Page 24 of Like a Love Story

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“He’s just a guy,” Judy says.

Stephen holds his hand up to silence her. “She’s too embarrassed to tell me what I need to know. Art, speak.”

“Um, he’s from Iran,” I say.

“I know that,” Stephen says.

“He’s nice,” I say.

Stephen looks at me, disappointed. Judy also looks at me, like she knows something is up. Because she knowsthat I would normally have a lot more to say than this.

“Okay, well neither of you is divulging anything of interest,” Stephen says.

“He’s cool,” I say. “And I think... I think he’s not like American guys, you know. Like, he’s into Madonna. When I was picking up my bag at his place, he had posters of her on his wall.”

“Interesting,” Stephen says. “It’s the rare icon who can reel in both straight and gay men. Of course, straight men want to screw her, and gay men want to be her.”

“Great,” Judy says. “He likes ’em in killer shape. That’ll work in my favor.”

“He also likes them daring and stylish,” Stephen says. “And like a virgin.”

“Ew, Uncle Stephen. Can we talk about something else?” Judy asks. “I’m already nervous enough.”

Stephen smiles and says, “Nope, can’t talk about anything else.” He stands up next to Judy now and holds her hands. “My baby girl’s first date. This is your first date, right?”

“Yes,” she says with pride. “Of course. I would’ve told you. We have no secrets.”

“Speak for yourself,” Stephen says. “I have a secret or two, but nothing you kids need to know about now.”

I think about Stephen’s secrets. I think about the one thing he has never told me: who made him sick. Was it José? Or was it someone else? Did Stephen have it first, or did José have it first? And does Stephen even care? Does it even matter who gave it to who?

“Well, I don’t have any secrets,” Judy says.

I have secrets. I have guilt. I have shame. Stephen said once that getting AIDS helped free him from the last remnants of shame inside him. “I shame my shame,” he said. I wish I could do that now, but I can’t. My shame is too fresh.

Then Judy says, “Where is he?”

Where is he? A very good question. He should’ve come up by now. I told him to wait a few minutes, but it’s been more. Did he go home? Is he done with us all? Have I ruined my best friend’s chance with him?

“I’m sure he’ll be here soon,” Stephen says. “So tonight, I was thinking we could watchZiegfeld Girl. We haven’t seen that one in ages, and it’s a safe choice for your new friend.”

Ziegfeld Girl, a movie we’ve seen before. Stephen loves it because it stars not one but three of his favorite actresses, Judy Garland, Lana Turner, and Hedy Lamarr. Judy loves it because the fashion is insane. Gowns and capes and diamonds and crowns made from stars. I love it because it’s about sisterhood, about three women who couldn’t be more different but who stand with each other in solidarity. And the first time we saw it, that’s what I thought we were. Me and Judy and Stephen, sisters in solidarity. A tribe.

“Sure,” Judy says. She seems more concerned now.

Where is he?

I think about Lana Turner, and about how Stephen once told us that even though she and Ava Gardner datedand married all the same men, they were also great friends. Maybe Judy and I can be like Lana and Ava. Maybe we can both have Reza and still remain great friends. If it worked for them, why couldn’t it work for us? But then I remember Reza doesn’t even want me. And that Lana and Ava were both gorgeous women, so of course they were both desired, and of course they remained friends because if their man strayed, they could attract another with a snap of their fingers.

Then, finally, the ring of the buzzer. He’s arrived.

The minute it takes for him to take the elevator up is interminable.

When the doorbell rings, Stephen tells Judy to open it. “He’s your guest,” Stephen says as he wipes more sweat from his face. He hasn’t been in the kitchen for a long time now, and the apartment is air-conditioned to a crisp, but the sweat still pours. I’m starting to get worried now, and so is Judy.

“Are you okay, Uncle Stephen?” she asks.

“Of course I’m okay, silly,” he says. “Don’t waste your youth worrying about my hot flashes, please. Every girl goes through menopause at my age.”