This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

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ISBNs: 9781538726655 (trade paperback), 9781538726662 (ebook)

E3-20250319-JV-NF-ORI

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

So, yeah, about TikTok…

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

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Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Discover More

About the Author

Other Books by Gabriella Gamez

Cover

Table of Contents

Page List

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ii

For the real Natalia <3

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So, yeah, about TikTok…

If you’re reading this on or after May 6, 2025, TikTok might be banned in the US. As of January 30, the day I’m writing this, we still don’t know!

Much of Kiss Me, Maybe is about Angela’s journey on TikTok. It’s the driving force that launches her into a whole new era of her life as she navigates dating, identity, and romantic love for the very first time, much like I’ve seen it do for many creators on this app over the course of five years. Life inspires art, and art in turn inspires life. This has been true for centuries and will continue to be true with or without TikTok. No one can take that away from us, no matter how hard they try.

So, readers from the future, tell me—is TikTok finally officially banned for good, or was it all merely an elaborate scheme from the government to mess with our minds? Would love a crystal ball right about now…

One

The last time I went viral on TikTok was from an accidental thirst trap. This time, it’s so much worse.

By no means am I an influencer or anything of the sort, so you can imagine my surprise when a lip-syncing video of me in my pajamas did numbers—especially when it was the first video of mine to ever do so. Perhaps it was the consequence of using a trending sound coupled with the fact that my sleep tank was apparently tight enough to inspire the imagination that ultimately caused thousands of strangers online to have the sort of reaction only someone like me couldn’t understand. At least, that’s what I’ve gathered from the more indecent parts of my comment section.

I may be asexual but I’m not a prude. I’m familiar with sex, even if only in the abstract sense. When I look back at that video, I don’t see the sexualized woman they see. I could understand how people found me cute or pretty or sexy, but what I couldn’t understand was the number of men incapable of keeping their disgusting imaginations to themselves. Most of all, I couldn’t understand why their overblown sex drives were now my problem.

Even my boss thought it was my problem, according to the lecture she gave me last week.

“What’s so inappropriate about it?” I was this close to crying in Erika’s office, and maybe I would’ve been if she and Marcela hadn’t made it clear from the beginning of the meeting that I was in no danger of losing my job. “It’s a lip-syncing video for god’s sake. I’m barely dancing, and you can only see the upper half of my body. Sorry if I didn’t know my flat boobs were so boner-inducing.”

There was a long, awkward pause where Erika cleared her throat and Marcela’s stunned expression quickly morphed into a stern look I rarely see from my best friend. That’s when it dawned on me that I’d actually used the phrase “boner-inducing” in front of my boss. If I wasn’t in danger of losing my job, well, at least I could prove that the day was still young.

“I don’t think your, um, chest is the problem,” Marcela said, pulling up the video on her phone. And thus began a worthy contender for most humiliating moment of my life: my best friend and boss explaining detail by detail what strangers on the internet found so titillating about a video that should’ve stayed in the drafts. “It’s everything in concert together. Scantily covered, conventionally attractive woman on the internet pretty much does it for every lowlife, cis straight man. The hip roll might’ve been the final nail in the coffin.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to argue the “scantily covered” bit of her description, but I knew it wouldn’t do me any good. I’m flat enough to wear most shirts without a bra, have no cleavage to speak of, and the black tank top I was wearing in the video is thick enough to hide my nipples in even the coldest temperatures, but none of that ultimately matters when your workplace’s reputation is on the line. As much as it sucked, what’s considered “appropriate” wasn’t up to me.

“The hip roll certainly wasn’t great, but it’s the strap falling off your left shoulder that got me a call from a board member.” Erika broke eye contact in favor of staring down at the keyboard on her desk, her discomfort a physical tension in the air I could feel. “I’m very sorry, Angela, but regardless of whether or not you see how this video looks, it has to come down.”

It’s not that I was angry about having to delete the video. If anything, it was a relief to not be bombarded by sexually explicit comments and messages from men that I neither asked for nor wanted, even if that meant giving up the largely positive reception from people who hadn’t sexualized me at all.

But if I’m being honest with myself, I was a little disappointed. While the attention from men was unwelcome, and even creepy at times, the attention from queer women had been… unexpected. While their numbers weren’t nearly as overwhelming compared to the men’s, they still came in at a steady pace.

