Like a Love Story(92)

She’s right, but to me, nothing about this man will ever be past tense.

I whisper, “He is love.”





Reza


I need supplies. I walk to a pharmacy as soon as it opens, when it’s still empty and free of other staring customers. I purchase condoms and lube. Everything I need to lose my virginity. As I place the items on the pharmacy counter, I feel my face heat up. I can only imagine how red I am, how fiercely my embarrassment shows. But I go through with the transaction. I pay for the items. I look the cashier in the eyes and say thank you with as much confidence as I can muster.

Then I need a place, somewhere private. I knock on my sister’s door, pharmacy bag in hand. I called her and told her there was something important I needed to talk to her about. She answers the door in a silk nightie, her messy hair tied above her head with a scrunchie. She waves me in with a yawn and a tired “Hey.”

“Long night?” I ask.

“I’m a bartender,” she says, annoyed. “Every night is a long night.”

“I’m sorry,” I say sincerely. “I, um, how is work these days?”

“I love nothing more than getting ogled by gross guys,” she says, her voice laced with sarcasm. “And pouring them liquor that makes them act even grosser as the night goes on. On the bright side, I’m drinking less. Being around nasty drunks has made me realize how unattractive being wasted is. And I’m all about being hot.”

I smile. “I’m sorry, that sounds tough,” I say nervously, because I know what I’m about to ask her might be a little awkward.

She leads me to the kitchen. There’s a small wooden table by the window, three mismatched chairs around it. “Well, maybe Mom will get her wish and I’ll go back to college,” she says with a shrug. I choose a chair and sit. “Tea? Coffee? Leftover ramen?” she asks. “I cooked it myself, and by cooked, I mean that I poured boiling water over it.”

I shake my head. “I, uh, needed to talk to you,” I say.

She pours herself some coffee and sits next to me. After a sip, she puts her hand over mine. “How are you doing?” she asks. “I know you were close to Judy’s uncle. I’m so sorry, Zabber. This disease sucks.”

I nod. “I knew him, I guess, but . . . not like Judy and Art did.”

“Grief isn’t a competition,” she says. She looks at me piercingly, and I realize we never spoke about our dad’s death. Maybe I was too young. Maybe I resented her too much back then. Maybe she resented me.

“I know,” I say, nodding. “I’m sad, but I’m sad for Judy and Art and Judy’s mom more than anything else, if that makes sense.”

“Sure it does,” she says. She looks at me for a long time, sipping her coffee, waiting for me to say something. Finally, she asks, “Okay, what’s up? Why’d you get me out of bed?”

“I, um . . . ,” I stammer. “I was wondering if you would be okay with . . . It’s just . . . See, the thing is that I can’t go to Art’s because his parents wouldn’t let us . . . and I don’t dare bring him over anymore because it would hurt Mom—”

“It’s okay to hurt Mom, you know,” she says. “I’ve made a career of it. I live with Massimo, I’m a bartender, and life goes on. You’re gay now, and life goes on.”

“But it wouldn’t be fun for us,” I say, blushing. “We need privacy.”

“What wouldn’t be fun?” she asks. And then her eyes open wide, and she laughs. She takes the scrunchie out of her hair and tousles it so it falls wildly around her shoulders. “Oh my God, are you asking me if you can use our apartment to have sex with Art?”

I can’t see myself, but I can only imagine how fiercely my embarrassment shows.

“Is this the first time?” she asks, giddy.

I nod.

“Do you promise to use condoms?” she asks, with no hint of fear or judgment.

I pull a box of condoms out of the pharmacy bag, and she looks impressed. Then she stands up and screams with excitement.

“I’m so proud of you,” she says, taking my hands and lifting me up to hug me. “My little brother is becoming a man.”

“I don’t know about that,” I say.

I hear Massimo enter the kitchen, his voice raspy and exhausted. “What’s going on?” he asks, going straight for the coffee. He’s wearing nothing but white boxers that are practically see-through. “Why are you screaming?”

“I’m taking you out to dinner tonight,” Tara says to Massimo gleefully.

“Okay,” he says, unexcited. “Is it a special dinner?”

“It is,” she says. “Because while we’re at dinner, Reza and Art will be here. In our apartment. Getting. It. On.” Tara cracks herself up, but Massimo barely reacts.

“Okay, I think I should go,” I say, embarrassed. “I’ll come back tonight. Thanks.”

When I’m back home, I call Art’s home. I can’t wait to tell him to meet me at Tara’s this evening. His mother answers the phone.

“Hello?” Her voice makes me wonder if she’s been crying.

“Mrs. Grant, it’s Reza,” I say tentatively. “I’m calling for Art.”