Like a Love Story(95)

“At first, I thought it could be Saadi.” He crosses each of his legs over the other so that he’s sitting on my bed like a pretzel. He leans closer to me, speaks in an intimate whisper. “But then I noticed the things you were buying and I knew it was you.”

I can’t believe this. He knew all along. “Did you tell my mom?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I knew you wouldn’t do it forever. And I knew that you needed these things. These records and posters. If you were spending the money on something unhealthy, I would have stopped you.”

“Wow,” I say, with surprise and gratitude. I sit on the bed next to him. “I learned how to do it from Art. He steals from his father. But his dad deserves it. You don’t.”

“Thank you,” he says, a hand on my knee. “I appreciate that.” Then he pulls me into a hug and says with sincerity, “I’m proud of you.”

I almost push him away. It’s too foreign to hear a man claiming to be my father say words like that. “Why?” I ask.

“Because it took courage to tell me what you did,” he says. “And courage to be who you are.”

“Do you think my mom is proud of me?” I ask, my voice shaking. I’m so afraid of the answer.

“I know she is,” he says with certainty. “Even if she doesn’t know how to say it yet.” He looks me deep in the eyes. “She loves you so much. But you must understand we come from a culture with no history of this. She hasn’t been exposed to people like you, or to gay rights. I’ve been in New York for a decade. I’ve met people, seen things. She needs time.”

“How much time?” I ask.

“I don’t know, Reza,” he says, shaking his head. “She’s scared. She’s scared life will be difficult for you, scared you could get sick. Being a parent is terrifying. All we want is to protect our children, and there is so much out there to fear. So much to blame ourselves for.”

“I’m scared too,” I say, on the verge of tears now.

“I know,” he says, pulling me into a hug. “It’s okay to be scared.”

I appreciate him. So much about him. His gentleness, his patience, his understanding. The second chance at life he has given my mother. The way he has accepted me and my sister. “I love you, Baba,” I say.

Abbas smiles, moved. He may not be the father who created me, but he is the father who loves me. I always thought my own father hated me, but Stephen said to me that nobody truly hates anyone. Hate is just fear in drag, he said. So maybe my father was just afraid of me. But Abbas isn’t.

“Your mother will come around,” he says. “Just the fact that she’s attending this memorial is a big step. We didn’t know him. We’re doing this to be with you.”

“I know,” I say, allowing myself a little bit of hope that perhaps things will change soon with my mother.

Abbas stands up. He gives me his hand. “Shall we?” he asks. “I think it’s time.”

I let him help me up, and together, we find my mom and Tara. My mom looks beautiful in a black dress. Tara is wearing a tight, colorful, low-cut dress. I would never know this if not for Judy, but I think it’s Pucci. Tara looks a little bit like a drag queen, which is fitting for the occasion. And her hair is newly permed by one of the girls she bartends with.

“You like it?” Tara says, as she twirls for me. “New dress. Vintage, obviously.”

“You mean someone else wore that before you?” my mom asks, making a face. “Did you wash it?”

“And new perm,” Tara says, ignoring my mom.

“I don’t know why they call it a permanent,” my mom says. “Nothing is permanent.”

“Some things are permanent,” I say.

She looks at me with curiosity. I know she understands what I was saying, that I’m not going through a phase. That this is who I will always be.

Massimo and Saadi, who were in the living room together, emerge. Saadi wears khakis, a button-down, and his white hat. Massimo somehow seems to match Tara in a bright shirt with tight white pants. “How long do I have to stay?” Saadi asks.

“As long as I do,” Abbas says.

We go to the memorial together, but there are too many of us to fit into one taxi. It’s Abbas who suggests my mom and I take one cab, while he rides with Tara, Saadi, and Massimo.

So I join her in the back of the first taxi that pulls to the curb. At first, we each stare awkwardly out of our windows, but then she turns to me and says, “I don’t want life to be hard for you, Reza.”

It’s just one sentence, but it means so much. “It’s not hard,” I say, quickly realizing what a lie that is. “What I mean is that, yes, it is hard, but I can’t change it.” I close my eyes for a second, wishing for eloquence. “I think what I’m trying to say is that I wouldn’t change it if I could.”

“Really?” she asks, surprised.

“Because it’s been hard,” I say, a revelation coming to me. “But as hard as it’s been, it’s also been the best thing that’s happened to me. The things I’ve felt this year, the love, the community, I wouldn’t trade them in for an easier life. I don’t want to be like Saadi, playing sports and being boring.”