Like a Love Story(66)

“Oh my God, Reza,” he says, when he sees me. “How did it go? Did you . . . Did they . . .”

“Can we not talk about it?” I ask desperately.

Tara stands up. She gives Art a quick hug, then says, “Okay, I think I’m gonna go see my own secret man now.”

“Have fun,” Art says. His voice is shaky. I can tell he hasn’t had an easy time of it either. I wonder if he was with Judy. I am almost sure he was.

Before leaving, Tara takes my hands, pulls me up, and hugs me tight. “Don’t let them stop you from enjoying this fine-ass guy,” she whispers.

And then she leaves. And Art and I are alone.

“Where were you?” I ask.

“Can we not talk about it?” he responds.

We stand in front of each other. I won’t talk about what happened with my mom. He won’t talk about what happened with Judy. I glance to my side, aware of the doorman watching us. “Can we go somewhere?” I ask. “Somewhere happy.”

“Where do you want to go?” he asks. “I’ll take you anywhere.”

“San Francisco,” I say, joking. “The gayest place on earth.”

He laughs. “A slightly impractical choice,” he says. “Though it can be arranged after graduation.” Then his eyes light up. “Wait, I know exactly where we’re going,” he says.

He takes my gloved hand in his, which feels awkward. Almost instinctively, we both take our gloves off and hold each other’s hands. Who needs gloves when you’ve got the heat of passion anyway? The doorman’s eyebrows rise when he sees our hands clutch each other, but at the moment, I don’t care. Let him stare. Let Art’s parents reject him. Let my mom deny me. Right now, all that matters is my skin against his.

He leads me south, then west, until I hear the hum of crowds and the twinkling sound of Christmas music. And then we turn a corner, and I see it. The Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. It’s so tall, so bright. “A happy place,” he says. “Obviously, ignore Christianity’s intense homophobia and focus on the real spirit of Christmas.”

“Come on,” I say, smiling. “Let’s go ice-skating.”

We rush toward the line and wait our turn to get skates. We lace each other’s skates up. Second to second, the mood changes. Becomes lighter. Our parents and Judy and the world feel farther away, until we’re on the ice and it’s like we’re part of a mass of happy people floating on a frozen cloud. We skate side by side, laughing, racing, twirling. And then her voice booms over the loudspeakers. Madonna. She’s singing “Santa Baby.” Just for us.

I must be excited by hearing Madonna’s voice, because I make a false step and fall. But he catches me. I’m in his arms now. He guides me up, toward him, my face hovering so close to his.

I want to believe we’re the only two people in the world, and on the ice, but my eyes can’t help but dart around. I see families, children, straight couples, people who could hurt us. “Art,” I say, shaky. “There are so many people here.”

“They don’t matter,” he says, so sure of himself.

“But they could . . .” I trail off. Hurt us. Judge us.

“Reza, we live in New York City,” Art says with sudden delight. “If we can’t kiss each other in this city, then where can we kiss each other?”

Are we going to kiss each other? The thought of it makes me soar.

“San Francisco,” I joke.

“Shut up,” he says, as he swats me playfully.

“I just wish we were somewhere private,” I say, an ache in my voice. I want to be somewhere that is just ours. I want to pretend we’re the last two people on the planet.

“Privacy is overrated,” he says. “I want to scream from rooftops right now. I want the world to see how beautiful you are, how right we are together.”

He moves his head closer to me. I close my eyes, and I’m in darkness. Private. I can feel him inching closer to me. His warmth, his breath, his scent, all slowly making their way to me. Until our lips are almost touching.

“Is this really happening?” I whisper quietly.

Then he kisses me. Our lips meet and our tongues start to explore each other. I feel like there is electricity inside me and I’m all lit up. This is what it’s supposed to feel like.

And yes, this is really happening.





May and June 1990


“A lot of people are afraid to say what they want. That’s why they don’t get what they want.”

—Madonna





Reza


I think about sex almost all the time now. It’s like something inside my brain that was locked has been unlocked by Art, by his closeness. I used to think about sex sometimes, but now it’s an unstoppable force. I think about Art’s hands on my body, my cheeks against his, his lips pressed against mine, his body on top of me, crushing me with its weight, at once making me feel weighted down under its mass and freely soaring above the world, like a cloud with wings. I can’t even sleep anymore, because my thoughts about Art are racing around my brain.

Maybe the reason I think about sex in a continuous loop is that, despite being with Art for months, we have still not had sex. Yes, my hands have touched his body. His lips have touched my lips. But that’s all. I haven’t let anything else happen. The moment I come close to doing more—I feel the fear and instantly think about disease, death, blindness, and lesions. It paralyzes me.