Like a Love Story(77)

“So?” he asks. “It’s not like I pissed on my hands.”

“It really is an epidemic,” I say.

“What is?” he asks.

I think back to Art telling me that straight guys never wash their hands after they pee. But I just say, “Nothing.”

Then he puts his unwashed hand on my arm, and says. “So, you like Persian dudes?”

“What?” I ask.

“You liked the little prince,” he says. “And he’s like a scrawnier, less attractive version of me.”

“Oh,” I say. “Are you . . .”

Is he hitting on you, Judy? Is this how straight guys hit on girls?

“I always thought you were hot,” he says. “I don’t get why girls are so skinny these days. Dudes want something to hold on to.”

“Um, thanks?”

“You’re welcome.”

“I guess I’m a little confused,” I say. “Since you like to make cracks about my weight.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” he says. “I can be a dick.”

“A major one,” I say.

“What are you thinking?” he asks.

I don’t even know what I’m thinking. Too many things. That despite my better judgment, I’m a little turned on. That hooking up with Saadi would be the ultimate revenge on Reza, and that maybe that’s the best reason to go through with it. That any other girl at this party would definitely take this opportunity. “Nothing,” I say.

“Everyone’s always thinking something,” he says.

“What are you thinking?” I ask.

“Honestly,” he says, “I’m thinking that my stepbrother is an idiot for letting you go.”

And that is exactly what I needed to hear. I grab Saadi by the collar of his blue Lacoste polo and I pull him close to me, and I make out with him. It’s furious. Our tongues explore each other. Then his hands are all over me, up the shiny fabric of the purple dress I designed for the party, on my thighs. His breath is heavy, and his hips are thrusting urgently. I feel what I never felt when Reza and I kissed, an erection. Saadi is so hard. He sits up and takes his polo off. His body is thick and his chest has black hair on it. I put my hands on his chest. My fingernails are painted purple too, and they look kind of great against his skin. He puts his hands on my face with a tenderness that surprises me, and that’s when I say, “Wait.”

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“It’s just . . . will you . . . could you, um, go wash your hands? You just peed.”

He laughs. “Seriously?” he asks.

“Seriously,” I say.

He jumps up and goes into the bathroom. I can hear the water running. When he comes back, he sits back down next to me. He puts his hand next to my nose, and I sniff them. “Now I smell like lavender,” he says.

“Better than smelling like piss,” I say.

He laughs again. “You’re pretty funny,” he says.

“And you’re pretty,” I say.

“Um, thanks?” he says, imitating me.

“Why are you friends with Darryl Lorde?” I ask. “Why do you stand around while he says such awful things?”

Saadi shrugs. “Who else am I supposed to be friends with?”

“There are other choices,” I say. “You could be friends with me.”

“As long as I wash my hands obsessively,” he says.

“Not obsessively, just regularly,” I say. “Also, as long as you stop being homophobic.”

“You know, we can’t all change the world, right?” he says. “Some of us just go along with things the way they are.”

“I get it,” I say. “I’m sure a lot of old Germans say the exact same thing.”

He laughs. “Did you just compare me to a Nazi?”

“If Das Boot fits,” I say.

To my surprise, he laughs again. “Is it weird that the more you dislike me, the more I want to kiss you?” he asks.

“Um, I don’t know,” I say. “Do you go to therapy?”

He pulls me into a kiss. I explore his mouth with my tongue, feel every crevice of his body with my hands. The coarseness of his skin, the fuzz of his hair.

“Take my dress off,” I say, shocked by the commanding tone of my voice.

He yanks at the back of my dress.

“Carefully,” I warn.

“It’s beautiful,” he says as he carefully peels it off me. “So are you.”

He looks at me, taking my body in. I guide him on top of me, feel his hardness. He wants to have sex, but I tell him I’m not ready.

“Maybe next time.”

“Next time?” I ask.

He thrusts against me until he’s done, and then he collapses, his head on my breast.

I catch a glimpse of Annabel’s kitty-cat alarm clock. It’s ten thirty. It’ll be close to eleven if I run home now. My parents will kill me. Shit. “I’m so sorry, but I have to go,” I say. I see the bottle of water next to me. I’ve only had half of it. I grab it and chug the rest, begging for it to sober me up.

“We’ll do this again, right?” he asks.

“Uh, maybe,” I say as I put my dress back on.