At first, it was hard to discern whether the wows and fire emojis and “looking respectfully” comments were purely innocent praise, or something deeper, but a closer look into those accounts told me I was, in fact, also desired by the sapphic community.

And I didn’t mind one bit.

“It’s a shame you had to take down the video,” Marcela had told me after the meeting, during our lunch break. In the Whataburger parking lot, she didn’t have the awkward job of talking to me as an authority figure. “Otherwise, you could’ve moderated the comment section and capitalized on the moment.”

“Asexual thirst trapper does have a paradoxical sort of ring to it.” I tapped my chin, pretending to think. “It might have been a nice side hustle. How much money do you think I could’ve made?”

“Don’t even go there.” She threw a fry in my lap. “Erika will have a heart attack if you put her through this a second time, and then we’ll get stuck with a micromanaging branch manager who’ll move our desks apart.”

“As if that’ll stop us from yapping.” I smirked at her, picking up the fry and popping it into my mouth. “Is it bad that I kind of loved the attention? Not from the ones who took it too far, but…” I sighed. “I don’t know. I hate dating apps, but how else am I supposed to find women to date? That video was the closest thing I’ve ever had to a dating pool.”

A few of them had even slid into my DMs with compliments that turned to friendly conversation. Even if it was through small talk, it was a relief to finally tell people other than my parents or Marcela I was an asexual lesbian, maybe even more so than coming out the first time. Maybe because I’d reached another first: I was being welcomed into the community I belonged to, and perhaps even on track to building my own.

“You’ve never been on a dating app.” Marcela rolled her eyes at me.

“Correction: I hate the idea of dating apps.”

“What about a lesbian bar?” Marcela asked. “I can help research if there are any in town that are good.”

“As if we’ll go anywhere that isn’t Havana Bar,” I huffed, ignoring the knowing look she gave me. We both knew why I wouldn’t go anywhere else, and it was all thanks to the beautiful, bisexual bartender I can never seem to get out of my head.

“Krystal could probably give us some good options,” Marcela pointed out. “If you stopped pining over each other for longer than ten minutes, I mean.”

“We do not pine.” She doesn’t, at least. Me? Pining is all I know how to do when it comes to Krystal Ramirez.

“You could always try asking her out,” Marcela suggested, and not for the first time. “You never know. She might say yes.”

“Too real.” I shook my head, and she sighed. “I’m not ready to be rejected in person, especially not without options, which brings me back to the dating pool.”

“You’ve shot my suggestions down and it’s not like you can date a TikTok comment section that doesn’t exist anymore, so I’m all ears,” she said. “What’s your plan?”

I didn’t have one, but I was starting to.

I didn’t really think about what I was doing a week later, only that I was overcome with the need to do something. I hadn’t planned on making a follow-up to the video I’d deleted, but I wasn’t content to leave it at that either.

Which brings me to now, in the aftermath of hitting post for a second time without thinking it through. I played the video back, watching the number of views climb with a lump in my throat.

CAPTION:

AN UPDATE OF SORTS

@ANGELA CLOSED CAPTIONS: So, I had to delete my last video for work, which… is whatever, at this point. No one’s surprised that Texas has an ultraconservative code of conduct in and out of the workplace, just like no one’s surprised by a cis straight man’s capacity to ruin things for everyone, so it’s honestly good riddance to all those gross comments I was getting from them. I’m an asexual lesbian, I don’t want that.

As someone who’s only recently come out to a handful of people in my life, I’ve realized a couple things after the shitshow that was that video. Number one: I’m tired of being seen as a sexual being by men. Period. Number two: what I crave more than anything right now is community. I don’t have a lot of asexual friends—or even queer friends in general—in my life yet, and I’d really like to change that sooner rather than later.

Finally, number three—and maybe this sounds like an oxymoron if you don’t know anything about being asexual—I am so fucking tired of being single. I’ve been single my entire life, all twenty-seven years, and I’ve never come close to dating, let alone kissing, which means I’m starting late and have no idea what I’m doing. So if anyone has any suggestions for me, please help a girl out. Otherwise, I’m this close to making another thirst trap—tailored entirely to the sapphic community and as appropriate as I can make it without getting fired—and dating the internet.

That’s all for my update. Goodbye.

