“Obviously. Or you wouldn’t have slept with my boyfriend. On my birthday!” Alek’s hushed tones contrasted Remi’s everyday volume.
“I admit the timing wasn’t especially grand. And I admit I wouldn’t have done it if I knew you guys were monogamous.”
“Did it occur to you to ask?”
“Of course not! I had assumed you had too much imagination to imitate the most boring, heteronormative standard possible.” Remi didn’t even bother to stop speaking when the grandmotherly waitress returned to fill their water cups. “Especially in this wonderful age of polyamorous pansexuality.”
Alek squirmed in his seat.
“Of course, the reason I probably wouldn’t have touched Ethan has nothing to do with it being ‘wrong.’ I wouldn’t have done it because it would inflict pain on someone I cared about, which is not something I like to do…”
“Why, Remi, that might be the first halfway decent thing I’ve heard you say.”
“… as much as I like to inflict pleasure on myself.”
This time, Alek couldn’t help himself. “You know how cheesy you sound when you talk like that, right?”
“Most people really like it.” Remi grinned.
Alek forced himself to look past Remi, past his perfectly symmetrical teeth, his perfect tan, his perfect body, past all those exterior trappings. “I’m not most people.”
“I am starting to understand that. Which makes the fact that you’re doing this all the more unfortunate.”
“Doing what?”
“Torturing yourself and Ethan.”
“What did he tell you?”
“Nothing. He hasn’t spoken to me since that night. But his dad called me today. Rupert’s worried—like, really worried. Which is why I decided to spend my very valuable time driving into the suburbs of New Jersey to try and make things right. You know”—Remi smiled—“like a superhero.”
Alek shook his head in disbelief.
“He said Ethan was a real wreck—even worse, if you can believe it, than after I’d left him.”
“It’s a real gift you have, to make everything be about you.”
“Thank you.” Remi sounded genuinely moved.
“Why do you care so much about what happens to me and Ethan?” Alek asked, taking a sip of his now-tepid tea.
“I supposed it’s possible that in one interpretation I am somewhat responsible for what happened between you two. But mostly, I love Ethan. Always have. He’s a great mate, always has been.” Remi wiped his lips with his napkin. “So waddaya say? Why don’t we pay up and I’ll drop you off at his place? You two can make up, then make out, and we can all go on our merry ways.”
“I don’t think so.” Alek made eye contact with their waitress, and made the universal sign of “check, please”: miming a pad with his left hand and a scribbling pen with his right. “I’m going to say something, and I know it’s going to be very difficult for you to understand, Remi. And it’s not that I don’t appreciate everything you’ve done and the time that you’ve taken out of your day, and God knows how you were able to get that Tesla in the first place, but here it is.” Alek took a sip of his tea, which was as lukewarm as his desire to be in this diner with Remi any longer. “I make my own decisions. And if I change my mind, it’s not going to because some impossibly hot Aussie asks me to. Okay?”
Remi swallowed the last drops of his carrot juice. “You think I’m impossibly hot?”
Alek shook his head, contemplating his own Sisyphean endeavors. “I think you’re impossible—how’s that?”
“Fair enough.”
The waitress arrived, made a few notations with her tobacco-stained fingers on her small green pad, and left the slip of paper on their table.
“But let me ask you something, Mr. Khederian. You say you broke up with Ethan because you can never trust him again. But how do you know you can never trust him again? Without actually trying, that is?”
“I did! I did try again! And he lied to me! Again! About you! Again!”
“Were you really giving him another shot? Or were you just punishing him for hurting you?”
Alek acknowledged that Remi may have had a point, but he made sure not to do or say anything that might reveal it.
“Cause I’ll tell you—Ethan’s never looked at me the way he looks at you.”
“Really?”
“Would I lie to you?” Remi smiled broadly.
Alek said nothing, trying to take in the series of deeply improbable events that had begun when he invited his ex-boyfriend’s ex-boyfriend out to a diner for a meal.
“One last thing. And this one’s important, Alek.” Remi flashed one of his trademark smiles. “Would you mind picking up the check? I’m a bit short on funds these days.”
Alek allowed himself a proper, unapologetic, complete eye roll.
22
“I don’t think I was surprised that you cheated on me.” Alek didn’t bother with chitchat when Ethan opened his front door. “I think part of me was waiting for it to happen, because deep down inside, I never believed that someone as everything as you would ever really be with someone as whatever as me.”
In the moment after he’d knocked on Ethan’s door, a million things had run through Alek’s mind. He had wanted to run, he had wanted to scream, to pound the door with his fist, to curse Remi for making Ethan’s case, to curse himself for listening to that unbearably persuasive Australian, to curse Arno for making him consider forgiveness, to curse fate for returning him to the place he had just (melo)dramatically fled only five days ago, vowing never to return.
“So when I found out about Remi, it all made sense.”
But before he could do any of those things, the door had swung open, revealing Ethan in an oversize flannel shirt and sweatpants with dragons embroidered on the sides, looking more puzzled to see Alek than anything else.
“I think I thought I deserved it.”
“That’s so messed up,” Ethan finally said.
“I know.”
