He sucks in his breath. Total sacrilege, I know it. “I see. You work very hard. Doesn’t leave a lot of time for other activities?”
What the hell other activities is he getting at? Cross-stitching? I’m hoping he arrives at his point soon because this feels like ablind interview that I’m failing, though I don’t give two powdery lokhums about the outcome. And that’s just annoying and a tad rude. “It’s fairly grueling.”
We’re getting close to the cottage, and there’s a sign right outside it.EXPLORE ARMENIA: BRANDY TASTING. Artur asks, “And you like this, being a hard-working reporter? You want to continue?”
No point in giving him anything but the raw truth. Confession: “Definitely. If anything, I don’t feel I’m doing enough. There’s a lot of room for me to grow and get better. A lifetime’s more work to be done. I can report forever, really.”
As I say the words, I realize how stifled I am at my station. And that goal of improving? I’m not sure how possible it is. The joy of recording and editing the cooking class segment filters up in my mind, and I’m hit with simultaneous longing and worry. I want to do more of those, but Richard is going to keep being a huge blocker unless I change something.
We’re by the door. Artur exposes a quick grimace, then turns it into a thin smile. “I see. Well, it was nice meeting you, Nareh. Have a good time here. God bless.”
He opens the door to the dark interior cottage and walks in without looking back. I swear he’s going to let it slam in my face, but he thinks better of it and holds it open with the tips of his ring and pinkie fingers. And finally people’s voices filter through the opening. I made it.
But what the hell was that? Definitely an interview. Then my mom’s words pop into my mind:I heard he’s looking for a wife. Oh my God, that was my marital fitness interview. And I super failed it. I let out a gasp of a laugh as the ridiculousness of it washes over me. I step one foot into Kiki’s house and get assessed for wifematerial by a priest. Life is good sometimes. I can’t wait to tell Erebuni about it.
Also, now I know why there are only a couple of teensy windows. I’m in a wine cellar. Every wall is lined with barrels, and the ceilings are lit by more Baccarat chandeliers with yellow bulbs, and everything glints in brown and gold. In the middle of the large space is a series of tables set up with the amber bottles of brandy and etched glasses. There are two spiral staircases in the back that lead to a balcony area above, where there are still more bottles and glasses arranged along the counter. And it is buzzing with people, echoing; there’s a thrill of energy in the air like everyone can’t wait to get down to drinking.
I feel someone’s eye on me, and gaze up to see Erebuni. She’s in a bloodred satin shirt that ties in a bow on top, black jeans, and a black leather jacket. She’s wearing low-heeled boots, making her even taller, a pillar among the crowd. Her cheek ticks up in a smile, and I feel mine doing the same.
She doesn’t have to summon me. I wander past the crowds to the spiral staircase and climb, feeling the clank as each heel hits, the cold metal under my palm. She’s there, right as I debark, having found a cozy spot in the corner. We hug, pressing ourselves against each other, and I’m in her flower garden again. I let go first, like I’m too scared of how long I’ll stay if she lets me.
It’s just us tonight. Janette doesn’t drink, and Arek, who I’m getting the impression has a huge crush on Janette, is bowing out in solidarity. Vache is on assignment at an Armenian restaurant in LA that’s going to not only show him secrets behind their two-hundred-year-old apricot cake recipe but also give him part of an apricot tree that originated in Armenia. If you’ve ever had an apricot from Armenia (which I haven’t, but I’ve heard endless storiesabout Armenian fruit), this is apparently as good as gold. He was bummed to miss today’s event, but he told me he would hitchhike to LA if it meant getting that apricot tree. It’s going to be planted in his parents’ backyard in San Jose; they already prepared the area for it.
“You look great,” I say.
“So do you,” she replies, looking me up and down. I feel a bit exposed, and it’s not just the chilly air. I’m wearing a white dress that buttons up the front, tea length with flutter sleeves, a tight bodice, and a loose skirt. We could not look more opposite.
“Thought Atherton would be warmer than San Francisco. I didn’t anticipate being in a fifty-degree wine cellar all evening.”
“You can wear my jacket.” She proceeds to slough it off as she speaks.
I protest, “No, it’s fine. The alcohol will keep me warm.”
“I can see your goose bumps,” she says. I swear I shiver visibly at that because she’s looking at my skin, pulled tight. She hands me the jacket. “I’m wearing long sleeves. We can share it back and forth if that helps you accept it.”
The heft of her leather jacket is in my hands, and I feel a bit sheepish accepting this from her, but on the other hand... I slip it on, and it’s warm from her body, perfumed by her scent, and heavy like she’s hanging over me in a hug. I thank her, and my voice sounds shy.
I mentally clear my throat and say, “You will not believe what just happened to me. You know Artur, the Sargavak?”
“Oh yes, I do. Did he propose marriage to you?”
My breath catches in a laugh. How does she—? “I didn’t pass the wife test. Too tied to my job. So no proposal. How’d you know?”
“He’s on the prowl. He’s already made three marriage offers as far as I know. He’s never spoken to me, though, and I don’t know whether to be relieved or offended.”
I chuckle, and she reflects my smile. She continues. “He must have gotten his gossip about me from Kiki. I swear everything is so black-and-white with some people. Don’t they know that just because you’ve dated women doesn’t mean you only like women? Though that nuance likely doesn’t matter for the wife of a Sargavak, at least not Artur. I heard he’s more on the conservative side. I’m friends with our local Fresno Sargavak and Yeretsgeen—wonderful couple—and they’ve never made a big deal about my sexuality.”
Holy shit, okay. So she’s bi or pan, but she definitely, without a doubt, dates women. And is zero percent afraid to tell me to my face. Afraid, like I’m afraid. If I said it, it would beadmittingit, like it’s a bad thing. I’ve been so conditioned to believe that, I wonder if there’ll ever be an escape from that type of thinking.
Also, I’m realizing that Erebuni isn’t shunned by the community. There are people like Kiki who don’t like her solely because of her sexuality, and the priest didn’t hit on her, so clearly the rumor mill has done its work, but... she’s in a leadership position in an Armenian organization and on the Explore Armenia board. Maybe the winds are changing after all. Then I remember she’s from Fresno, and her parents aren’t here. That makes a difference; she didn’t grow up with these people. No one knows or has to see her family. Not like they would have to see mine. That thought is too terrifying to touch, so I walk away from it.
There’s something else shiny to explore instead. She’s left, intentionally or not, the perfect opening for me. And you know what? Screw it, I’m going to take it, because I don’t want to bescared or ashamed of this part of myself. I won’t be admitting it like a dark secret.
I attempt casualness, like I’m talking about the label of the brandy in front of us. “Or just because you’ve dated mostly men doesn’t mean you’re straight. Maybe I should whisper in Kiki’s ear and get her to spread stuff about me.”
She is welling in front of me, face blooming into joy. Her eyes grow larger, her mouth parts just slightly.
Her voice is low, a little smile forming. “There are benefits. Keeps away the chauvinists.” Ho-ly shit. I don’t know what to say to this, and I am certain I have a stupid smile on my face because I can’t hide my delight.
