Page 65 of Like a Love Story
“Guess I know what it feels like now,” she says. “Thinking you need to keep the peace ’cause your sibling is rocking the boat so hard.”
I look at her and nod.
Then she stands up and gives me her hand. “Comeon,” she says. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“You tell me where Art lives,” she says with a radiant smile, “and I’ll tell you where we’re going.”
I let her guide me up and then out of the bathroom. As we make our way to the front door, we see my mom, Abbas, and Saadi eating Chinese food in the dining room. “Are you joining us?” Abbas says.
“We’re going out for a walk,” Tara tells them. She’s holding the container of sesame chicken and places it on the table in front of them.
“We’ll keep some food for you both,” my mom says with a sad smile.
“Thanks,” I say.
There it is. Denial. We’re all denying everything that just happened. Only Saadi’s hateful glare reminds me of what I just did.
My sister leads me out into the cold, and I lead her toward Art’s building. She asks the doorman to tell Art we’re here to see him, and the doorman tells us Art left recently. So we sit on the stoop and wait. And then I see him. I would recognize that walk from miles away. The swinging hands. The frenetic legs, like they’re always in a rush to get to the next destination.
“Oh my God, Reza,” he says, when he sees me. “How did it go? Did you... Did they...”
“Can we not talk about it?” I ask desperately.
Tara stands up. She gives Art a quick hug, then says, “Okay, I think I’m gonna go see my own secret man now.”
“Have fun,” Art says. His voice is shaky. I can tell he hasn’t had an easy time of it either. I wonder if he was with Judy. I am almost sure he was.
Before leaving, Tara takes my hands, pulls me up, and hugs me tight. “Don’t let them stop you from enjoying this fine-ass guy,” she whispers.
And then she leaves. And Art and I are alone.
“Where were you?” I ask.
“Can we not talk about it?” he responds.
We stand in front of each other. I won’t talk about what happened with my mom. He won’t talk about what happened with Judy. I glance to my side, aware of the doorman watching us. “Can we go somewhere?” I ask. “Somewhere happy.”
“Where do you want to go?” he asks. “I’ll take you anywhere.”
“San Francisco,” I say, joking. “The gayest place on earth.”
He laughs. “A slightly impractical choice,” he says. “Though it can be arranged after graduation.” Then his eyes light up. “Wait, I know exactly where we’re going,” he says.
He takes my gloved hand in his, which feels awkward. Almost instinctively, we both take our gloves off and hold each other’s hands. Who needs gloves when you’ve got the heat of passion anyway? The doorman’s eyebrows rise when he sees our hands clutch each other, but at the moment, I don’t care. Let him stare. Let Art’s parents reject him. Let my mom deny me. Right now, allthat matters is my skin against his.
He leads me south, then west, until I hear the hum of crowds and the twinkling sound of Christmas music. And then we turn a corner, and I see it. The Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. It’s so tall, so bright. “A happy place,” he says. “Obviously, ignore Christianity’s intense homophobia and focus on the real spirit of Christmas.”
“Come on,” I say, smiling. “Let’s go ice-skating.”
We rush toward the line and wait our turn to get skates. We lace each other’s skates up. Second to second, the mood changes. Becomes lighter. Our parents and Judy and the world feel farther away, until we’re on the ice and it’s like we’re part of a mass of happy people floating on a frozen cloud. We skate side by side, laughing, racing, twirling. And then her voice booms over the loudspeakers. Madonna. She’s singing “Santa Baby.” Just for us.
I must be excited by hearing Madonna’s voice, because I make a false step and fall. But he catches me. I’m in his arms now. He guides me up, toward him, my face hovering so close to his.
I want to believe we’re the only two people in the world, and on the ice, but my eyes can’t help but dart around. I see families, children, straight couples, people who could hurt us. “Art,” I say, shaky. “There are so many people here.”
“They don’t matter,” he says, so sure of himself.
