Like a Love Story(98)

He looks into Reza’s misty eyes. Reza says nothing. His lips just quiver, words hovering under them that won’t come out.

“Before we go,” Art says, “can we stop by a photocopy place?”

We walk to the nearest Kinko’s, the wheels of Art’s suitcase loudly banging against the uneven sidewalks. When we get there, Art pulls out Stephen’s notecards. There are one hundred and thirty-one of them, and we each take a third and head to separate copy machines. Art’s stack begins with #1 Adonis and ends with #41 Divine. Mine begins with #42 DSM and ends with #83 Mineo, Sal. And Reza’s begins with #84 Minogue, Kylie, and ends with #131 Woolf, Virginia. We copy each card one by one, making two copies of each. The machines light up each time a new copy is made, little sparks thrown into the world. We have three stacks when we’re done. Two copies, and the original notecards.

“I think the originals should go with you,” I say. “It’s what Stephen would have wanted. He wrote them for you.”

“Thank you,” Art says, with genuine surprise. Then he takes my hand, and says, “Thank you for sharing him with me. He was your uncle.”

“Art, stop,” I say. “He didn’t belong to me. No one belongs to anyone.”

I see Reza glance at Art when I say this. Maybe Reza wanted Art to belong to him, or vice versa. I know Reza considered leaving with Art. He even asked me to talk through the decision with him. We made a pros and cons list. There was only one pro to leaving: Art. There were a lot of cons. Ultimately, Reza chose college and his family.

“Hey, I have an idea,” Art says, his face lighting up. “I think we have time.”

“What is it?” I ask.

Art tells us. We make one more copy of the cards, and then we go around scattering them around the city like ashes. We leave #69 King, Billie Jean, in a restaurant booth. #130 Woodlawn, Holly, we place in a mailbox. We put #24 Cockettes on a car windshield, and countless cards on storefronts.

We hand a businessman #68 Jorgensen, Christine.

We stop two fabulous models and give them #74 Lorde, Audre.

To our taxi driver on our way to the airport, we bequeath #95 Provincetown.

In the airport, we leave them in the bathroom, on the magazine stands, inside suitcase carts, until they are almost gone.

All but one. We go to an airport store selling magazines, medicine, trinkets, and souvenirs. We consider placing the final card in front of the latest issue of Vanity Fair. Anjelica Huston is on the cover, looking fierce in a red dress I kind of wish I’d designed myself. Stephen would’ve approved, but it doesn’t feel right. We browse the rest of the shop. Yankees hats, and I Heart NY T-shirts, stuffed bears with a map of the state on them, key chains. Finally, we see a display with hundreds of plastic Statue of Liberty figurines standing next to each other. That’s where we choose to place the card.

#75 Love.

We stare at it together, read it as if it’s Lady Liberty’s new epitaph.

“Was it love?” Reza whispers to Art. “Or was it like love?”

I realize I’m a third wheel here. I grab a copy of Harper’s Bazaar, and I excuse myself to the corner of the store. Madonna is on the cover, obviously, her hair more platinum than ever. In red block letters, the cover reads “SEX IS ALIVE and well.” I flip the pages and read. But it’s a small store, and I can hear them.

“It was love,” Art says. “True blue.”

“Then why would you leave?” Reza asks. “Who leaves their true blue love?”

Art says nothing.

“Am I not enough?” Reza says.

“You’re perfect,” Art says. “I’m the one who’s fucked up. And I hate myself sometimes, Reza. For always wanting more. For never being satisfied. For hurting people.”

“Then don’t hurt people,” Reza begs. “Stay.”

I want to jump into the conversation and echo everything Reza is saying. Don’t hurt me, Art. Don’t go. Don’t leave me in this city without my best friend. Don’t break my heart.

“You will always be my first,” Art says.

Reza sobs now. It’s so loud and so horrible that I want to rush over and hold him. Everyone in the store looks over at them, concern on their faces, but like me, no one dares interrupt.

“I have no regrets, Reza,” Art says, holding him now. “Do you?”

“No,” Reza says. “No.”

Art’s eyes well up. “I get how crazy and impulsive this is. But I’m impulsive, and maybe that’s one of the things you loved about me . . .”

“Love,” Reza says. “I still love you.”

Then Art whispers the final words of the card still resting near them. “Love is our legacy,” he says.

“Love is our legacy,” Reza repeats.

I feel a wave of gratitude that these two found each other. The idea that Reza and I were once a couple seems absurd. I’ll find my true first love someday. And when I find him, I’ll never let him go like Art is letting Reza go. Never.

“I didn’t deserve you,” Art says to Reza.

“Shut up,” Reza says. “You did, and you do. And if you change your mind . . .” Reza doesn’t finish the sentence. If Art changes his mind, Reza will be waiting. I will, too.

I look at the time and approach them. “You’re going to miss your flight,” I say.