. I had decorated it with prints. Usually, they were concept pieces or character designs from my favourite movies. I also had little figurines of anime characters. They made me feel good, and safe. Going home to an empty bed would just remind me of what I had lost. I’d rather be here.

I looked over at the phone, still face down where I had left it before leaving work. My heart thudded. What if he had messaged me again? What if he wanted to take me back? If he did, would I say yes?

I considered what Julia had said. It was true; he’d never really liked that I had chosen to become a background artist. And I’m not certain I really did love him. I remembered the first time he told me he loved me. We were standing outside a theatre after watching a play. It was winter. I could tell by the way he was looking at me he was going to say something important. He wrapped his arms around me and pressed his face against my hair as he said it. I could feel him shaking a little bit and knew he meant it, so I said it back. Not just for his sake though. I had rationalized it. I cared about him deeply, and he was my best friend. I loved the time we spent together and enjoyed our intimacy. Wasn’t that what love was, after all? In movies they made it seem like fireworks, but in reality, it was meant to be a bit more subdued. Right?

I kept thinking back to what Julia had said about me settling for him. Maybe love was supposed to be more straightforward. Maybe you were supposed to just know, instead of thinking through as much as I did. I pressed my hands against my face. Love was a feeling. Not data. What was wrong with me?

I powered on my laptop and checked my phone. My palms were sweating when I turned it on. There were a few messages from Clark, informing me that he had dropped my things off at my apartment door. Well, at least he’d saved me the task. I asked him if he’d brought the brushes. He said he hadn’t, but he could bring them to me later.

I went back to work. Admittedly, it wasn’t as good as what I could usually do, but that just meant I had to go slower. I took my time and cleaned it up as I went.

I finally let myself cry. I hadn’t wanted to seem weak in front of Julia. I wanted her to think I was tough. But I felt vulnerable and wounded. It hurt.

I drew. I allowed myself to feel the pain. I allowed myself to imagine a future in which I was happy. I drew an image of two women holding each other. It was in the style of a tarot card. They were both wearing white dresses. Their foreheads pressed together. It was intimate and comforting.

By 2:00 a.m., I had created something I kind of liked. Nothing I would ever hand in at work, but it was good. I decided the image was good enough to post on social media. I thought about waiting to post it the next day when most people would be awake, but I was too excited to share my work. I posted it, pocketed my phone, and went home to my empty bed.

When I woke up, it was noon. Thankfully, it was a weekend, so I didn’t have to worry about being late for work. I dropped my head back onto the pillow and groaned. I didn’t have a hangover, but my head definitely hurt from crying. My cat, Poe, bumped his head against my face. I patted him gently. At least he still loved me. But then again, I fed and sheltered him. He didn’t really have a choice.

My phone buzzed next to my pillow. Dread struck me. What if it was Clark? I didn’t want to read more of his put-downs. Now I had my things back, I should probably just block him.

But when I looked at my notifications, they weren’t from him. They were comments on my art post. And there were two hundred of them.

My jaw dropped. Since 2:00 a.m., my post had blown up like that?

I sat bolt upright, scaring Poe off the bed, and, with shaking hands, opened the app. It was true. There were hundreds of comments, and eight thousand likes. That was more than I had ever had before. I quickly scrolled through the kind words. Most of them were compliments on the colours, the technique, the style. There were also a lot of hearts and rainbow emojis. I paused. Rainbows? That meant they thought it was gay, right? I had a moment of internal panic. Had I intended for the image to be gay without even noticing it? I scrolled back up and inspected my art intently.

I frowned. “Shit.”

I could totally see it. The swirl of their dresses around each other was sensual. The way they were pressing their faces together made it look like they were going to kiss. I tried to remember what I had been thinking of when I drew it. Was I channeling some secret lesbian desire? Or was I just inspired by something I had seen earlier that day? I did look at a wide variety of pieces online, after all.

I searched through my likes, but there was nothing except concept art from the last few days and a few photos of friends on vacation. So, no. This one had been all me. Maybe it was just an aesthetic thing?

I had a few direct message notifications, so I checked them. A few were from friends congratulating me. One, though, was from a user with a blue check mark next to her name. Someone verified—which meant someone famous.

That’s when I saw the username. Atalanta.art. One of my favourite artists. And she had messaged me?

I breathed in sharply, a cold sweat descending on me. What if the message was to criticize it? What if she didn’t like it? What if one of my favourite artists thought I should put down my stylus and never draw again?

Warily, I clicked on the message, and felt instant relief. She wasn’t criticizing my work at all. In fact, she seemed to love it.

Atalanta.art: Hey, just wanted to say I love your work! You’ve got yourself a new fan. Love, from a fellow queer artist.

