Like a Love Story

by Abdi Nazemian

  I don’t know what to say. I wish I could see into the future, see if I’ll make him proud. Because that’s all I want right now. To guarantee that I will. To live a life that’s worthy of him.

  “If you ever meet Madonna, if you ever make clothes for her, will you ask her a question?” This is how his mind works these days, going from one thought to another without explanation.

  “Um, of course,” I say.

  “Can you ask her why Joe DiMaggio is in her ‘Vogue’ rap?”

  I shake my head. Laugh a little. “Seriously, Uncle Stephen?”

  “He doesn’t fit. Greta Garbo. Marilyn. Dietrich. Brando. Jimmy Dean. Jean Harlow. And then, DiMaggio? He’s an athlete. He struck balls, not poses. It makes no sense. I know it rhymes, but couldn’t she have worked a little harder to find a rhyme for, I don’t know, Joan Crawford or Barbara Stanwyck or Ava Gardner or poor, sweet Judy?”

  “Uncle Stephen,” I say, with all the conviction I can muster, “I promise you that if I ever meet her, I’ll ask her that question. I promise.”

  “Good,” he says, nodding. “I’m glad I stuck around long enough to hear that song. It makes me happy that kids today will know who Rita Hayworth is.”

  “They weren’t all lucky enough to have Sunday movie nights with their amazing uncle,” I say.

  “I’m the lucky one,” he says, smiling at me with love. “I got to watch you grow into the beautiful woman you are.”

  I feel a sharp ache. I’m not done growing up, and I don’t know how to keep growing up without him.

  My mom turns her wet eyes to me. “My beautiful daughter,” she says, wiping her eyes like she’s trying to see me more clearly. Then, turning to Stephen, she adds, “And my beautiful big brother.”

  Jimmy arrives first. He sits on the floor next to me and clutches Stephen’s hand. Stephen smiles when he sees him. They nod in solidarity. “Is there anything you want me to tell Walt?” Stephen asks.

  Jimmy shakes his head. He can’t get a word out, but eventually he croaks, “Just tell the fool I miss him.”

  “Jimmy,” Stephen says, “thank you.”

  “Shut up,” Jimmy says. “I didn’t do anything except keep you company, and you kept me company. And now . . .”

  “Don’t let go,” Stephen says. “Fight it harder than I did. Finish that novel before you go.”

  Jimmy nods. “I’ll try.”

  My dad arrives next. He doesn’t say much, my father of few words. But he’s here, with us, and that’s all that matters.

  Art and Reza arrive together. Art doesn’t have his camera around his neck. Maybe he forgot it in the rush. Or maybe this is a moment he doesn’t want to document, a moment he wants to experience without the remove of a lens. Reza looks apprehensive, unprepared to be here. And yet, I think, he’s the one with the most direct experience with loss and with death. But maybe that doesn’t matter. Maybe experiencing death once doesn’t prepare you for experiencing it again. Death isn’t something you can practice.

  Art and Reza sit next to me and Jimmy, the four of us on the floor, my mom on the couch. Stephen is enveloped in tenderness. He looks around at all of us. “Judy, Art, Reza.” Stephen says our names slowly, methodically, and then, even more slowly, he says, “Don’t forget me.”

  “Are you kidding? No one who ever met you could forget you,” Art says, tears running down his face.

  “Not just me,” Stephen says, looking to Jimmy. “Us. All of us. What we did. What we fought for. Our history. Who we are. They won’t teach it in schools. They don’t want us to have a history. They don’t see us. They don’t know we are another country, with invisible borders, that we are a people. You have to make them see.” Stephen takes a strained breath. “You have to remember it. And to share it. Please. Time passes, and people forget. Don’t let them.”

  “We won’t,” Art says, and I can feel just how much he means it.

  Stephen closes his eyes. “We took care of each other, didn’t we?” he asks. “This community. Gay people will make the best parents. Someday. Just look how we took care of each other. When no one else would.”

  “We’re family,” Jimmy says.

  Stephen pulls out the final two jelly beans from the pot. He turns to Jimmy. “This one is Walt,” he says. “And this one is José. Our great loves.”

  “Reduced to jelly beans,” Jimmy says with a sad smile.

  Stephen looks at each of us now, his gaze moving from Jimmy to Art to Reza to me, and finally resting on my mom, his sister, who has never known a world without him. Neither have I.

