Page 11

Cam's already sharp eyes narrowed. "That's different."

"How? How is that different? At least when I post, it's actually me. My life, my thoughts, my actual personality. You want to call me shallow for taking pictures of my coffee? Fine. But don't pretend your sanitized, corporate-approved, completely fake social media presence is somehow more authentic than mine."

"I'm a public figure," Cam said, her voice tight. "I have to maintain a certain image."

"Right. An image. A fake one. A performance." I leaned forward. "At least I'm performing as myself. You're performing as some idealized version of what you think people want to see. How is that better?"

"Because I have a career to protect. Endorsements. A reputation. I can't just post whatever I want and not think about the consequences."

"Oh, so you admit it's fake. You admit you're hiding who you really are."

"That's not what I said."

"That's exactly what you said. You just admitted you can't be yourself online because of consequences. Which means everything you post is a lie. A carefully constructed lie to protect your brand." I took another sip of wine, feeling the anger building in my chest. "I lost my entire family when I came out. My parents, my extended family, everyone except my brother. I posted about it on Instagram because I wanted to live honestly. Because hiding who I was, pretending to be someone I wasn't—that was killing me. So yeah, I post pictures of my coffee and my outfits and my life. Because it's my actual life. Not some sanitized, bastardized version of it."

The table had gone very quiet.

"Not everyone has the luxury of being completely open," Cam said, and I could hear the edge in her voice now.

"What luxury? Being myself? Living honestly?"

"Being out has consequences that not everyone can handle."

I stopped. Looked at her. Really looked at her.

The carefully controlled expression. The tension in her shoulders. The way her hands had tightened around her wine glass. The way she'd said "being out" instead of "being honest" or "being open."

Being out.

Oh.

Oh.

The tomboy presentation, which wasn’t tomboy at all—it was masculine. The lack of any personal life on social media. The intensity of her reaction. The way she'd gone rigid when I'd started talking about hiding.

She wasn't just talking about maintaining a professional image.

She was closeted.

My brain scrambled to catch up, replaying everything I'd said with this new context. All my lectures about authenticity and living honestly and fuck. I'd basically been telling a closeted woman she was a coward for not being out.

"I—" I started, not sure what to say. Not sure if I should acknowledge what I'd just figured out, or pretend I hadn't noticed, or apologize.

"Harper," Mia said quietly, a warning in her voice.

But Cam was already standing, her chair scraping against the floor. "You know what? I don't need this. I came here to apologize, and I did. I don't have to sit here and listen to you lecture me about authenticity like you have all the answers. Like your way is the only way.”

"I wasn't—" I stood too, my heart racing. "I didn't mean—"

"Yes, you did." Cam's voice was low and controlled, but I could hear the hurt underneath. "You think anyone who isn't as out and proud as you is a coward. Living a lie. Hiding. But you don't know anything about my life. About what I've built, what I could lose. So maybe keep your judgments to yourself."

"I'm not judging, I'm just saying—"

"You are judging. That's exactly what you're doing." Cam grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair. "Some of us don't have the luxury of blowing up our entire lives for the sake of 'living honestly.' Some of us have careers and families and responsibilities that are more complicated than posting on Instagram about how brave we are."

The words hit like a slap. "That's not fair."

"Isn't it? You've spent this entire conversation telling me I'm fake, that I'm hiding, that I'm shallow for protecting my privacy. How is that fair?"