I homed in on the word “queer” like a sniper on its target. Me? Queer? I almost laughed, but mortification prevented me from doing so. This was a big misunderstanding. I was straight! I had only ever dated men in the past. None of those relationships had worked out for various reasons, but that didn’t make me gay. Did it?

I thought about how to rectify the situation. Would it be rude to simply say, “Thank you, but I’m actually straight”? Would it seem like I was appropriating her culture by making this drawing as a straight person? Or could I pull the “Thank you but I’m just an ally!” card with a sprinkling of “But I love the gays wholeheartedly!”

No matter what I thought up, it all seemed wrong.

So instead, I wrote back, Thank you.

I figured the conversation would end there, but then she responded.

Atalanta.art: How long have you been painting?

She wanted to know more about me? The unknown artist, pushed to the shadows? I could’ve pinched myself. Was this really happening?

I gave her a brief overview of my career, trying not to mess my words up. I knew it was embarrassing when artists put themselves down to raise someone else up. I didn’t want to be that girl. I tried to stay factual while also being humble.

Then came the next big shock: she followed me back.

I was stunned. It was one thing for her to take a glance at me and maybe exchange a few words, but now she was following me! Immediately I exited out of our conversation and scrolled through all my posts for anything mildly mortifying. I deleted a few posts from four years ago that she probably wouldn’t see, but I didn’t want to take any chances. I also deleted art I had drawn for Clark because, honestly, fuck that guy, and for some reason I didn’t want her to know about him. Maybe I was ashamed that a celebrity like her might know I’d dated a loser like him. I really, really wanted her to think I was cool. I needed to be extremely careful.

I wondered if I should redraw some of my old art, or try to post some higher-quality stuff to make sure she continued to admire me?

My phone dinged again. It was her.

Atalanta.art: I really admire the journey you’ve taken. I think you have some serious talent. I could probably hook you up with some zines, if you’d like. They’re always looking for newbies.

Me: Oh my god, are you serious? That would be amazing! You don’t know how much that would mean to me!

Atalanta.art: Actually, I do know. I was in your position once, too, remember? If it wasn’t for mentors helping me out throughout my career, I wouldn’t be where I am today. And I think you’re worth helping.

Me: Wow. Honestly, I don’t know what to say. You’re too kind.

Atalanta.art: You’re welcome. Maybe we could video call later? I’d love to get to know you more :) you seem brilliant.

Brilliant? I knew denying it would be ungracious, even though I didn’t believe it.

Me: Thank you. So are you. I’d love to chat. Maybe in a couple hours?

Atalanta.art: Sounds great. My username is the same as this one.

The conversation was over and yet it was consuming me. What would I wear? Was our call going to be like an interview? I’d had a few online interviews before, and it was unnerving. Especially when the technology didn’t cooperate, and you were just staring at someone’s shoulder for twenty minutes because the camera wouldn’t focus on their face.

Or should I act casual and wear my normal clothes? I got out of bed, not even needing coffee due to the adrenaline coursing through my veins. I inspected myself in my standing bedroom mirror. I would definitely need to change out of my baggy gaming T-shirt and booty shorts (hey, they were comfortable, and Clark used to like the way they looked). I wanted to wear something that said “artsy” but also “professional.” It was too early in the morning to call Julia over for damage control, and I had a feeling after drinking yesterday she’d be in no shape to make wise sartorial choices.

I scanned my closet for something appropriate. Should I dress like my social media photos? The sad reality was I was nowhere near as cool or as stylish as my feed made me seem (although I had a very limited number of photos of myself on there…for a reason). Most of my stylish outfits were borrowed from friends. If I wore too much jewelry for the call, I’d look like I was overdoing it. I decided on just wearing simple earrings.

Updo or hair down? I was overthinking it. I decided to keep it down. I pulled out a pantsuit from my closet. Fancy enough to be professional, but the top was cut low enough to be semi-casual. I threw it on and hurriedly curled my hair (loosely enough to seem like I woke up that way) and applied as much makeup as I could while still looking “natural.”

Thankfully, I was able to tidy my room (or at least the things in view of the webcam) and fixed the light so it looked like I had my life semi-together. Breathlessly, as though I had just run a marathon, I opened up the video calling app. I checked my reflection about twenty times over and adjusted my facial position to make sure she’d see my best angle. This was Atalanta.art, after all!

We added each other and she indicated she’d call soon. Then I had a moment of panic. I didn’t know her name. I knew her username, but not her real name. How could I call myself a real fan of hers when I didn’t even know her name? I quickly messaged Julia, my hands sweating.

Me: HELP! Atalanta.art wants to video chat with me but I don’t actually know her real name!

