Like a Love Story(64)

“And miss this?” Saadi says.

Abbas immediately shuts Saadi down with a hard stare. Saadi gets up, glaring at me as he passes me by.

Then Tara gets up and follows Saadi out. But before she leaves, she hugs me and whispers, “I’m proud of you, Zabber.”

“I . . . ,” I whisper. I want to whisper that I’m thankful for her. That I’m proud of her too. But I say nothing.

And then they’re gone. And I’m alone in the room with my mother and Abbas, who holds her hand tight. She won’t look at me. I wish she would. I want her to hug me and say she’s proud of me like Tara just did.

“Reza, do you want to sit down?” Abbas asks calmly.

“Not really,” I say, nervous.

“Do you want to take your coat off at least?” Abbas suggests. “You look warm.”

I put a hand on my forehead, wiping the sweat away. I pull my coat off and place it on an armchair. Then I take my hat and scarf off. I still don’t sit. I want to make running away from here as easy as possible.

“Reza jan, is there something you’d like to tell us?” Abbas asks, his tone so mild you would think he was asking me what kind of tea I would like.

“Mommy,” I say. “I . . .”

I have every intention of finishing the sentence. But then my mom finally looks up at me, and her misty eyes make me break down in tears. And I can’t speak. Words won’t come to me. All I can do is cry.

My mom wipes away her own tears, takes a breath, and speaks. “Reza, I know you,” she says, pleadingly.

How can she know me when I don’t know myself?

“I know who you are deep down,” she continues. “You’re not like these other men. Maybe you think you are. Maybe it’s a phase.”

“But I’ve felt this way for so long,” I say, words suddenly tumbling out of me. “I’ve always liked boys. Even before I knew what it meant.”

“No,” she says. “You’re confused. You didn’t have a consistent father. Now you do. You’ll see. You’ll change.”

“I don’t know if I can,” I say. What I don’t say is that I don’t know if I want to. Because changing would mean never touching Art again.

“Of course you can,” she says supportively. She believes I can do anything, even change this part of myself. “There were men in Iran who went through phases. We all knew they did. But they were married. They had children. It was just something they did on the side.”

“We’re not in Iran,” I say. I don’t want Art to be something I do on the side. And I don’t want to marry someone like Judy and lie to her, or have children who don’t know who I am and how I love.

“Could we . . . could we not tell anyone else?” she asks.

“I think everyone else knows,” I say, trying not to snap at her. “I think it’s obvious to everyone but you because you don’t want to believe it.”

She lets out a loud sob when I say that, and Abbas puts an arm around her. He doesn’t say anything, though. He just holds her.

“How could I not see it?” she asks quietly, like she’s talking to herself. “How could I not know my own son is like this?”

Like this. I’m like this. It suddenly hits me that there is no word for gay in our language. No word for coming out. In the language my mother speaks, I literally don’t exist.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m so sorry. I hate hurting you.” I sit next to her, and she instinctively grabs ahold of me and clutches me tight. “I’m sorry,” I keep whispering as I rest a head on her shoulder.

I hate that I’m the one apologizing. I’m the child, she’s the parent. Her responsibility is to me, not the other way around.

We hug for what seems like an eternity. Then she pulls away and composes herself. “What happens now?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” I say honestly.

She looks to Abbas, like he’s going to have all the answers.

“We’ll take it a day at a time,” he says, nodding slowly. “The most important thing is that you stay safe. Reza, do you understand what I’m saying?”

“I do,” I say, embarrassed to be discussing this in front of my mother. If only they knew how safe I was.

“You and Bartholomew Grant’s boy . . . are you . . .” Abbas trails off, concerned about my mother’s ability to hear any more.

I nod.

My mom lets out a breath and shakes her head. “How could I not see it?” she whispers. Then, through tears, “My God, have you . . . are you . . .”

She doesn’t say any more. She breaks down crying, and Abbas holds her in his arms, guides her head to his shoulder. He whispers to her that it’s okay and strokes her hair.

I feel like a ghost. Like I’m not in the room anymore. They don’t look at me or talk to me. I don’t get it. I’m the one who just came out to them. I’m the one who is broken up inside. Why am I not the one being comforted? Why is no one telling me it’s okay? Suddenly, I feel sick to my stomach, like I’m going to vomit. I rush away.

“Reza,” my mother barely croaks out as I’m almost out of her view.

I turn around, the whole room spinning from my nausea.