Like a Love Story

by Abdi Nazemian

  “You okay?” He places his palm tenderly on my cheek. The gesture immediately makes me think of how my own dad never touches me, never hugs me.

  “Has Reza been released yet?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. Stephen must catch the worry in my eyes, because he says, “He’ll be okay. They always release us.”

  “He’s not like us, though,” I say. “He hasn’t been through civil disobedience training. And he’s not thick-skinned. I just . . .” What I want to say is that I want to protect Reza from all this. I want to go out and fight so that he won’t need to.

  Stephen looks at me and asks, “Art, where’s Judy in all this?”

  Judy. What about Judy? I hate myself right now. It’s like all the shame I’ve worked to push below the surface has risen and multiplied and created a tsunami of self-loathing. I can feel her next to me, her hatred, her disappointment.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t know why Reza showed up. I don’t know what happened between them.”

  “You haven’t spoken to her?” Stephen asks, with just enough judgment to make me feel even guiltier.

  “I haven’t called her this weekend, but she hasn’t called me either,” I say, realizing how defensive I sound.

  Then I hear Reza’s voice. “You should go be with Judy,” he says. I don’t know if he’s talking to me or to Stephen.

  “Reza, are you okay?” I ask. I want to approach him, to hold him, but Stephen’s presence stops me. All my feelings for Reza are a betrayal of Judy, and Stephen is a harsh reminder of that.

  “I’m okay,” he says, his voice shaky, his eyes welling. “I think I’m okay.”

  “Reza, what happened with Judy?” Stephen asks.

  Now Reza’s tears start to roll down his beautiful cheeks. “I told her I couldn’t be with her. I told her everything. That I think I’m . . .” He stops for a long beat before he says the word, “gay.” Then he takes a breath and adds, “And that there was something between me and Art.” My heart swells hearing him say that out loud. Then my mind instantly goes to Judy.

  I think back to last night, to that hang-up phone call I got. It was Judy, it must have been. She was calling to tell me off, and I deserved it. Fuck. I should have called her back. I should have checked in on her. We talk at least once a day. And I knew she had a date with Reza last night. Fuck.

  “Oh my God,” Stephen says. I search his eyes for what he’s thinking. I can see him pulled between an impulse to be there for Reza, who had the courage to come out, and to lash out at Reza, for betraying his beloved Judy. “I’m sorry,” Stephen says. “I have to go.”

  “Stephen, please!” I call after him as he walks away from us.

  He doesn’t look back at me, but he does stop. “It’ll be okay, Art,” he says. “But I have to go. Someone needs to be there for her.” And he’s off. Gone to support his niece, who I just royally screwed over. He’s not my father, he’s not even my uncle. He’s hers. He doesn’t belong to me in any way, and he’s probably done with me now.

  I’m alone with Reza. It’s so cold out that barely anyone is walking on the street. It feels like it’s just us in the world, or us against the world, because everyone seems to have turned on us. I wished for him, and now he’s here with me. So why does it feel so bittersweet? “Art, I came here for you,” I hear him say again, and I wish he would say it again right now. Wish he would remind me that I matter to him.

  But instead he says, “I’m so scared, Art.” He’s shivering. Maybe from cold. Maybe from fear. Probably from both.

  “I know,” I say, taking his hands in mine. “But this won’t even be on your record. As long as you don’t get arrested again in the next six months, it’ll be forgotten about.” I try to sound as soothing and supportive as Stephen sounds when he reassures me, but I can hear the worry in my own voice.

  “It’s not that,” Reza says. “It’s . . . I was on the news. I thought . . .”

  I’m such an idiot. He’s not worried about the arrest, or about Judy. He’s worried about his family. I can only imagine how upset they’ll be, how much they’ll hate me too. They’ll blame me for corrupting their son, just like my parents blame Stephen. Ugh, why am I thinking about my role in this? Why am I making it about me?

  I don’t know what to say. If I tell him it’ll be okay, it would be a lie. I know firsthand how cold and unsupportive parents can be, how deeply their homophobia can cut. “I’m here for you,” I say. I wish I could think of something better than that generic platitude, but it’s all that comes to me.

