Like a Love Story(58)

He shakes his head. “No, that wouldn’t feel right,” he says. “I need to do this alone.”

“Okay,” I say. “I can walk you home.”

“That would be nice,” he says.

We walk home, side by side. “What was it like when you first told your parents?” he asks.

I want to lie, but I can’t. He deserves my honesty. “It was horrible, Reza. But I got through it. And you will too. I can promise you that.”

He nods somberly.

“And if they kick you out, we’ll go somewhere together.”

He laughs. “Like where?”

“Like San Francisco,” I say, excited. “I’ve always wanted to move there anyway.”

“Why?” he asks. “You’re already in the greatest city in the world.”

“Yeah, but San Francisco is the gayest city in the world,” I counter. “It’s a place where queers are the defining part of the city’s identity. There are queers in New York, but no one thinks of New York as a place for queers. They think of it as a place for everyone. When someone wants to call you a fag, they don’t tell you to go to New York, they tell you to go to San Francisco. That’s what Darryl Lorde always used to say to me.”

I hear Darryl’s voice in my head.

Go to SAN FRANCISCO, fairy.

You belong in SAN FRANCISCO with flowers in your hair, faggot.

Why don’t you just admit you’re from SAN FRANCISCO?

“San Francisco,” Reza repeats. “Maybe the two of us will go there someday.”

“What do we have here anyway?” I ask. “My parents hate me. Judy and Stephen are pissed at us. If your family doesn’t want you, we’ll go. The two of us. Because I want you. Okay?”

He looks over to me with a sad smile. “I want you too,” he says.

When we reach his apartment building, he holds me tight, like he’s grasping on for life. “Can I call you after?” he asks.

“You can call me anytime,” I say.

“Do you have any last words of advice?” he asks.

I want to think of something brilliant, something that will solve all his problems. Instead, I utter another generic platitude. “Just be yourself,” I say.

He nods. Then, with sincerity that almost breaks me, he says, “I think this is the first day I’ve even come close to being myself.”

Then he lets go of me and heads inside. The absence of his physical presence next to me makes me feel an unbearable emptiness. I miss him. I want him by my side always. As I walk home, I realize I have my own parents to face. It won’t be easy. They’ll have certainly heard I was on the news as well.

I steel myself for a fight as I enter our apartment. As expected, they’re waiting for me. My father looks enraged. My mother looks like she’s been crying.

“We made a deal,” my father says as soon as I walk in, as if I’ve done something blasphemous. Deals are his religion, and breaking one must mean I’m even more of a sinner than he already thought I was.

“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry. I just had to be there, Dad. The cardinal is trying to . . .”

“This isn’t about the cardinal, Art.” My dad stands up now, probably to appear more threatening. “This is about you. You lied to me.”

“To us,” my mom says, her voice shaky. I wonder if they were fighting before I got here. I rarely hear them fight. It wouldn’t be proper.

“No more money,” my dad says. “Not a cent. You will never see that man again. You will go to Yale in the fall. You will major in business and intern at the firm in the summers. You are done humiliating me and this family.”

Now I’m really pissed off. I tear my scarf and hat off and throw them on the couch dramatically. I take all the mixed-up emotions I’m feeling about Reza, Stephen, and Judy and unleash them on my dad. “Oh, because I can’t go make money without you,” I scream. “Because I have no talent. That’s what you think of me. You don’t even ask to see my photographs. Ever.”

“Art, I’ve looked at your photos,” my mom says, trying hard to keep the peace.

“Mom, the last time you asked to see my pictures was a year ago,” I say. “And all you said is that they were nice.”

“But they were nice,” she says helplessly. “I liked them.”

“They’re not nice. I’m not nice, and I don’t want to be nice. I’m angry, Mom. My photos are full of my anger.”

“You wouldn’t even have a camera if it weren’t for my money,” my dad says curtly.

“Why does it always come back to money for you?” I ask, enraged. “I don’t want your money. I want—I don’t know, maybe your love and respect.”

“Then earn them,” my dad says.

“I shouldn’t have to earn your love and respect,” I say, incredulous. “I’m your son. That part should be unconditional.”

I can feel my mom trembling. “Art, sweetie, we do love you. We do,” she says.

“And by the way, Dad, the camera was a gift from Stephen,” I say. “You don’t even know that. You don’t even know what he’s given me.”

“Given you?” my dad snaps.