  He closes his eyes.

  And then he’s gone.

  I can hear the sobs of my friends around me, or are they my own? My mom places a hand on his forehead and speaks before anyone else. “He was loved,” she says.

  She’s right, but to me, nothing about this man will ever be past tense.

  I whisper, “He is love.”

  Reza

  I need supplies. I walk to a pharmacy as soon as it opens, when it’s still empty and free of other staring customers. I purchase condoms and lube. Everything I need to lose my virginity. As I place the items on the pharmacy counter, I feel my face heat up. I can only imagine how red I am, how fiercely my embarrassment shows. But I go through with the transaction. I pay for the items. I look the cashier in the eyes and say thank you with as much confidence as I can muster.

  Then I need a place, somewhere private. I knock on my sister’s door, pharmacy bag in hand. I called her and told her there was something important I needed to talk to her about. She answers the door in a silk nightie, her messy hair tied above her head with a scrunchie. She waves me in with a yawn and a tired “Hey.”

  “Long night?” I ask.

  “I’m a bartender,” she says, annoyed. “Every night is a long night.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say sincerely. “I, um, how is work these days?”

  “I love nothing more than getting ogled by gross guys,” she says, her voice laced with sarcasm. “And pouring them liquor that makes them act even grosser as the night goes on. On the bright side, I’m drinking less. Being around nasty drunks has made me realize how unattractive being wasted is. And I’m all about being hot.”

  I smile. “I’m sorry, that sounds tough,” I say nervously, because I know what I’m about to ask her might be a little awkward.

  She leads me to the kitchen. There’s a small wooden table by the window, three mismatched chairs around it. “Well, maybe Mom will get her wish and I’ll go back to college,” she says with a shrug. I choose a chair and sit. “Tea? Coffee? Leftover ramen?” she asks. “I cooked it myself, and by cooked, I mean that I poured boiling water over it.”

  I shake my head. “I, uh, needed to talk to you,” I say.

  She pours herself some coffee and sits next to me. After a sip, she puts her hand over mine. “How are you doing?” she asks. “I know you were close to Judy’s uncle. I’m so sorry, Zabber. This disease sucks.”

  I nod. “I knew him, I guess, but . . . not like Judy and Art did.”

  “Grief isn’t a competition,” she says. She looks at me piercingly, and I realize we never spoke about our dad’s death. Maybe I was too young. Maybe I resented her too much back then. Maybe she resented me.

  “I know,” I say, nodding. “I’m sad, but I’m sad for Judy and Art and Judy’s mom more than anything else, if that makes sense.”

  “Sure it does,” she says. She looks at me for a long time, sipping her coffee, waiting for me to say something. Finally, she asks, “Okay, what’s up? Why’d you get me out of bed?”

  “I, um . . . ,” I stammer. “I was wondering if you would be okay with . . . It’s just . . . See, the thing is that I can’t go to Art’s because his parents wouldn’t let us . . . and I don’t dare bring him over anymore because it would hurt Mom—”

  “It’s okay to hurt Mom, you know,” she says. “I’ve made a career of it. I live with Massimo, I’m a bartender, and life goes on. You’re gay now, and l
ife goes on.”

  “But it wouldn’t be fun for us,” I say, blushing. “We need privacy.”

  “What wouldn’t be fun?” she asks. And then her eyes open wide, and she laughs. She takes the scrunchie out of her hair and tousles it so it falls wildly around her shoulders. “Oh my God, are you asking me if you can use our apartment to have sex with Art?”

  I can’t see myself, but I can only imagine how fiercely my embarrassment shows.

  “Is this the first time?” she asks, giddy.

  I nod.

  “Do you promise to use condoms?” she asks, with no hint of fear or judgment.

  I pull a box of condoms out of the pharmacy bag, and she looks impressed. Then she stands up and screams with excitement.

  “I’m so proud of you,” she says, taking my hands and lifting me up to hug me. “My little brother is becoming a man.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I say.

  I hear Massimo enter the kitchen, his voice raspy and exhausted. “What’s going on?” he asks, going straight for the coffee. He’s wearing nothing but white boxers that are practically see-through. “Why are you screaming?”

  “I’m taking you out to dinner tonight,” Tara says to Massimo gleefully.