I nearly let out a scream when the video ends. What in the world was I thinking? I’m already in hot water with Erika, and I know firsthand how fast things can escalate on the internet. I’m sure Marcela will let me know exactly how much I’ve fucked up the next time I see her. But as the first comments start to flood in, the adrenaline rushing through my veins seems to slow, and something like calm washes over me.

@Alisha: I’m also 27 and haven’t dated anyone! I have no idea if I’m asexual tho, how did you realize you were?

@LetiIsTrying: Dating as an ace person is HARD. Lmk when you figure it out, I need all the help I can get too.

More comments echo the same, and I’m more relieved than I probably should be. None of us have it figured out. I’m not alone.

@Priya: I’m curious how you would go about dating the entire internet lol

@Connor: You’re 27, look like that, and have never dated? Something has to be wrong with you

That spike of fear is back even as anger rushes to the forefront, the tips of my fingers itching to type something nasty back to the latest commenter. I stop myself, though, because as untactfully as he might’ve put it, he’s not wrong.

It’s hard to say why I’ve been holding myself back for so long. Maybe part of it was coming from a homophobic family, even if my parents ended up changing their minds on that issue. But the biggest reason was that for so long, I wasn’t sure what I wanted from a relationship. There was always this part of me that saw sex as an inevitability in romantic relationships. Even though I’ve always wanted romance in my life, I was never sure if sex with another person was something I wanted—or something I could want.

Realizing I was on the ace spectrum put a lot of things in perspective for me, even if I still have more questions than answers about certain aspects of myself. It was the final key to unlocking something vital about my identity, who I am on an intrinsic level. After so many years of fighting this feeling I didn’t have a name for inside of me, of questioning myself the same way other people who claimed to care about me did, of not belonging anywhere… I had an answer.

It took me a long time to get here, but I’m ready for more than I’ve allowed myself to have up to this point, and I’m not letting anyone stop me this time.

“How do you feel about online dating?”

“Mija, I’m married.” My mom rolls her eyes at me as she packs my dad’s suitcase. My father, meanwhile, is pretending to nap on the other side of their king-sized bed. To get out of helping prepare for their San Juan trip, no doubt. “To a man who doesn’t know how to pack for himself. Lucky me.”

“I mean, if you guys hadn’t met at that… dance hall.” I’m old enough to know “dance hall” is code for “dive bar,” but I let my mom have her version of the story. “Would you have downloaded the apps? Do you think you could meet someone that way and fall in love and get married, and live happily ever after?”

She zips up the suitcase and then turns to me. “Is that how Marcela met her football player? Could be worth a try. You should let Julian help you while he’s here. He’s always going out on dates.”

My cousin doesn’t know this, but he’s the reason I found comfort in the idea of coming out to my parents. Though deeply Catholic and previously known for the occasional homophobic comment, they didn’t bat an eye when Julian brought another man as a date to our tía’s birthday party two years ago. But the same couldn’t be said for everyone, including Julian’s father.

An ache formed in my chest when my dad stood up to Tío Manuel, partly for Julian but selfishly for myself too. It was strange, the feeling that had come over me, because I hadn’t fully realized my identity then. I only knew that I was different, even if I couldn’t put my finger on how yet. For so long, I let myself believe that being the queer daughter to two Mexican parents in Texas would lead to nothing but endless fighting, heartache, and inevitable separation. They’d lose me and always ask themselves where they went wrong. I’d lose them and always wonder if I made the right choice in cutting contact.

Luckily, it never came to that. When I eventually did sit them down for the conversation two months ago, they made it clear in no uncertain terms that they would accept me no matter what, but they couldn’t hide their relief when I told them I wasn’t ready for the rest of the family to know yet. They also couldn’t hide the fear reflected in their eyes when they thought I wasn’t looking. Those wordless glances between them said enough.

They loved me. They accepted me. But they’d never stop worrying about me, and I’d just given them a new reason to.

“No, she didn’t,” I tell my mom. “And Julian’s only been out on a few dates, as far as I know.”

“So, I’m your last resort for advice.” My mom smirks. “Is it easier for women to meet other women online to date?”

“I have no idea.” I shake my head. “Maybe dating is a hopeless endeavor once you’ve reached a certain age without any experience. Plus, everyone is disillusioned with dating apps these days. Makes the whole prospect seem bleak.”