  “I wanted to see you. To be with you. I didn’t think I would be on the news,” he says quietly. “I didn’t . . . I’m not ready to tell my mom.”

  “I know,” I say. “I know. I get it.”

  He sobs, warm tears falling down his cold cheeks. “What if she won’t look at me anymore? What if my stepfather doesn’t want to stay married to her because of me?”

  I take his hands in mine. I cup them and blow into them, warming him up. Do I see a small smile through his tears?

  “I hate this,” I say, shaking my head. “I hate that a moment that should be joyful is filled with so much anguish.”

  “I also feel joy,” he says through tears.

  Now we both laugh, because it’s just so absurd, and because there’s nothing else to do. I kiss his sweet hands, his slender fingers, and I hold his hand to my cheek. “I can be with you if you want, when you tell them.”

  He shakes his head. “No, that wouldn’t feel right,” he says. “I need to do this alone.”

  “Okay,” I say. “I can walk you home.”

  “That would be nice,” he says.

  We walk home, side by side. “What was it like when you first told your parents?” he asks.

  I want to lie, but I can’t. He deserves my honesty. “It was horrible, Reza. But I got through it. And you will too. I can promise you that.”

  He nods somberly.

  “And if they kick you out, we’ll go somewhere together.”

  He laughs. “Like where?”

  “Like San Francisco,” I say, excited. “I’ve always wanted to move there anyway.”

  “Why?” he asks. “You’re already in the greatest city in the world.”

  “Yeah, but San Francisco is the gayest city in the world,” I counter. “It’s a place where queers are the defining part of the city’s identity. There are queers in New York, but no one thinks of New York as a place for queers. They think of it as a place for everyone. When someone wants to call you a fag, they don’t tell you to go to New York, they tell you to go to San Francisco. That’s what Darryl Lorde always used to say to me.”

  I hear Darryl’s voice in my head.

  Go to SAN FRANCISCO, fairy.

  You belong in SAN FRANCISCO with flowers in your hair, faggot.

  Why don’t you just admit you’re from SAN FRANCISCO?

  “San Francisco,” Reza repeats. “Maybe the two of us will go there someday.”

  “What do we have here anyway?” I ask. “My parents hate me. Judy and Stephen are pissed at us. If your family doesn’t want you, we’ll go. The two of us. Because I want you. Okay?”

  He looks over to me with a sad smile. “I want you too,” he says.

  When we reach his apartment building, he holds me tight, like he’s grasping on for life. “Can I call you after?” he asks.

  “You can call me anytime,” I say.

  “Do you have any last words of advice?” he asks.

  I want to think of something brilliant, something that will solve all his problems. Instead, I utter another generic platitude. “Just be yourself,” I say.

  He nods. Then, with sincerity that almost breaks me, he says, “I think this is the first day I’ve even come close to being myself.”

  Then he lets go of me and heads inside. The absence of his physical presence next to me makes me feel an unbearable emptiness. I miss him. I want him by my side always. As I walk home, I realize I have my own parents
to face. It won’t be easy. They’ll have certainly heard I was on the news as well.

  I steel myself for a fight as I enter our apartment. As expected, they’re waiting for me. My father looks enraged. My mother looks like she’s been crying.

  “We made a deal,” my father says as soon as I walk in, as if I’ve done something blasphemous. Deals are his religion, and breaking one must mean I’m even more of a sinner than he already thought I was.

  “I know,” I say. “I’m sorry. I just had to be there, Dad. The cardinal is trying to . . .”

  “This isn’t about the cardinal, Art.” My dad stands up now, probably to appear more threatening. “This is about you. You lied to me.”

  “To us,” my mom says, her voice shaky. I wonder if they were fighting before I got here. I rarely hear them fight. It wouldn’t be proper.

  “No more money,” my dad says. “Not a cent. You will never see that man again. You will go to Yale in the fall. You will major in business and intern at the firm in the summers. You are done humiliating me and this family.”

