I make some sort of noise that implies annoyance, and it’s ignored by both of them.
“We go through the list already. I hope now Nareh will make the most of the last two events,” Mom says, throwing me a stern look.
Diana asks, “What about Raffi? Didn’t he say he was going to DM you?”
Oh no. My stomach tightens. I never told them about our Instagram exchange. Not wanting to lie anymore—and maybe, let’s be real, a small part of me wanting to show off that I can get attention from the hottest Armenian bachelor this side of the Mississippi—I answer that yes, we had a short exchange.
Instantly, there’s a synchronous uproar from my mom and Diana, chiding me for not consulting them before responding and demanding to see the messages. I should have known.
I hesitate because I can imagine they’re not going to be pleased with my lackluster response to Raffi’s sexy message.
“Where my glasses?” my mom demands of the world while she runs off to search for them.
There’s my opening. I can just make it up. Diana’s not here to see. Raffi could have commended me for my cutting reporting ongoose poop. I’m already entertaining puns about “fowl smells” when mom’s back at my side, pushing the glasses up her nose. Damn it, opportunity squandered. Fine. I’ll read his message.
I pull up the app and there is Gakhart—Erebuni’s profile, a red beeswax candle dripping all over parchment paper covered in herbs. A slice of fear tears through me at the prospect of being found out, but my mom looks right through it, as if she doesn’t see anything at all. Her non-reaction is instantly devastating to me, and I’m surprised by it. That’s precisely how she views the prospect of me with a woman: nonexistent. But I should cheer up. If by some wild chance Erebuni is into me, it could be a fun hookup and Mom would never be the wiser.
If that was all I wanted.
Briskly, I tap to my direct messages and scroll down to Raffi’s. His username is AlwaysHyeDoctor, with a sexy black-and-white photo of his face that looks professionally taken. Hye means “Armenian” in Armenian, and it sounds exactly likehigh, so you can imagine the cornucopia of puns it’s produced among some groups in the diaspora. But in this case, hopefully Raffi, an actual medical doctor, is not always high.
I read Raffi’s message out loud in a monotone voice, cringing at his “vai jan” because one, he no longer is the aspirational man I thought he was, and two, Mom and Nene are right here, and Diana’s on the phone, and yuck. No.
“Oh my God, he’s so into you,” Diana croons.
Mom shouts into the phone, “Did I understand right? He wants her to take more selfie?” As if I couldn’t answer.
“Ayo, Tantig, he thinks Nareh is beautiful and wants to see more photos of her.”
Mom hugs me. “She is beautiful.”
Diana asks, “Did you respond?”
I read the rest of the exchange, and Diana groans on the other end. “That’s the most boring response possible, Nar. He set you right up. You could have said, ‘What are you willing to do for one?’ or ‘What’s your medical assessment of them, doctor?’ but no.”
I wish she could see the look on my face. “Gross. I’m your cousin, not a soap character.”
She laughs and says, “I know, I know,” right as my mom is saying, “That feels much inappropriate.”
Before she can share another outrageous suggestion, I say, “I didn’t want to come off desperate. Playing it cool is the way, trust me.”
Then a gloss of shame licks at me. Raffi’s already a dead end, and I’m giving them hope. Misdirecting them.
Diana begs me to tell her if he ever messages me again, and I promise her I will, knowing he’s got nothing left to say to me. The squeals from her and my mom should be making me happy right now. I should be celebrating with them. I should have told them about being asked out and be puffing myself up about what an excellent flirt I am to have potentially bagged the ultimate prize man. I could be going on a date with him. Instead I’m some fake-cheery version of myself, and I am not proud. But what am I supposed to do?
We hang up, and I face my mom. “Can I go to bed now?”
“Yes, sleep nine hours and you will have nine men on your arm.”
“There are only eight on the list.”
“Sleep nine, and you’ll find another one.”
After getting myself ready for bed, I’m flopped down on my ruffled comforter doing some last-minute work on my phone. I glance up to give my eyes a break and I catch myOCposter with Marissa pouting down at me.
It reminds me of Trevor somehow. I do the time zone math in my head (Mom would be proud); it’s about seven a.m. in Germany, which means he’s already gone for his morning jog and is getting ready for work. The man’s a machine. Probably doing everything he can to stop thinking about how his ex-girlfriend didn’t say yes to his proposal.
Meanwhile, I’ve gone to two Armenian events already, declined a date, developed a crush, and been presented with a Facebook-stalked hit list of men. Am I terrible? It hasn’t been that long since the combination proposal/breakup.