They stood on opposite sides of the open door while the heat leaked out of the house. When Alek had stormed out of this house, he thought he was closing the Ethan chapter forever. But in those days, so much had happened. When Alek looked back, what struck him most was not the surprisingly civilized conversation with his brother, or Remi’s visit, or even kissing Arno. What struck him was how profoundly he felt the absence of Ethan.
Ethan stepped out of his house, barefoot, as if it were spring, closing the door gently behind him. “I wish—honestly, I’d give anything to take it back. To undo it. To make it go away, to make it be like it never happened.”
“I know.” They sat down on the stoop at the same time, as if rehearsed.
“But I can’t.”
“I know.”
Silence.
“So what do we do now?” Ethan looked at his bare feet as if he were surprised to see them.
“I don’t know,” Alek admitted.
“So why’d you come here?” Ethan asked simply.
“I don’t know that, either.”
They sat, in silence, longer.
“How’s your New Year going?” Ethan’s attempt at small talk was intentionally comical.
Alek played along. “Fine, thanks. Yours?”
They talked about the last five days. It wasn’t like before, when the conversation just flowed like a river after rainfall. It stuttered now, like a faucet doing its best in spite of a running shower. Ethan talked about his dad and Lesley and a new art project he was starting. Alek talked about Mrs. Sturgeon and Becky and Dustin and school. He did not talk about Arno. Or Remi.
“And tomorrow,” Alek continued, “I get to go to church and sit in a room full of people who hate me, while my brother gives the speech that I should’ve.”
“Merry Armenian Christmas.” Ethan flashed one of his half smiles, which somehow achieved sincerity and sarcasm at the same time.
“Yeah, it’ll be hell on Earth, which I suppose
is especially ironic for church. But my parents didn’t ground me. So it’s the least I can do, I figure.” Alek stood up.
Ethan followed. “It’s really good to see you.” He leaned in slightly, and Alek felt his aura, his essence, his Ethan-ness. He almost let himself crumble into the familiarity of it all. Almost.
“You too.”
“Can we see each other again? Soon?”
Alek nodded. “That would be nice.”
* * *
“If we don’t leave soon, we’re going to be late.”
Was it Sisyphean, Alek mused, or Herculean, Nik’s labor to get the Khederians to church on time?
“And since I’m giving my paper tonight, I really don’t want to be late, okay?”
Oh, that’s right, Alek thought to himself. It’s just selfish, like most things Nik does.
“Oh, honey, you have nothing to be nervous about.” Mrs. Khederian adjusted the silver brooch on her burgundy jacket in the hallway closet mirror downstairs, immune to her son’s anxiety.
Even a few days ago, his family talking about church and Nik’s speech would’ve upset Alek. But with everything that had happened, he’d gotten to the place where he could just let it go. “That’s right, honey,” he whispered to his brother. Letting it go and not getting a good jab in when the opportunity presented itself were two very different things.
Since Christmas Eve fell on a Sunday, the church had decided to consolidate what would’ve been the morning mass and the Christmas Eve mass into one ginormous evening mega-event.
“You wanna drive, Nik?” Mr. Khederian asked, handing the keys to his elder son. Then Alek’s dad put his arm around his wife and carefully ushered her in the direction of the interior garage door.
“But it’s nighttime,” his wife protested.
“I think he’s ready,” her husband said gently.
His wife silently nodded.
If this is the only miracle I witness this whole year, Alek thought to himself, I will already have surpassed quota.
“Let’s go, boys.”
Nik was the model of a perfect driver, signaling thirty seconds before changing lanes and remaining at least ten miles below the speed limit at all times. In spite of how she started the trip clutching her seat belt with whitened knuckles and praying under her breath in Armenian, Nik engaged his mother from what she was sure was the precipice of death by asking for her advice regularly throughout the trip.
“Do you think I should pass this driver, mayrik, or stay in the lane?”
“Do you think I’ll make the light?”
“Is it warm enough in the car?”
Alek wordlessly watched Nik convert their mom from terrified passenger to engaged copilot. And, perhaps even more impressively, Nik got his family to church at six forty-five, early enough that they were even able to park in the parking lot proper for once.
“I can drop you guys off and find parking,” Nik offered, gliding the car up to the curb.
Alek wondered what Nik could possibly be angling for, with his newfound generosity, as he and his parents got out of the car and walked up the sidewalk to the church’s main entrance.
In spite of the cold, a sea of Armenians lingered outside, greeting one another, exchanging “Merry Christmases” and “Happy New Years.” And impossibly, in the middle of them all, his blond hair sticking out against a sea of dark, was Ethan.
“Ethan!” Alek’s mom was perhaps even more surprised than Alek himself. “How … lovely to see you here?”
“Are you planning on staying for the service?” Alek’s dad asked, fidgeting nervously.
“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Khederian, nice to see you guys.” Ethan shook their hands warmly. “And merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas,” they mumbled back in unison.
“Don’t you guys have to get inside and do that thing?” Alek asked, the thinnest mask veiling his words.
“What thing?” Mr. Khederian responded.
But at least his mom picked up on the clue. “You know, honey.” She shook her head apologetically at Alek before addressing her husband again. “That thing.”