  Now I’m really pissed off. I tear my scarf and hat off and throw them on the couch dramatically. I take all the mixed-up emotions I’m feeling about Reza, Stephen, and Judy and unleash them on my dad. “Oh, because I can’t go make money without you,” I scream. “Because I have no talent. That’s what you think of me. You don’t even ask to see my photographs. Ever.”

  “Art, I’ve looked at your photos,” my mom says, trying hard to keep the peace.

  “Mom, the last time you asked to see my pictures was a year ago,” I say. “And all you said is that they were nice.”

  “But they were nice,” she says helplessly. “I liked them.”

  “They’re not nice. I’m not nice, and I don’t want to be nice. I’m angry, Mom. My photos are full of my anger.”

  “You wouldn’t even have a camera if it weren’t for my money,” my dad says curtly.

  “Why does it always come back to money for you?” I ask, enraged. “I don’t want your money. I want—I don’t know, maybe your love and respect.”

  “Then earn them,” my dad says.

  “I shouldn’t have to earn your love and respect,” I say, incredulous. “I’m your son. That part should be unconditional.”

  I can feel my mom trembling. “Art, sweetie, we do love you. We do,” she says.

  “And by the way, Dad, the camera was a gift from Stephen,” I say. “You don’t even know that. You don’t even know what he’s given me.”

  “Given you?” my dad snaps.

  “Yeah, he’s given me a community,” I say.

  My dad shakes his head. “You’re too young to have a community. At your age, all you have is a family.”

  “QUEERS!” I yell at him. “We’re queers, Dad, and we have a community. We’re there for each other.”

  “Is this because I didn’t love you enough?” my mom asks, approaching me. She clutches onto my arm and whispers urgently. “Because I could love you more. I did my best, but I could do better. I could help you.”

  “Don’t you get it, Mom? Loving me more won’t make this go away. Loving me more would mean accepting me.” My voice cracks. I hate that I still want their approval, will probably always want it. “That’s the only way for you to love me more, Mom.”

  “We are doing this because we love you,” my dad says. “I understand you don’t see that now. But someday you will. And you’ll thank us. And it’s okay for you to think of us as the enemy right now. That’s the job of parents sometimes.”

  “I have to get out of here,” I say. “I feel so suffocated.”

  “You’re grounded,” my dad says sternly.

  I laugh in his face. “I can’t be grounded, Dad, because you don’t control me. Life is short, and I’m going to live mine.”

  “Life is not short,” my dad says. “It’s longer than you think, and the things you do at your age have consequences. Getting arrested, not going to a great college, you’ll see, all these decisions and moments add up.”

  I know they do. That’s what I’m counting on.

  And I also know about consequences of my actions. I don’t regret the protests, or the arrest, and I don’t regret being with Reza now. But I regret having lied to Judy. Today was, in a way, as close to perfection as I’ve ever had, but one thing was missing: Judy. I don’t even know who I am without her friendship, and I need to go see her, to make her understand, to earn her forgiveness.

  “I’ll see you later,” I say to my parents.

  “Art,” my mom yells out to me as I’m halfway out the door.

  I turn around, exasperated, giving her my best what is it? look.

  “Don’t forget your scarf and hat,” she says. “It’ll be freezing out there at night.”

  “Let him freeze,” my dad says. “Let him see there are consequences to his choices.”

  My dad walks into their bedroom and slams the door. My mom grabs my scarf and hat from the couch. She gently places the hat on my head, then folds the scarf in half and loops it in the front the way she likes to. I suddenly feel like her little boy again, the one she would dress in cashmere scarfs. I remember the wonder she had back then, how often she would tell me how lucky we were. She was raised with so little, and now she had everything. She had me.

  “Mom,” I say, my voice barely audible.

  “It’s okay,” she whispers haltingly. “You don’t need to say anything. You and your father are both stubborn men.”

  “Mom, I think . . . I . . . I think I like a boy.” I let out a sigh. I don’t know why I open up to her, but I’m caught up in the moment. “And I think he likes me, too.”

