Like a Love Story(50)

“Mom!” I squeal. “Goodbye.”

Seriously, how does she know tonight is the night? It’s like she has some maternal sixth sense about me.

“Bye, sweetie.” She gives me a hug this time, and I hug her back.

The twenty minutes it takes until Reza arrives feel like multiple lifetimes. Time has slowed down in our tiny apartment. And when he knocks on the door, time speeds up, going too fast.

“Hi,” he says before giving me a quick kiss on the lips.

“Hi,” I say, smiling nervously. “Come in.”

I lead him into the kitchen, where we stand awkwardly. “Do you want something to drink?” I say.

“I’m okay,” he says.

“Food?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I have to tell you all about my sister,” he says. “Her new boyfriend has named himself after a candy.”

“Wait, let me guess,” I say, excited to have found a little game to ease my own tension. “He goes by Pop Rocks.” Reza shakes his head. “Fun Dip.” He shakes his head again, laughing now. “Big League Chew! Bazooka! Ring Pop! Push Pop!”

Reza is cracking up now. “No, but these are so good. DJ Bazooka.”

“Wait, he’s a DJ?” I ask. “You left that detail out.”

“Yes, and his name is DJ . . .”

I cut him off and practically scream, “DJ Gobstopper.”

“DJ Starburst,” he says.

“It’s definitely catchy,” I say. Then, with a flirtatious smile, I add, “Speaking of DJs, I just got the new Pat Benatar greatest hits record. Wanna go to my room and listen to it?”

“Sure,” he says.

We head to my room, and I put the record on. We lie down, side by side on my small bed, our bodies crushed into each other, listening to Pat tell us that love is a battlefield, like we needed to be reminded.

We make it through side A of the record without doing anything but tongue-less kissing. I get up and turn the record around. Side B begins. We are shadows of the night now. The lights are dim. The city is dark, and I think of all the couples all around this city who must be making love right now. I feel empowered. I tell Reza that I have a surprise for him, then I remove my sweater. And my jeans. I stand before him, in my slip and garter, offering myself up to him.

“Oh wow,” he says.

“You like it?” I ask, desperate for validation.

“You look just like Madonna in the ‘Express Yourself’ video,” he says.

I smile. “That’s the idea. I figured since you like her so much . . .”

“Wow,” he says again, which I try hard to convince myself is a good response. It’s better than gross or ew. But my heart is sinking a little. I’m all too aware of everything he’s not doing. Like pushing me down on the bed, passionately making out with me, ripping the slip off me.

I sit down on the edge of the bed. He lies next to me, looking sideways at me. Neither of us moves. “It’s okay to . . . touch me,” I say, my voice shaking now.

“Okay,” he says, but he does nothing.

“Have you ever, you know . . .” I don’t say more. Instead, I say, “It’s my first time, too. I’ve never done anything with a boy except practice kissing with Art.”

Shut up, Judy. No guy wants an image of you making out with your gay best friend.

“I mean, he doesn’t count, though, since he’s gay. You’ll be my first.”

“Okay,” he says again, his voice dry and distant.

I feel like he’s miles away from me, and I want desperately to pull him back into this moment. I take his hand and I place it on my waist. “Is that okay?”

“Yes,” he says, but still his voice and his gaze are somewhere else. Somewhere far away. I wish I knew where so I could go there with him. All I want is to feel close to him, and instead I feel like we’re floating away from each other, like we have no gravitational pull.

I move his hand up to my breasts. Art told me that men would go nuts for them someday, and this is that day. I’m ready for him to go nuts for them. He doesn’t. His hand just sits on my left boob, limp. No heat in his touch, no electricity. I feel a void inside me growing bigger and deeper. I’ve never felt so desperate for anything. I would give up so much just to have him want me right now.

“I love your feet,” I say. “I remember seeing them the first day we met, and thinking, those are perfect feet.”

You sound like a lunatic, or like some kind of foot fetishist.

“And I also love your back,” I say, stammering, trying to save this clearly botched attempt at sexiness. “Your skin is so . . . soft.” I pause, and then, my voice shaky, I ask, “Which parts of my body do you like?”

He doesn’t answer the question. He opens his mouth once to try, but no sound comes out. Maybe it’s for the best. I don’t think I want to hear what he has to say. And then he pulls his hand away. Covers his face with it in shame.

“Judy . . . ,” he whispers from beneath his fingers, barely audible. “I can’t do this.”

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I’m so sorry. I pushed you too far. I’m sorry.” I know how pathetic I sound. I know he’s rejecting me, and I think I know why. But I want to keep him. I need to hold on to him as long as I can.