Like a Love Story(82)
Art dives onto the bed like it’s a pool, and I have a moment of panic. I want to put those sheets under a microscope and make sure they are clean. But there’s no time for my paranoia to build, because Art leaps back up, takes my hand, and then pulls me onto the bed with him. He kisses me, his tongue exploring every inch of my mouth, his body grinding against mine, sweaty and hot. He’s hard, and I am too. He turns me over onto my back, positioning himself on top of me so that his hardness rubs up against mine. He whispers my name into my ear, and I whisper his name in his, until our names cease to have a meaning, sounding more like moans than anything else. He thrusts faster and faster, until my name becomes more scream than moan, and then he rolls over to the side of me.
“Wow,” he says. “Guess I won’t be wearing these pants tonight.”
I notice the gooey stain on his black jeans, and the wetness on my own blue jeans. “Oh,” I say. “I didn’t know that you . . .” I leap off the bed and go to the bathroom. I squeeze some shampoo from a tiny bottle onto a washcloth, get it all wet, and then rub the wetness off my pants. I wash my hands, perhaps too aggressively. I look at myself in the mirror. I tell myself I am okay, that nothing risky happened.
“You okay in there?” Art asks. “You do realize having two pairs of jeans and two pairs of underwear between us is, like, as safe as abstinence, right?”
“I know,” I say. And then, closing the door, I add, “I’m going to shower before we meet everyone downstairs.”
I turn on the shower, take off my clothes, and get inside. As I touch myself, I imagine Art thrusting on top of me, screaming my name. I close my eyes and let the hot water wash all evidence of my passion away.
The lobby of the hotel we are staying at looks like it has not been redecorated in a few decades, which gives it an eclectic charm. Art touches everything in the lobby nervously, commenting on the ugly paintings and dirty lampshades. Anything to distract him from how scared he is to see Judy. And then . . . her voice.
“Art,” she says hesitantly. “Hi, Reza.”
We both turn at the same time. She wears tight tie-dye leggings with a flowy pink dress over it. A thin black belt, black leather boots, and a black choker complete the look, which is fantastic. She looks incredible. Her mother stands by her side and says hello to us.
“Thank you for coming,” Art says after we have said our hellos. There’s a humility in his voice I’ve never heard before.
“I came for Uncle Stephen,” Judy says curtly. “Not for you.”
Mrs. Bowman flinches when Judy says this. She holds her daughter’s hand for support.
“I know that,” Art says, masking his hurt. “But we’re still here together.”
“We’re not together,” Judy says. “I’m here with my mom, and you’re here with Reza.”
“I know,” Art says. “I just mean, well . . .” If he expected immediate forgiveness, he’s not getting it.
“You look great, Judy,” I say, and already I want to wipe the stupid smile off my face. I’m trying too hard.
“Thanks,” Judy says, but she doesn’t sound thankful. She sounds like she hates me. “Though the last time you told me that, you weren’t exactly being honest.”
“Boys,” Mrs. Bowman says, looking slightly uncomfortable. “Do you know anything about this surprise Stephen told us about? I hate surprises.”
“He didn’t mention a surprise to us,” Art says, relieved for the change in subject. “What kind of surprise is it?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” Mrs. Bowman says. “Because if it’s something like throwing grenades or lying down in front of traffic . . .”
“It has nothing to do with the protest,” a voice says. It’s Jimmy. We all turn to see him behind us, in a maroon velvet jacket over a T-shirt and jeans. Jimmy gives each of us a big hug, and then he addresses the surprise again. “Stephen worked hard to arrange something for us to do tonight that he thought would be meaningful and, perhaps, would bring back happier days.”
“For us?” Mrs. Bowman asks. “Isn’t he joining us?”
“Stephen couldn’t make it,” Jimmy says sadly. “And trust me, I was going to stay behind with him, but he insisted I be here. He said if I don’t storm the NIH for him, he would never forgive me, and you all know that he is a very hard man to say no to.”
“I don’t understand,” Mrs. Bowman says. “Why couldn’t he make it? The doctor said he could go back home.”
“Is he okay?” Judy asks, her voice trembling.
Jimmy can’t answer that question without his eyes welling up with tears. He turns away from us for a moment, and then he says, “Look, he’s been better, but he’ll bounce back. He has before. And he wants photos of tonight. I promised him that, Art, so you better snap the hell out of all the glamour, girl.”
“What glamour?” Art asks. “We’re in Bethesda.”
Jimmy reaches into the inside pocket of his velvet jacket and pulls out an envelope. He hands it to me, of all people. “He thought you should open it, Reza.”
My hand shakes as I hold the envelope. “Me?” I ask. Why did he want me to open it? I’m the least important person here, the one with the weakest connection to Stephen. Why me?