  “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 empathy than 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’ve become 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.

  “We should take those boots off,” I say.

  “Go ahead,” he says, smiling slyly.

  I move toward his feet and try to pull the boots off unsuccessfully. I pull harder and harder, to no avail. We laugh, and I’m grateful for the laughter.

  “Let me help you,” he says, sitting up and yanking the boots off. He throws them onto the floor with a thud. We sit in front of each other for a moment. “Guess we should take the rest off, right?” he says.

  “Okay,” I say. A wave of excitement passes through me at the thought of us naked together.

  He starts first. He peels his tight ripped jeans off in the blink of an eye, and then his tank top. And finally, with a smile, his underwear. He waves his underwear around in the air and tosses it at me. I duck and laugh.

  “Your turn,” he says.

  “Yeah,” I say, every part of me thrumming with anticipation.

  I can feel my arms shaking as I slowly take off my black jeans and my T-shirt. I pause before taking my underwear off. I search his eyes for the reassurance I need. “Art,” I whisper. I want to tell him I’m scared, but I know he knows that. So I just whisper his name again. I like feeling it on my tongue. “Art.” And then again, more decisively, “Art.”

  We lie naked next to each other, and we kiss for what feels like either a split second or an eternity. It’s a kiss that stops time. There is no past or future, just this moment, just this kiss.

  Time starts again when he removes his lips from mine and kisses the back of my ears, my neck, my shoulders, my chest. He works his way down. “I want to kiss every part of you,” he says. And he does. When he takes me inside his mouth, it’s almost over.

  “Wait, slow down,” I beg him. And then, when he does, I just repeat, “Wow. Wow. Wow.” I must sound like an idiot, but I don’t care. I don’t feel like an idiot. I feel like me.

  I pull him back up when I can’t take any more, and I do the same to him. I kiss and lick every inch of skin on his body, tasting the expanse of him, drawing him into me. The moment my lips leave his neck, I miss it already. Then when they leave his chest, I miss that. I want all of him, all at once, all the time.

  “I love you,” I whisper, my breath heavy.

  “Me too,” he says, laying me on my back and finding his way on top of me.

  I turn to the bedside table and grab a condom. I give it to him with a smile and a nod. “Wow,” he says. “Wow, I didn’t think . . .”

  “What?” I ask, mischievous. “You thought I’d remain like a virgin forever?”

  He beams. A hand on my che
ek, he says softly, “Quien es este niño? Who’s that boy?”

  I realize I’m a new person now, the person I’ve been waiting to be. I feel it’s only right to quote Madonna back to him, so I kiss him once more, then whisper, “I’m a young boy with eyes like the desert that dream of you, my true blue.”

  His smile radiates love. “True blue,” he repeats.

  He tries to open the condom wrapper but fumbles with it. He tries his teeth. I grab it from him and tear it open. I try to put it on him, doing my best to block out why the condom is necessary, trying to forget all those images of death and disease. My hands shake as I place the condom on him. “I think you’re putting it on upside down,” he says, laughing.

  “Really?” I turn it over and try it the other way. It finally slides on.

  He smiles. I smile. We have a layer of protection between us now. He squeezes some lube onto him, then onto me. I wrap my legs around him, pulling him closer to me, or deeper into me, because he’s in me now. We thrust and grunt and sweat until we almost fall off the bed.

  “I need to catch my breath,” he says. Then, with a smile, he adds, “I think this is the first team sport I like.”

  I laugh. “I’m sure your dad would be very proud if you tried out for the varsity sex team.”

  This makes him laugh. “Like an athlete,” he jokes. Then he whispers tenderly, “Reza, are you doing this because you want to, or because you think it’ll make me stay?”

  I kiss his neck, tasting his salty sweat. I lick the skin behind his earlobe, a hidden piece of him that feels all mine. “Maybe I thought about that,” I say. “But that’s not why I changed my mind. Whether you stay here or go west, I needed to do this. You had to be my first.”

  He nods, then shakes his head. “Hey, why are we talking so much? Aren’t we supposed to be having mad, hot, passionate sexual intercourse right now?”

  “You started talking!” I laugh.

  “Me?” he asks, a roguish grin across his face. “You’re the one inventing new school sports.”

  “Shut up,” I say, blushing. “Or I’ll never let you onto the junior varsity blow job team.”