Page 95 of Like a Love Story
“Okay,” he says, unexcited. “Is it a special dinner?”
“It is,” she says. “Because while we’re at dinner, Reza and Art will be here. In our apartment. Getting. It. On.” Tara cracks herself up, but Massimo barely reacts.
“Okay, I think I should go,” I say, embarrassed. “I’ll come back tonight. Thanks.”
When I’m back home, I call Art’s home. I can’t wait to tell him to meet me at Tara’s this evening. His mother answers the phone.
“Hello?” Her voice makes me wonder if she’s been crying.
“Mrs. Grant, it’s Reza,” I say tentatively. “I’m calling for Art.”
“How are you, Reza?” she asks, with more empathythan I’ve ever heard from her.
“Okay,” I say.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she says.
“Thank you,” I say. I don’t know which loss she’s speaking of. Is it the loss of Stephen, who she seemed to hate? Or is it the loss of Art, who is threatening to go to Berkeley instead of Yale, leaving us for another ocean?
“Here’s Art,” she says.
“Hey,” Art says when he gets on.
“Will you meet me at my sister’s place tonight?” I ask boldly.
“Sure. Is she hosting us or something?”
“No, she won’t be there,” I say. “It’ll just be... us.”
He takes a few breaths as he puts it together. Then he whispers, “Wow. Reza, of course I will meet you at your sister’s empty apartment. You know I will.”
Now that I’ve made the decision, I can’t wait for it to be tonight. I don’t know what to do with myself in the intervening hours, so I start by running a bath and I soak. I close my eyes. That is when I hear a ghost, but it’s not Stephen this time. It’s my dad. He’s outside the bathroom door, screaming at me. In Iran, I used to take baths to escape his rage, but his voice would pierce the calm, even when I submerged myself under water.Go away, I scream at him in my head. But he doesn’t. He’s telling me all the things I know he would’ve said if he were alive. That I am disgusting. That I am an embarrassment, and a disappointment, and dead to him now.You’re dead, I think.You’re dead. And I’m finally starting to live.
When I leave, I don’t tell my mom where I’m going, and she doesn’t ask. That’s the thing about her denial. It stops her from asking me anything she’s too scared to hear the answer to. She pretends to believe me when I say I’m going to a study group at night, or that I’m going to Maryland for a school trip. She doesn’t ask anything, and I don’t offer anything. It makes me so sad, but it’s better than anger or rejection. At least that’s what I tell myself.
I make my way to Tara’s apartment. She opens the door and hugs me hard before she goes. Massimo awkwardly pats my shoulder before saying goodbye. I can tell he’s probably not all that comfortable with this scenario, but also too in love with my sister to say much. I pace the apartment until the buzzer rings.
Art.
The time it takes for him to walk up the stairs is interminable, but the moment I see him, all my anxieties turn into excitement. I’ve wanted him for so long. Why have I been so scared of letting myself have him?
“Hi,” he says, as he kicks the door closed behind him.
“Hi,” I say, blushing.
“So, um, this is a surprise,” he says. “I mean, I didn’t think you would—”
I cut him off with a kiss, holding the back of his head, pulling him into me.
“Wow,” he says when I let him go. “Who’s brazen now?”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Was that too much?” I realize I’vebecome accustomed to him being the aggressor, and to me resisting. Maybe I’m no good at making moves.
“No, no,” he says, smiling. “That was perfect.”
“Okay,” I say. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I just know I want to do it.”
I guide him to Tara and Massimo’s bedroom and close the curtains. We fall into bed together, and I keep kissing him. There’s no aggressor anymore. We’re both initiating everything, like our bodies are synced up to the same rhythm. When I pull away from him, he’s lying down and I notice his combat boots on the white sheets.
