Like a Love Story(63)

“I don’t care anymore,” Stephen says. “I want to do something special with the people I love most. The only thing you need to concern yourself with is where we go. Be creative. Japan. Hawaii. London. Italy. We could do a cruise!”

Where do we go? I’m not there yet. They’re asking me to accept that Stephen is dying. I know he’s not. I know something is going to change. A new medicine. A cure. And then I have a thought that I hate, a feeling of guilt, because I know that if I say yes, I’ll be taking Stephen away from Art when he needs him most.

“I can’t . . . ,” I say.

“You can and you will,” Stephen says. “And if not, I’ll choose for you.”

My mom gets up and sits on the other side of me. She holds my hand. “You’ve always wanted to go to Paris, haven’t you?” she asks. “You used to talk about it as a little girl. Remember how I used to read you Eloise in Paris. That was your favorite.”

An image comes to me, of myself as a young girl, my mother reading that book to me. God, I want to be small again. I want things to be uncomplicated. “Of course,” I say. “I mean, the fashion . . .”

“I know a few queens who work in fashion,” Stephen says. “Maybe we could get tours of the couture houses.”

“But is this what you guys want?” I ask. “Maybe we should just go to a beach, and you guys can relax and read or something.”

“Sweetie,” my mom says, “this is about what you want. The only thing we care about is being together and making you happy. We are the people who love you most.” God, that hurts, because before today, Art would be among those people, and now he’s not. He’s so not.

I think of Paris. Black-and-white pictures of stylish people on the banks of the Seine. The sound of Edith Piaf’s voice coming from Stephen’s stereo. Runway shows. Gaultier. Coco Chanel. Givenchy. “Okay, oui,” I say, finally smiling. “Let’s go to Paris.”





Reza


The last words Art said to me were “just be yourself,” as if that were something I knew how to do. I was telling him the truth when I said today was the closest I felt to being myself, but as I take the elevator up to a home that still doesn’t feel like mine, I’m overtaken by panic.

I don’t know who I am, and I can’t pretend to. I like men, but that doesn’t mean I’m like all other men who like men, does it? I watch as the elevator floors light up, one after another, until I reach our floor. I’m sweating now, between my nerves and the heat pumping through the building’s vents—I’m turning into a fountain. I pause outside the door. I consider turning back. Fleeing. Maybe Art and I should escape like he suggested. San Francisco. It’s not somewhere I’ve ever thought about going, but maybe it’s where I belong.

I take a breath, put my key in the lock, and slowly open the door. I tiptoe into the foyer. I can hear them in the living room. All of them. My mom. Abbas. Tara. Saadi. They’re arguing loudly. I steel myself for what they must be saying about me. But as I creep closer, I realize they’re not talking about me at all.

“Well, I’m sorry, I think it’s messed up that no one knows she’s Armenian,” Tara says.

“Why does it matter where she’s from?” my mother asks.

“It just does,” Tara says.

“She doesn’t hide it,” Abbas says. “In fact, I met her at a charity event once, and we discussed how some Iranians have names that end with -ian just like Armenians.”

“I’m not saying she hides it,” Tara says. “I’m just saying most people don’t know. I mean, her name is Cher Sarkisian. Imagine if all the little Armenian girls knew that, if all the little Iranian girls knew that. She’s brown.”

“We’re not brown,” Saadi speaks up. “We’re Caucasian.”

“Right—keep believing that,” Tara snorts.

“Officially, it’s true,” Saadi says. “Check the census.”

“Yeah, well, we’re not treated like white people,” Tara says passionately. “Look around, guys, people hate us. We’re enemy number one these days. The revolution. The hostage crisis. The whole Western world hates us so much that it let Saddam Hussein use chemical weapons on us and did nothing.”

“That wasn’t on us,” Saadi says. “That was on the people who are still in Iran. We left.”

“Wow,” Tara says. “Wow.”

“Tara, please,” my mom says. I can’t see her, but I can feel my mom begging Tara’s silence with a pleading gaze.

“It’s okay, Mina,” Abbas says. “This is great. These are issues our kids should learn to debate intelligently.”

“I just . . . I’m worried about Reza,” my mom says, and her voice suddenly chokes up. “Where is he?”

Hearing her sound so fragile makes me want to go immediately to her. I walk into the living room, and they all turn to look at me. There is still so much I don’t know. Have they seen the news? Do they know what I am? Has Tara told them she’s moving in with Massimo? “Hi,” I say cautiously.

The long silence before anyone says anything makes me sure they’ve seen the news. They must have.

“Tara. Saadi. Why don’t you guys go pick up some food for us?” Abbas suggests.