Like a Love Story(93)

“How are you, Reza?” she asks, with more empathy than I’ve ever heard from her.

“Okay,” I say.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she says.

“Thank you,” I say. I don’t know which loss she’s speaking of. Is it the loss of Stephen, who she seemed to hate? Or is it the loss of Art, who is threatening to go to Berkeley instead of Yale, leaving us for another ocean?

“Here’s Art,” she says.

“Hey,” Art says when he gets on.

“Will you meet me at my sister’s place tonight?” I ask boldly.

“Sure. Is she hosting us or something?”

“No, she won’t be there,” I say. “It’ll just be . . . us.”

He takes a few breaths as he puts it together. Then he whispers, “Wow. Reza, of course I will meet you at your sister’s empty apartment. You know I will.”

Now that I’ve made the decision, I can’t wait for it to be tonight. I don’t know what to do with myself in the intervening hours, so I start by running a bath and I soak. I close my eyes. That is when I hear a ghost, but it’s not Stephen this time. It’s my dad. He’s outside the bathroom door, screaming at me. In Iran, I used to take baths to escape his rage, but his voice would pierce the calm, even when I submerged myself under water. Go away, I scream at him in my head. But he doesn’t. He’s telling me all the things I know he would’ve said if he were alive. That I am disgusting. That I am an embarrassment, and a disappointment, and dead to him now. You’re dead, I think. You’re dead. And I’m finally starting to live.

When I leave, I don’t tell my mom where I’m going, and she doesn’t ask. That’s the thing about her denial. It stops her from asking me anything she’s too scared to hear the answer to. She pretends to believe me when I say I’m going to a study group at night, or that I’m going to Maryland for a school trip. She doesn’t ask anything, and I don’t offer anything. It makes me so sad, but it’s better than anger or rejection. At least that’s what I tell myself.

I make my way to Tara’s apartment. She opens the door and hugs me hard before she goes. Massimo awkwardly pats my shoulder before saying goodbye. I can tell he’s probably not all that comfortable with this scenario, but also too in love with my sister to say much. I pace the apartment until the buzzer rings.

Art.

The time it takes for him to walk up the stairs is interminable, but the moment I see him, all my anxieties turn into excitement. I’ve wanted him for so long. Why have I been so scared of letting myself have him?

“Hi,” he says, as he kicks the door closed behind him.

“Hi,” I say, blushing.

“So, um, this is a surprise,” he says. “I mean, I didn’t think you would—”

I cut him off with a kiss, holding the back of his head, pulling him into me.

“Wow,” he says when I let him go. “Who’s brazen now?”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Was that too much?” I realize I’ve become accustomed to him being the aggressor, and to me resisting. Maybe I’m no good at making moves.

“No, no,” he says, smiling. “That was perfect.”

“Okay,” I say. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I just know I want to do it.”

I guide him to Tara and Massimo’s bedroom and close the curtains. We fall into bed together, and I keep kissing him. There’s no aggressor anymore. We’re both initiating everything, like our bodies are synced up to the same rhythm. When I pull away from him, he’s lying down and I notice his combat boots on the white sheets.

“We should take those boots off,” I say.

“Go ahead,” he says, smiling slyly.

I move toward his feet and try to pull the boots off unsuccessfully. I pull harder and harder, to no avail. We laugh, and I’m grateful for the laughter.

“Let me help you,” he says, sitting up and yanking the boots off. He throws them onto the floor with a thud. We sit in front of each other for a moment. “Guess we should take the rest off, right?” he says.

“Okay,” I say. A wave of excitement passes through me at the thought of us naked together.

He starts first. He peels his tight ripped jeans off in the blink of an eye, and then his tank top. And finally, with a smile, his underwear. He waves his underwear around in the air and tosses it at me. I duck and laugh.

“Your turn,” he says.

“Yeah,” I say, every part of me thrumming with anticipation.

I can feel my arms shaking as I slowly take off my black jeans and my T-shirt. I pause before taking my underwear off. I search his eyes for the reassurance I need. “Art,” I whisper. I want to tell him I’m scared, but I know he knows that. So I just whisper his name again. I like feeling it on my tongue. “Art.” And then again, more decisively, “Art.”

We lie naked next to each other, and we kiss for what feels like either a split second or an eternity. It’s a kiss that stops time. There is no past or future, just this moment, just this kiss.

Time starts again when he removes his lips from mine and kisses the back of my ears, my neck, my shoulders, my chest. He works his way down. “I want to kiss every part of you,” he says. And he does. When he takes me inside his mouth, it’s almost over.