Julia: That’s what introductions are for? How about you start with, “Hey, my name is Jess!”

Me: Oh. Right.

God! What was wrong with me?

The app started ringing. Her icon popped up—the same one as her social media. I was glad I was wearing a sleeveless top, because otherwise I’d have massive sweat marks under my arms. Not the best first impression, admittedly. I get really sweaty when I’m nervous. I took a gulp of air and accepted the call.

And there she was, her face filling my screen. She looked just like the photos (and self-portraits too). She had bright orange-red hair and pale skin. Her full lips spread out into a smile upon seeing me. She was stunning. I returned the smile awkwardly.

“Ah! Hello! Can you hear me?” she asked. She had a slight accent. German, maybe? I had taken a first-year German class as an elective in university and really sucked at it. The best I could do was stumble through sentences awkwardly with a lot of gesturing. I doubted my meager understanding of German would impress her. I tried to remember if I knew her ancestry, but my mind was blank. All I could think about was how unnervingly beautiful she was.

“Hi,” I said, and waved. “It’s really great to meet you. I’m Jess. I’ve followed your work for, well, years.”

“I’m so flattered!” she exclaimed. “It’s nice to meet you. My name is Lily.”

I noticed that behind her there were stacks of books (art books, maybe?) and a pile of plushies. There was also a wall full of prints. I knew they were her favourites. At least I knew that.

“So, I already know about your education and your work. And you know I love your style. But what else are you into?”

“Into?” I repeated.

“Yeah. Like your hobbies and passions.”

My mind froze. I hadn’t prepared to talk about that. I had made a mental list of all the things I could talk about—but none of those were about myself. Damn it, Jess. How hard could it possibly be?

“In my free time I mostly stay home and play video games,” I said. Boring, boring, boring. Why couldn’t I have had some niche hobby like fire spinning or sword fighting? I made a mental note to sign up for some kind of wild course after this conversation was over.

But, to my surprise, Lily beamed. “Which games have you been playing?”

“A few JRPGs, actually,” I said, not expecting her to care. Not everyone liked Japanese role-playing games. But judging by her smile, it seemed like she did.

“Ah, I love those too. I’ve been playing the most recent assassin game lately.”

I knew it, but I hadn’t played it. I said the first thing that came to my mind. “Oh, the playable characters are really hot in that one.”

She giggled. “Yeah. I was thrilled when I heard they made a woman a playable character. I’ve always wanted to play as a female assassin. Plus, those biceps.” She looked at me expectantly, as if she assumed I would immediately agree.

I honestly hadn’t really thought of it, but after a quick search, I saw what she meant. “Oh, yeah. She’s muscular.”

Clearly, she brought it up as a way to relate to me as a “queer” person. How could I clear this up? Should I tell her my painting had been a form of appreciation rather than desire? But the words stuck in my throat.

She twirled a piece of her hair. “So, what else do you like to do?”

I decided to open up about a little more than the basics. I decided to tell her something not many people knew about me. “I like to cosplay.”

“Really? That’s so cool.”

“Yeah, but it’s kind of secret. I’m not very good at it.”

“Everyone starts somewhere,” she said comfortingly. The way she looked at me through the screen was…warm. Her eyes were half-closed, her head tilted to the side, like I was an old friend she cherished, and not someone she had only met a few minutes ago.

Oh, god. I wondered if she was into me like, physically. Maybe she was just really…friendly? But the worst thing about it was that I liked it. I wanted to keep her gaze on me. What did that mean? Was it some kind of post-breakup hormonal thing? Was I simply wanting attention, regardless of where it came from?

“I’m going to Montreal for the con,” Lily said.

“Oh, will you be driving over?”

“Yep, from Ottawa. Will you be going?” Lily asked.

“Yeah,” I replied. “Not as a guest or anything, obviously. But I was going to go dressed up in cosplay. I was thinking Yen from The Witcher.”

“You’d look perfect as her! If you find the courage to show everyone your cosplay, that is.”

“I’ll try,” I said shyly.

“Would you like to meet up then?”

“Of course!” My face flushed. “Will you have a booth?”

“Yeah, but I won’t be working the entire time. I’ll be able to take breaks. We could talk more then.”

“I’d love that!” I said, then added, “And of course I’ll buy your work.”

“I’d really appreciate that. And I’ll return the favour. Even if you don’t normally sell prints, I think you should consider selling this one. Especially considering the post is going viral. People will want to purchase it to hang on their wall.”

I blushed. “That’s a great idea. Thank you.”

“I need to go now, but let’s keep in touch, okay?”

“I’d love that,” I said.

We both waved goodbye. I cradled my phone to my chest once the call was over.

I had a crush.