Like a Love Story(65)

“Reza, give me time,” she says. “Please don’t tell anyone else.”

“I . . .” I want to tell her that the whole point of my coming out to her is that I can’t hide anymore. The hiding is what was destroying me. And she’s asking me to hide again. I do not say a word of that, though, because I need a toilet. I run to my bathroom and kneel in front of the toilet. I try to vomit, but nothing comes out. The room spins. I want my insides to be emptied of everything. No more family, no more shame, no more past.

I lay my head down on the toilet seat and close my eyes, thinking maybe my mother will have a change of heart and come to comfort me. But the next thing I feel is a hand on my shoulder, and my sister’s voice is gently whispering, “Zabber. Are you okay?” I open my eyes. “I doubt you’re hungry right now, but I saved some sesame chicken for you.”

“I can’t eat,” I say, my voice sad and distant. “I feel sick.”

“I’ll just leave it here then,” she says, placing the container near the sink. Then she sits next to me and rests her head on the other side of the toilet seat, an act of solidarity that almost makes me cry again.

“Did you talk to Mommy?” I ask, afraid of the response.

“No,” she says, like this answer should have been obvious. “I came right to you. Anyway, you know she’ll pretend nothing happened unless you push her again. That’s what she does. Deny, deny, deny. It’s the Persian way, little brother.”

I manage to laugh. I didn’t think that was possible anymore.

“Why do you think I’m always acting out?” she asks. Then, answering her own question, “Because I just want her to see me. To acknowledge me. You know?”

I raise my head up now. “I see you,” I say. “And since I don’t think I’ve ever said it, you’re . . . amazing.”

“Thank you, little brother,” she says, a sad smile on her face. “But it’s not about me right now. I mean, it’s always a little about me, but we don’t have to focus on that right this moment.”

“Did you always know?” I ask, truly curious. “That I was, you know . . .”

“Gay?” she says defiantly. “It’s okay to use the word, you know.” She takes a deep breath, then adds, “Yeah, I always knew.”

And yet she never made fun of me. Never threw it in my face. Never forced my hand before I was ready to come out on my own. All this time, I’ve resented my sister and protected my mother, taking my mom’s side. How could I not see that my true ally was Tara?

I feel sick again, and this time I vomit. The smell of it fills the room. Tara immediately springs into action. She flushes the toilet, wipes my mouth, pours me a glass of water from the sink, and gently places it to my lips.

“Tara,” I whisper, my lips trembling, “do you think I’m sick?”

She flips her hair, gives me a wry smile. “You just barfed, so yeah, I think maybe you’re a little sick.”

“You know what I meant,” I say, taking her hand in mine.

“Yeah, I know.” She sighs. “Of course I don’t think you’re sick. I think you’re smart. Anyone on this earth who doesn’t love hot men is an idiot, as far as I’m concerned.”

She manages to make me laugh again. “But if everyone loved hot men,” I say, “then no one would love you.”

“A valid point,” she says, laughing too now.

“So, um, did you tell them about, you know, Massimo and school and . . .” I trail off.

She shakes her head. “I was going to,” she says. “And then we saw you on the news, and I knew it wasn’t the right time. I’ll get there, but thanks for making it a little harder for me.”

“Sorry,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. I seem to be making life harder for everyone I love these days.

“Guess I know what it feels like now,” she says. “Thinking you need to keep the peace ’cause your sibling is rocking the boat so hard.”

I look at her and nod.

Then she stands up and gives me her hand. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“You tell me where Art lives,” she says with a radiant smile, “and I’ll tell you where we’re going.”

I let her guide me up and then out of the bathroom. As we make our way to the front door, we see my mom, Abbas, and Saadi eating Chinese food in the dining room. “Are you joining us?” Abbas says.

“We’re going out for a walk,” Tara tells them. She’s holding the container of sesame chicken and places it on the table in front of them.

“We’ll keep some food for you both,” my mom says with a sad smile.

“Thanks,” I say.

There it is. Denial. We’re all denying everything that just happened. Only Saadi’s hateful glare reminds me of what I just did.

My sister leads me out into the cold, and I lead her toward Art’s building. She asks the doorman to tell Art we’re here to see him, and the doorman tells us Art left recently. So we sit on the stoop and wait. And then I see him. I would recognize that walk from miles away. The swinging hands. The frenetic legs, like they’re always in a rush to get to the next destination.