“Angela, you can’t give up.” My mom’s stern face brings me back to the time I stole one of her box hair dyes during my middle school emo phase. Really, anytime she looks at me like that makes me feel like a teenager all over again. Ah, the perks of still living at home. “You haven’t even tried yet.”

“But—”

My father interrupts the moment with a yawn and stretches his arms over his head. Maybe that nap was more real than pretend after all.

“What’d I forget to pack this time?” my dad asks, rolling over to face us.

“Towels, underwear, your medication, toiletries—” Sensing she could go on, my dad waves her off.

“If this is what I’m missing out on in marriage, I think I’m okay with that.”

My mom laughs and shakes her head at me, but a look passes between my parents that gives me pause. Uh-oh. I know this look.

“We just worry about you being alone here while we’re gone, that’s all,” my mom says, but I can tell it’s not the whole truth.

“You’re not leaving for another couple days. And Julian will be here, too, so I won’t be alone.”

It was my dad’s idea to let my cousin stay here for his final semester of college. The teaching semester doesn’t leave room for many part-time gigs (not that that stopped Julian from trying), which meant he couldn’t renew his student housing lease. That left Julian with two options: his parents’ house or mine.

“No one asked you to flee, by the way. If you’re so worried about me being lonely, why are you leaving for three months?”

I already know the answer—both versions, actually. My mom’s is that she hasn’t seen her side of the family in ages and she’s overdue for an extended stay. My dad’s is that he’s giving me and Julian “space” to do our own thing without the house getting too crowded. But the real reason is that he doesn’t want to answer to his brother if Tío Manuel figures out where Julian’s staying.

My family has never dealt with conflict well. Avoidance is a trait my father and I have always shared, not that it’s served either of us well over the years.

“We just wish you’d go out more. Go on some dates, meet someone special,” my mom says. “Even join a dating app if you have to. We don’t want you to be lonely.”

“Have some fun while we’re gone,” my dad adds. “You and Julian look after each other. Don’t hole up in your room like you have been all winter.”

I bite my tongue before I blurt out that the only reason I’ve been isolating lately is because of the shame and humiliation that comes with reaching viral fame from the toxic half of the internet. That, and the last historical romance series I binged was so good, the only time I left my room for an entire month was for work.

But maybe I still haven’t kicked that avoidance trait like I thought. The last time I spoke to the internet, I said I was sick of being single. An entire week has passed and my views have since surpassed the accidental thirst trap, but have I done anything about it?

No. Not unless you count talking to my mom about online dating. Because despite how tired I am of being alone, am I ready for all the ways my life will change once I find someone? Or worse—what if I put myself out there, then find out I’m a terrible dater and fail to find someone I click with? What if it happens over and over again?

“When was the last time you saw Marcela outside of work?” my mom asks. “You should go out, get some fresh air. You never know, you might even meet someone.”

My phone beeps before I can reply, and when I glance down at it, my blood freezes. It’s a notification from a group chat that hasn’t been active since my cousin Briana’s birthday a few months ago. Oh no. I’m praying that the video isn’t the reason my cousins have revived the chat, but a quick scroll tells me otherwise.

Esme: What do you mean you’ve never been kissed????? WTF Angela

Esme: *Video attached

Bri: WHAT

Bri: Wait, this is a straight up lie!

Julian: Leave her alone

Julian: This isn’t our business

Esme: LOL Julian she posted it on the internet

Esme: It’s everyone’s business now

I stop reading, heart pounding. Suddenly, I’m back in tenth grade, hiding in the bathroom of my own home out of sheer humiliation, body curled on the cold tile. My dad found me later, and when he asked me what was wrong, I burst into tears. I didn’t tell him. I didn’t tell anyone about all the ways my cousins bullied me for being different, but when my parents finally caught on, they wrote it off as harmless teasing.

Which is why I lie and say it’s Marcela when my mom asks who’s texting me. It’s just the excuse I need to get out of there and back to my bedroom. As soon as I hop onto my bed, some strange masochistic tendency keeps me scrolling through all the messages, before going back to the top again. I have to reply, but I have no idea what to say. In the end, I throw my phone across the room and scream into a pillow.

I knew oversharing on the internet would have consequences. I can’t be the real me without my past catching up to me.