Page 49 of Like a Love Story
“Judy... ,” he whispers again, and now he takes his hands off his face and holds mine with them. His eyes are welling, no tears yet, but the formation of them, like a looming threat of what’s to come. “I am the one who is sorry.”
“No, don’t be sorry,” I say. “Don’t even say anything else. It’s okay. I can wait!”
“I can’t do this to you anymore,” he says. His eyes are fuller now. A wave is coming to the surface of hisface, about to explode.
“Let’s just go watch a movie,” I say, trying to escape this conversation.
“Judy,” he whispers.
“What do you want to watch?” I interrupt him. I don’t want him to utter another word. “My parents don’t have a lot of options, but I think they havePolice Academy. Have you seen it?”
“Judy, you know what I’m about to say,” he says, with kindness that enrages me. If there’s one thing I don’t want from him right now, it’s kindness. I want passionate, animalistic lust, or the promise of future passionate, animalistic lust. Instead, I get kindness, and worse, pity.
“I don’t know, and I don’t want to know,” I say harshly.
“That night,” he says. “That night I brought you the flowers...”
Now I’m thrown. “That night?” I ask.
“Art and me, we...” He trails off.
“Art?” I ask, my face tense, my hands shaking. “What does Art have to do with this?”
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I feel humiliated and alone. Art. And Reza. Did something happen between them? I was ready for something else, maybe, but not that.
“He gave me a flower,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “And we... I can’t explain it, but I think... I think I like men.”
“Okay, back up,” I say, annoyed now. “You like men... or you like... Art? Because one of those optionsis a lot worse than the other.”
“I am so sorry,” he says, with even more pity. “I love you, Judy.”
Somehow hearing him say he loves me just makes it all so much worse. This hurts so much that Iwantto be angry, because at least anger will mask the pain I’m feeling. “You didn’t answer the question,” I snap. “If you’re going to say something, then just say it.”
“I like men,andI like Art,” he says, like he’s amazed he just said it out loud. “And I love you.”
“Stop saying that!” I yell, pushing him away from me. I stand up, turn away from him. “You can’t love me and do this to me. You don’t get that privilege!”
I grab for my sweater, for the comfort of hiding behind fabric again. I was an idiot to think a guy who wasn’t gay could like me. How could I have been so blind to all the signs right in front of me?
“You can go now,” I say as I put my pants on, my fingers trembling.
“I feel horrible,” he says earnestly. I know he means it, but I don’t care.
“You should,” I say coldly. “You should go rot in hell for what you did to me.”
“I will,” he says, anguished.
“Good, now that we agree, can you leave?” I say bitterly.
Pat Benatar is still singing, but I pick up the needle and turn the record player off. It’s quiet now. Nothing in this room but his duplicity and my humiliation. Hestands up and faces me. He doesn’t say anything. He just looks me in the eyes, and tears flow down his cheeks. I turn my face into steel.
“Go,” I whisper. I want him out before I start crying myself. He doesn’t deserve my tears. What was I thinking dressing myself for him, when I’ve known all along that the only person anyone should dress for is themselves? How did I let myself lose so much of myself in him?
“I don’t want to leave you,” he says. “I want to be here with you. I want to be your friend.”
“You’re not my friend,” I say icily. I want to hurt him like he hurt me.
“Okay,” he says. “I will go.” He doesn’t move.
