Like a Love Story(71)

“A solution?” I ask, defensive. “Why, am I that big a problem?”

A wave of anger passes through him. His nostrils flare. His brow sweats. Then he takes a few deep breaths. “Just work with me. Please. You are not going to be positive, and trust me, if you are, the CDC will want to study you. You’ve never done anything that could put you at risk.” He takes my hand again, squeezes it a little too hard. “If we’re really boyfriends, then I want to, you know, do all the things that boyfriends are supposed to do.”

“I’m sorry,” I say finally. “I’m scared.”

“I would never hurt you, Reza,” he says softly. “I promise.”

“Of course you wouldn’t want to hurt me,” I say. “But you might. Someday. I don’t want to hurt you, and I feel like I’m hurting you right now. I don’t want to hurt my mother, but I know I’m hurting her.”

“Reza, it’s okay,” he says.

“Nothing is okay,” I say. “I want to skip to our next life sometimes, Art. Maybe in our next life there will be no AIDS and no homophobia.” I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Art. I am so happy with you, but . . .”

“But?” he says, aggravated. Then I watch as he brushes off his annoyance and smiles. He puts his arms on my back, moving them slowly lower until they reach my ass. “This is the only butt that matters in our relationship. No other buts, okay?”

I laugh. I grab his ass stiffly, trying to be as coolly seductive as he is, feeling awkward and foolish instead. “Except for this butt,” I say.

I melt into his arms. I want him so bad. I want him to ravish me. I let him put a hand down my pants, feeling the smoothness of my skin in his palms. He laughs.

“What’s so funny?” I ask, blushing. “Is it me? I sound silly trying to be sexy, don’t I?”

“You don’t need to try to be sexy,” he says with sweet sincerity. “You are sexy.” He takes a breath, then laughs again. “It’s just . . . Is there anything gayer than the two of us holding each other in the costume room?” he asks.

I laugh too, but there’s sorrow behind the laughter.

“Hey, can I tell you a secret?” He holds my gaze with intensity.

“Of course,” I say. “You can tell me all your secrets.”

He turns his head toward my ear, then whispers, “I’m more patient than I seem. I’ll wait for you. And in the meantime, I will eat your liver.”





Art


I’m so in love with Reza, I feel like I’m bursting with it. But I haven’t been able to say it to him yet. Maybe I’m afraid it’ll scare him off. Or maybe I’m afraid that saying it out loud will break the spell. That’s what it feels like. Like we’re under a magic spell.

I live to make him laugh. If I could bottle those moments of laughter, I would turn them into a cologne and spritz myself with it every day, or I would turn them into bath suds and soak myself in his essence. But all this love only makes me want to fight harder, because if love is this beautiful, then anyone standing in the way of it is even more evil than I thought. All those homophobes in government, all those pharmaceutical companies profiting from our illness, all those parents kicking their children out of their homes, all those high school bullies tormenting the gay kid. My own parents, who won’t say Reza’s name, or allow him into their home, or even look me in the eye anymore—someone should make a horror movie about them, but it would probably be too scary. People want their villains to look like Freddy Krueger and Jason. They don’t see killers in pearls and tailored suits.

My anger isn’t reserved for them, though. I have stores of it saved up for others. For Mrs. Starr, who wouldn’t let me create an ACT UP affinity group. For Darryl Lorde and all the assholes at school, who sneeze and cough words like “faggot” and “pansy” into their hands when Reza and I walk by.

And for Judy, who hasn’t spoken to me since December, who avoids my gaze just like my parents, and who has quickly replaced me with a group of boring girlfriends. Annabel de la Roche is her best friend now. They do everything together. Judy always hated girls like Annabel, with her blow-dried hair and her sleek gray-or-beige clothes and her simple makeup. Classic. Effortless. Boring. Not to mention Annabel dated none other than Darryl Lorde freshman year. Now Judy and this beige lover of homophobes are best friends? I know I wronged Judy, but months have passed. I called and left messages. I dropped notes in her locker. I admitted what I did was wrong. I told her I loved her. I even gave her a first-edition copy of Shel Silverstein’s The Missing Piece and inscribed a note telling her that she was my missing piece.

And nothing from her. Not a word. Not even an acknowledgment. Silence. So yeah, I’m angry with her too. I’m pissed off that she won’t forgive me. Aren’t friends supposed to forgive each other? I’m pissed off that because of her, I’m not invited to Sunday movie nights anymore. That I don’t get to share my first love with my best friend, because, well, because he was her first love too. But still . . .

Sometimes, I even get pissed off at Reza. Probably too often. I didn’t know before this how frustrating love is, how crazy it can make you. Like now, we just got out of the movies. We went to see Longtime Companion, me and Reza and Stephen and Jimmy, and we cried and cried through the movie. It’s about a group of gay men and their one straight female friend, and it’s about the first years of AIDS, and about death and friendship. I can’t believe this movie about fags dying was made. I cried because the movie was so beautiful, and because the story was so poignant, and because the character Mary-Louise Parker played reminded me of Judy and I miss her. But also I cried just because this movie exists now, and if this one was made, then maybe more will be made. Maybe gay stories will be told.