Like a Love Story(41)

Saadi’s wrong about Reza. He’s so wrong. Reza holds my hand all the time. He loves kissing me. He loves spending time together and he lets me dress him, and . . . Okay, it’s not like we’ve gone further than kissing, but that’s as much my fault as his. It’s not like I’m sexually experienced myself. He’s probably just scared, or shy. Lots of straight men like Madonna. Saadi is such a stereotype himself that he can only think in stereotypes. He doesn’t even know Reza. Even though they’re stepbrothers, they just met. Screw Saadi.

I run the sink, crouch down, and take some cold water into my mouth. I swish it around to loosen that piece of chicken, then spit. I smile. It’s still there. Am I supposed to feel around for a hard-on when he kisses me? Is that what girls do? I don’t even know. I remember that my skirt has safety pins running down the side of it. So obvious. I undo one of the safety pins and point the tip at the chicken. Finally, I get it out of my mouth. I put the pin back, wash my hands, and take a deep breath before exiting the bathroom. When I leave, Saadi isn’t even there anymore. He probably didn’t need to use the bathroom. He did just come to harass me.

Reza doesn’t go home with his family. He walks me to my subway station, holding my hand.

“I think my mom really likes you,” he says.

“Really?” I ask, a big smile on my face. “I mean, I’m not fishing for more compliments, but you know, I don’t mind compliments.”

“Fishing,” he says as he touches the fish pin on his shirt. “That’s funny.”

“Fish represent life!” I yell, and we both laugh.

“She really did like you, though,” he says. “I know when she doesn’t like someone. And anyway, she’d be crazy not to like you.”

“What about your stepdad?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I don’t know him well enough to read him yet,” he says, with a hint of sadness.

“I’m sure it’s hard to suddenly be a part of a new family,” I say, thinking about what a jerk Saadi is.

He nods.

“But I’m glad your mom married him,” I say, smiling. “Because if she didn’t, we wouldn’t know each other. And that would suck.”

We reach the station. He faces me awkwardly. “I guess this is goodbye for tonight,” he says.

“You want to come to Uncle Stephen’s with me?” I offer. “Art’s probably there. It’ll be fun.”

“Oh . . . thank you . . . ,” he stammers. “I’m so tired, though.”

“Are you scared to hang out with my uncle?” I ask, bracing for the response.

“What? No,” he says. But he’s clearly lying.

I take a breath. “You know it’s not like a cold. You can’t get it from being in the same room with someone.”

“I know,” he says, looking away.

“Okay, I just . . .” I don’t finish. I want to say that it’s important to me that my boyfriend gets to know my uncle, that no one can really know me without getting close to Stephen. But I don’t want to push too hard, afraid I’ll push him away.

“I understand,” he says. “I’ll spend time with him soon. I think it’s been nice, for now, to get to know you without so many people around.”

“Yeah?” I ask.

I move closer to him, so close that he looks softly out of focus, like Montgomery Clift in A Place in the Sun. I imagine that I’m Elizabeth Taylor in that same movie. Of course, the real Montgomery Clift was gay, and Uncle Stephen told me that he and Liz were best friends, just like me and Art, but that Liz was a little in love with him. And I wonder . . . I feel the heat of Reza’s breath on my face. I want him to press his lips against mine, and he does. I pull him close as he kisses me, placing my hands on his lower back, forcing his body to become one with mine. I could inhale the entirety of him, I could seriously just make him a part of me. That’s how much I want him. I run my hands up and down his back, and then I pull away from him a little, just far enough to give my hand space to touch his chest, and then move down to his torso. As nonchalant as I can, I move my hand down, feeling his crotch. I feel something hard. Is it him, or is it his zipper? I can’t even tell. I’ve never felt a hard-on before. Aren’t they all different sizes?

He pulls away from me. “I should go.”

“Wait,” I say. “One more.”

I pull him in again.

Kiss him.

Feel him.

Press my body against his. I feel like a total perv. I wish Elizabeth Taylor was here right now, so I could ask her if she had to feel Montgomery’s hard-on to know if he was into her or not.

With my body crushed against his, there is no question. He’s not hard. It was just his zipper. But maybe he’s just nervous. Or maybe it’s because we’re in public. Or maybe he’s exhausted.

This doesn’t mean anything, Judy. Don’t make it mean something.

We say goodbye, and then he walks away.

As I descend onto the subway platform, and then onto the train, I can’t stop questioning everything. So what if he wasn’t hard? It’s not evidence that could be admitted into a court of law, or a court of love. If Art were sitting next to me, he’d say it’s not hard evidence and we’d laugh. Art told me once that the subway was the hottest place in the city, as in sexual heat, not physical temperature. He said that all those bodies rubbing against each other basically made it a clothed, coed bathhouse, not that he’s ever been in a bathhouse. I think he says things like that just to get a rise out of me, but as a crowd of people enters the subway, I can’t help but look at every man’s crotch, trying to assess how easy it is for a man to get hard.