“Okay,” he says.
“So I’ll go in first, and you wait a few minutes.”
“But it is rude to be late,” he says.
“Judy and her uncle aren’t like that,” I say. “I’ll see you in there.”
I want to go in first. I don’t know why, but I just need to be in Stephen’s apartment. It’s my favorite place in the city. I love everything about it. I love all the pictures of him and José. They give me hope that someday I’ll find someone to fall in love with. And yeah, maybe that person will die, or maybe I’ll die, but isn’t that better than never loving? I love the black-and-white living room, his colorful collection of jelly beans that represent all the friends he’s lost, the framed pictures of old movie stars, and the record collection.
It’s Judy who opens the door, and the minute I see her face, I want to punish myself somehow. I don’t deserve her. She looks fabulous. She’s in a sunflower-yellow outfit I’venever seen before, and then I remember her buying that fabric. We were together. She said something about how it was too special for her life, and I said something about how she could make a cute dress for our daughter out of it. I hate that joke now. I hate that we acted like our getting married and having children was a thing. Why did we think being each other’s consolation prizes was okay? I deserve more. She deserves more. She certainly deserves a much better best friend than me. And maybe she deserves Reza.
“Hey,” she says. “Where’s Reza?”
“What do you mean?” I ask evasively. “I’m sure he’s on his way.”
I go inside. I can smell something Stephen is cooking in the kitchen. He calls out, “Hello, my beloved Art. Just you wait till you see what I’m making.”
“I thought you two were coming over together,” Judy says.
I sit on the couch. “Um, no, Frances,” I say. “Why would we come together?”
Shit. I shouldn’t have called her Frances. She knows I only do that when I’ve royally messed something up.
“Um, because I called his place,” she says. “And his mom said you stopped by to pick him up.”
Double shit.
“Oh, yeah,” I say. “I actually just went to pick something up, not pickhimup.” But I did try to pick him up, as in hit on him. I’m an asswipe. I’m a traitor to my best friend. I’ve inherited my father’s complete disregard for others.
“Right,” she says. “A backpack.”
We make eye contact. She seems to know too much. What else does she know?
“I left it there when I was studying with his stepbrother,” I say. “You know Saadi won’t even sit next to me when we’re studying, even when we’re both looking at the same notebook. It’s like he thinks I’m a leper or something.”
“So did you see Reza?” she asks pointedly.
“Oh,” I say. I try to think fast. What do I say? “Yeah, he was getting ready.”
“Did he seem excited?” she asks.
“I think so,” I say. But what do I know? I thought that I could see colors and auras around people and that Reza was emitting a beautiful pink glow. That’s why I got him a pink rose. I was dead wrong.
Stephen enters the living room. He’s wearing a red apron and his face is flushed. “Tonight, we celebrate. The price of that goddamn drug has come down.”
Yes, there are things to celebrate. Things much more important than one dumb rejection. “It’s such good news,” I say, trying hard to sound excited about it.
“I can’t believe it happened so fast,” Judy adds.
“The world can change,” Stephen says. “If you fight hard enough for that change. Don’t forget that.”
The worldhaschanged. It all feels so different now. Something between me and Judy feels broken, and I want to repair it. But how? And does she even feel it?
“The price is still ridiculously high,” Stephen says. “But it’s a step. And we have some plans to keep the pressure on.”
“He’s making arroz con pollo,” Judy says. That was José’s favorite dish. Stephen only makes it when he wants to summon José’s spirit, when he wants him in the room with us.
“He deserves to be here tonight,” Stephen says. “He would have loved this moment. And don’t worry, Art, my dear. For you, I have also made arroz con tofu.” Stephen takes the apron off and wipes his face with it. That’s when I notice he’s drenched. He’s always sweating, but tonight it’s more extreme. I tell myself it’s because he’s been cooking. Everyone sweats when they’re in the kitchen. Stoves and ovens are hot. It’s normal. Reza was sweating too, and that didn’t mean he was dying. I tell myself to stop worrying about Stephen. He hates concern. “Before the guest of honor arrives... ,” Stephen says, and he sits next to me and leans in close to me conspiratorially, “tell me everything I need to know.”