Like a Love Story(57)

“He’s not like us, though,” I say. “He hasn’t been through civil disobedience training. And he’s not thick-skinned. I just . . .” What I want to say is that I want to protect Reza from all this. I want to go out and fight so that he won’t need to.

Stephen looks at me and asks, “Art, where’s Judy in all this?”

Judy. What about Judy? I hate myself right now. It’s like all the shame I’ve worked to push below the surface has risen and multiplied and created a tsunami of self-loathing. I can feel her next to me, her hatred, her disappointment.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t know why Reza showed up. I don’t know what happened between them.”

“You haven’t spoken to her?” Stephen asks, with just enough judgment to make me feel even guiltier.

“I haven’t called her this weekend, but she hasn’t called me either,” I say, realizing how defensive I sound.

Then I hear Reza’s voice. “You should go be with Judy,” he says. I don’t know if he’s talking to me or to Stephen.

“Reza, are you okay?” I ask. I want to approach him, to hold him, but Stephen’s presence stops me. All my feelings for Reza are a betrayal of Judy, and Stephen is a harsh reminder of that.

“I’m okay,” he says, his voice shaky, his eyes welling. “I think I’m okay.”

“Reza, what happened with Judy?” Stephen asks.

Now Reza’s tears start to roll down his beautiful cheeks. “I told her I couldn’t be with her. I told her everything. That I think I’m . . .” He stops for a long beat before he says the word, “gay.” Then he takes a breath and adds, “And that there was something between me and Art.” My heart swells hearing him say that out loud. Then my mind instantly goes to Judy.

I think back to last night, to that hang-up phone call I got. It was Judy, it must have been. She was calling to tell me off, and I deserved it. Fuck. I should have called her back. I should have checked in on her. We talk at least once a day. And I knew she had a date with Reza last night. Fuck.

“Oh my God,” Stephen says. I search his eyes for what he’s thinking. I can see him pulled between an impulse to be there for Reza, who had the courage to come out, and to lash out at Reza, for betraying his beloved Judy. “I’m sorry,” Stephen says. “I have to go.”

“Stephen, please!” I call after him as he walks away from us.

He doesn’t look back at me, but he does stop. “It’ll be okay, Art,” he says. “But I have to go. Someone needs to be there for her.” And he’s off. Gone to support his niece, who I just royally screwed over. He’s not my father, he’s not even my uncle. He’s hers. He doesn’t belong to me in any way, and he’s probably done with me now.

I’m alone with Reza. It’s so cold out that barely anyone is walking on the street. It feels like it’s just us in the world, or us against the world, because everyone seems to have turned on us. I wished for him, and now he’s here with me. So why does it feel so bittersweet? “Art, I came here for you,” I hear him say again, and I wish he would say it again right now. Wish he would remind me that I matter to him.

But instead he says, “I’m so scared, Art.” He’s shivering. Maybe from cold. Maybe from fear. Probably from both.

“I know,” I say, taking his hands in mine. “But this won’t even be on your record. As long as you don’t get arrested again in the next six months, it’ll be forgotten about.” I try to sound as soothing and supportive as Stephen sounds when he reassures me, but I can hear the worry in my own voice.

“It’s not that,” Reza says. “It’s . . . I was on the news. I thought . . .”

I’m such an idiot. He’s not worried about the arrest, or about Judy. He’s worried about his family. I can only imagine how upset they’ll be, how much they’ll hate me too. They’ll blame me for corrupting their son, just like my parents blame Stephen. Ugh, why am I thinking about my role in this? Why am I making it about me?

I don’t know what to say. If I tell him it’ll be okay, it would be a lie. I know firsthand how cold and unsupportive parents can be, how deeply their homophobia can cut. “I’m here for you,” I say. I wish I could think of something better than that generic platitude, but it’s all that comes to me.

“I wanted to see you. To be with you. I didn’t think I would be on the news,” he says quietly. “I didn’t . . . I’m not ready to tell my mom.”

“I know,” I say. “I know. I get it.”

He sobs, warm tears falling down his cold cheeks. “What if she won’t look at me anymore? What if my stepfather doesn’t want to stay married to her because of me?”

I take his hands in mine. I cup them and blow into them, warming him up. Do I see a small smile through his tears?

“I hate this,” I say, shaking my head. “I hate that a moment that should be joyful is filled with so much anguish.”

“I also feel joy,” he says through tears.

Now we both laugh, because it’s just so absurd, and because there’s nothing else to do. I kiss his sweet hands, his slender fingers, and I hold his hand to my cheek. “I can be with you if you want, when you tell them.”