  “Oh, Art,” she says, backing away from me like I just slapped her in the face. I want her to hold me, ask me about him, something. Instead, she says, “I can’t hear about this. Please. I can’t.”

  I turn from her and leave. Why do I try? Why do I leave myself vulnerable to feeling this deep hurt? And is that exactly what I’m setting myself up for by walking to Judy’s house now?

  I could close my eyes and walk the path to Judy’s house. I know every store on the way, every trash can, every flaw in the concrete of the sidewalks, every doorman. I’ve walked this path countless times, each time knowing that at the end of the yellow brick road, Judy would be waiting for me with open arms. This time, each step is tentative, filled with unease, my feet taking a few extra seconds with each ascent and descent.

  I knock on the door. She must recognize my knock by now. I recognize hers. She knocks in twos, a firm tap-tap each time. I always know when it’s her. I can smell her when she’s near me in the hallway. I swear I always know when it’s her on the phone, like even the ring sounds different.

  The door opens. Stephen answers it. “Art,” he says. He looks me in the eye, and just that small gesture makes me feel a little better. Maybe he doesn’t despise me. “It’s good you came.”

  Judy stands behind him, in the arms of her parents.

  “Hey,” I say.

  She shakes her head at me in disbelief, with the same look of disappointment that Cardinal O’Connor had when the protesters started screaming today, the same look my mom gave me when I told her I liked a boy. Except this time, I deserve the contempt. I deserve every single dagger her eyes throw at me. I didn’t feel like a criminal when I was arrested, but I do now.

  Judy

  I hate the way my body is shaking. I wish I could stop it. My mom and dad each have an arm around me, and I can feel their hands squeezing me, steadying me. I try to pinpoint what exactly I’m feeling. Is it anger, fear, sadness, or as is often the case on an SAT question, “all of the above”?

  “Hey” is all he can think of to say.

  “Hi” is all I can think of to say back.

  All of the above. The answer is definitely “all of the above.” I’m so pissed off at him, and so afraid of confronting him, and so sad that our friendship is over. My mind spins with possibilities of going to college somewhere he
would never go, picking one of those liberal arts colleges in remote towns, surrounded by trees and sky and miles of open road, no city near us, no Art.

  “Maybe the two of you should go for a walk,” Stephen says.

  “Sure,” Art says. “Judy, I . . .” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He can’t. What can he possibly say to defend himself?

  “You what?” I spit out. “You’re sorry?”

  “Well, yeah,” he says, caught off guard.

  “That’s not enough,” I say. “That’ll never be enough.” I’ve never heard my voice like this. It’s harsh, rough, laced with bitterness that I didn’t know I had in me.

  “She’s very upset,” my mom says, stating the obvious. “Maybe you two should speak when things have cooled off.”

  “Things will never cool off,” I say viciously.

  “Of course they will,” my mom says. “It’s like that Joni Mitchell song . . .”

  My mom is about to sing. She is seriously about to sing some old folk song. I bet it’s the one about the seasons going ’round and ’round, or maybe it’s the one about seeing clouds from different sides. I have no idea. All I know is that if she starts singing to me right now, I’ll lose my mind, so I quickly blurt out, “A walk sounds good.” I grab one of my father’s winter coats from the coat rack and throw it on. It’s brown and worn and ugly, and it’s exactly what I want to wear right now. I want to disappear, crawl into someone else’s skin.

  Before we leave, my parents each hug me, and Stephen gives me a hug and a kiss on the cheek and whispers something to me. “Friendship is far more tragic than love. It lasts longer,” he says. “Oscar Wilde said that.” I don’t respond. What is he trying to tell me? That I should be more upset about losing Art than I was about losing Reza? If that’s his point, then it’s so obvious. Reza may have been my first “boyfriend,” a word I’ll always put in quotation marks when using it to describe our fake relationship, but Art has been my best friend since forever ago. Obviously, losing my best friend is more tragic. But if Stephen’s point by saying “it lasts longer” is that Art and I will somehow kiss and make up, then he’s wrong. This friendship is over.