Page 101 of Like a Love Story
Then Art whispers the final words of the card still resting near them. “Love is our legacy,” he says.
“Love is our legacy,” Reza repeats.
I feel a wave of gratitude that these two found each other. The idea that Reza and I were once a couple seems absurd. I’ll find my true first love someday. And when I find him, I’ll never let him go like Art is letting Reza go. Never.
“I didn’t deserve you,” Art says to Reza.
“Shut up,” Reza says. “You did, and you do. And if you change your mind...” Reza doesn’t finish the sentence. If Art changes his mind, Reza will be waiting. I will, too.
I look at the time and approach them. “You’re going to miss your flight,” I say.
We leave the store and walk toward the security line. Art has his camera around his neck, and he points it at me and Reza. He snaps a photo.
“Really?” I ask, shaking my head lovingly.
“I want to remember this moment,” he says, smiling.
“You better come visit,” I say sadly.
“I’ll be here for my MoMA show next year,” he says jokingly.
I smile. Art dreams big, and he’s always let me dream big. “And I’ll be in San Francisco next year. They’re closing down the Golden Gate Bridge and turning it into a catwalk for my debut show.”
We both turn to Reza, wanting him to play the game, to make some grand proclamation of where he’ll be next year. “Stop looking at me,” he says. “I don’t even know what I want to do yet.”
“Just tell us what you dream about,” Art says. “In your wildest dreams, what would you be?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “Happy?”
“Everyone wants that!” Art says. “It’s a cop-out of an answer. Say you want to be an astronaut, or you want to cure AIDS, or you want to be a movie star, or Madonna’s manager.”
“I think,” Reza says longingly, “I’d like to be a father someday. To have my own family. Does that count?”
Art looks genuinely surprised, like it’s the last answer he was expecting. “Yeah,” he says finally. “It counts.”
We stare at each other for a few moments, and then I say, “You really are gonna miss your flight, Art.”
“Okay,” he says. “Well, I guess this is adieu then.”
I smile. One of Stephen’s favorite songs is “Comment Te Dire Adieu,” and it’s like he’s here with us when Art uses that word.
“Okay,” I say.
“Good luck,” Reza says, and he gives Art a hug.
They clutch each other, their hands on each other’s necks, like they’re bottling this moment so they can drink it in when they’re apart.
When they let go, Art pulls me into a hug. I feel like I could stay here forever, in his arms, like we’re one being, sharing a heartbeat, finishing each other’s sentences. Who else knows who I had a crush on when I was ten, and how terribly my first attempt at shaving my legs went? Who else will understand when I want to quote old movies?
“Hey, don’t let anyone else call you Frances,” he says with deadpan seriousness. “You’ll always bemyFrances.”
I don’t know what to say to him, so I say nothing. I just pull away from him and look deep into his eyes. They’re moist. Mine are too. I nod. I’ll always be his Frances. And he’ll always be my best friend.
He walks away from us backward, waving his hand, until he bumps into a lady, who doesn’t seem amused. Then he turns around, facing away from us, and disappears into the crowds going through the security lines, headed to different cities, other countries, fresh starts.
Reza and I stand there for a moment, frozen. Above us is the list of all the destinations planes are headed to. Some flights are boarding, some delayed. The departure times changing on the screen mesmerize us, and Reza says, “If you could pick one city from that list and go right now, which would it be?”
“Do I get to take anyone I want?” I say. “Because it’s not really the city that matters; it’s the people I’m with.”