Mr. Khederian’s delight at finally understanding what was happening delayed the exit that everyone else was desperate for. “Oh, yes, that thing. We got here early especially to do it, and now that we’re here, I guess we should. Go. Do. That thing.”
Alek’s parents entered the church, leaving Alek and Ethan outside.
“You’re here,” Alek said evenly.
“That I am,” Ethan confirmed. He adjusted the knot in the dusty rose tie that, against all odds, matched the dusty rose coat he had donned for the evening.
“How come?”
Ethan leaned against the wide column that framed the church’s Byzantine entrance. “It sounded like tonight might be a rough one for you. And I thought maybe being here would make it a little easier, so I had my dad drop me off.”
Alek said nothing, processing.
“I can leave if you want.” There was no bitterness in Ethan’s voice. Just a plain, simple, honest offer.
“Stay.” The word escaped from Alek’s mouth before he could contain it, a wish released like a djinni from a bottle.
“Okay.”
“Aleksander Khederian!” Mr. Papazian’s piercing tenor shattered Alek and Ethan’s fragile moment. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
His wife hung on his arm, competing with her husband for who could look more desperate to extract a bit of gossip from Alek.
“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Papazian.” Alek attempted to be as natural as possible, but he was painfully aware of how out of place he and Ethan were.
“I thought you’d be reading your essay tonight.” Mrs. Papazian wasn’t even making the pretense of fishing for the information she sought—she just went in for the kill. “What happened?”
“I decided to include a section on my homosexuality in the discussion of what being Armenian meant to me, in addition to a critique of which parts of the church feel hopelessly outdated. It was decided that the content wasn’t exactly appropriate, so rather than change my essay, the powers that be decided to confer the honor to my brother.” Alek reported the incident as calmly as he could, like he was reciting statistics with the rankings of the top-seeded tennis players in the world. “Merry Christmas, Mr. and Mrs. Papazian, and happy New Year!”
The flabbergasted Papazians responded with a shocked “Merry Christmas” of their own before staggering inside.
“That. Was. Amazing,” Ethan whispered.
Alek and Ethan reached the church entrance without much more incident. The imposing wood doors, braced and studded with wrought iron, dared Alek to open them.
“I can’t believe I’m going in there.”
The thought of an entire evening of interactions like the one he’d just had with the Papazians—it all felt so exhausting. It would be so much easier to wait in the vestibule for the evening to be over and then go home and cuddle up with his favorite book, or even write that Madame Bovary paper.
“Only if you want to.”
“Hold my hand,” Alek asked.
“What?” Ethan turned, as if he couldn’t possibly have heard Alek correctly.
“This would be a real good time…” Alek half spoke, half sang the words.
Ethan didn’t finish the quote. He just slid his hand into Alek’s, which was waiting for him, like a perfectly tailored glove.
When they’d been together, Alek and Ethan had understood, intuitively, that if they stopped holding hands when they earned looks or sideway glances or outright sneers, they’d lose. So whenever that happened, they just tightened their hold the slightest of bits, finding resolve in each other, their held hands an unspoken pact.
Holding hands now made something perfectly clear to Alek: that what he wished he could make the reverend father, his own parents, and all those well-meaning straight people understand was that he and Ethan would never really have the privilege of holding hands as a neutral ges
ture. The act, taken for granted by people all over the world, would never be just that for him and Ethan. Part of him mourned that possibility—of never knowing what it would mean to perform that act unitalicized.
But, at the same time, Alek wondered if the rest of the world would ever know the pride and strength that he felt in that moment, when he and Ethan decided to hold hands at church. He may not have a choice. But that didn’t mean he would have it any other way.
Alek’s fingers intertwined with Ethan’s, and he felt a new force field blossom around them. He opened the large, creaking door.
“Let’s do this thing,” Alek said.
They stepped into the church.
“Yeah—the service is going to start any minute.”
“Don’t worry,” Alek confided. “If it’s like everything else Armenian, it’ll be at least half an hour late.”
23
“Hello, Alek, it’s good to see you.” If the reverend father was at all surprised by Alek’s presence at the Christmas Eve service, or that Ethan was accompanying him, he didn’t show it.
“Thanks, Reverend Father. This is Ethan, my…” Alek stumbled for the right word. He dismissed boyfriend immediately, even though it was the one that had popped up to his lips first. Ex-boyfriend, while accurate, felt aggressive. He settled on the best, most ambiguous word he could conjure. “… friend. My friend Ethan.”
Ethan nodded, accepting the description. “Good evening, Reverend Father.” Ethan’s extraordinary ability to stay absolutely himself, regardless of his surroundings, made him as comfortable in an Armenian Orthodox Church as he was hanging out with a bunch of skater kids by the tracks.
And the reverend father, to his credit, made a point of being equally at ease. “I’m glad you could make it, Ethan.” He shook Ethan’s hand, guiding them to the pews as he spoke. “We welcome all friends of congregation members tonight.”
Alek fantasized about what it would be like if he and Ethan were back together, so he could’ve introduced him as his boyfriend and witnessed the reverend’s response.
Hold My Hand Page 20