But in case it is legit, I say, “I could still use that even being in Redwood City. We cover San Francisco when it’s a hot story.”
He radiates. “You like that? I’ve got a dozen more. I got friends all over the city, people dropping off packages and fixing lighting. You’d be surprised the things they hear. No one ever takes me seriously, though. I’ve emailed tons of SF reporters.”
Well, that’s not good. If he’s already tried reaching out and been cast off, there’s probably a reason. Unsubstantiated rumor, probably. But still, I could use a little boost in my go-to sources.
“I’ll listen. How about I give you my number? Text me tips anytime; we can talk more about them. Eventually I need to get statements on the record, though.”
I give him my forwarding phone number that I use for tips, but I wonder if Erebuni thinks this is how I flirt with men. She hasn’t moved in any way that’s betraying jealousy or annoyance, but I need to make sure I check in with her afterward to let her know this phone number swap is purely business.
He whips out his phone. “I got you.”
So we exchange numbers, and then I pretend like we have to go. Erebuni goes so far as to wave to someone in the crowd.
We squeeze through the patrons, who are getting rowdiernow. I hear a man shout, “Vor me dar, ara,” which I’m fairly sure is a hilariously vulgar way to say, “Why do you care so much, bro?” There’s something about hearing Armenian all around me that makes me feel simultaneously at home and like an outsider. Like, these people are so Armenian, they will swear casually in Armenian, and with perfect accents. I just don’t hear it much in my own life. My mom speaks Armenian occasionally, mostly only with Nene, since she was coaxed out of it by Dad, who always spoke in English. Hell, he changed his name (not legally, but socially) from Boghos to the American translation, Paul. None of his American friends knew it. I grew up really, really American, but with this foundation of Armenianness that never left. I wonder what I missed out on. I wonder how Armenian the people in this room feel. Erebuni, specifically. Do they—does she—feel like me too? Never quite Armenian enough, always an American first? Or do they identify as Armenians first, and are enduring the Americanness around them, fighting off assimilation? I never thought someone telling someone else not to give a damn would stir up ruminations on identity.
Erebuni’s arm brushes up against mine as we move through the crowd, and that wipes away all thoughts but the ones of her. Now I wish I had taken off the jacket. I want to feel the satin of her shirt against my bare arms, the press of her body.
We’re safely away from the thick of the crowd, against the wall of wine barrels. She appears amused as she says, “That’s got to be a record for getting someone’s number.” I’m about to be worried, but her voice hams it up, “And you told me you weren’t interested in these guys.”
She leans fully against the wine barrels. I step in, a tad closer than just friends. “Hey, he could be legit. You never know who’sgoing to help you out in your career, especially with sources. That’s my forwarding number, anyway. But yeah, I see why you didn’t think we’d hit it off as soul mates. Anyone who ‘has a guy’ is probably not going to be a person I’m going to live with happily ever after. But hell if they won’t prove useful in doling out information. So thanks for the intro.”
She crosses her arms casually. “I knew that would happen. That’s why I walked you down there.”
She is being so cheeky, I love it. “Aha, so that’s your witch power. You’re like the Rumpelstiltskin of turning man hunting into career networking.” I look around dramatically, like a nosy church auntie peeking over her glasses. “Who else can we hit before dawn?”
She chuckles, and I’m close enough to hear the little buzz above all this din. “No, I wanted to see what stories Ara would impose on you.” Then she shifts, becoming mildly serious for a moment. “He’s harmless,” she reassures. “But also shameless. I’m surprised he didn’t tell you how much his watch cost. He loves that thing. He might be saving it for your text conversation.” She lowers her voice in mock confidentiality. “Five G’s. He’s told me three separate times.”
I touch my hand to my chest and pretend to swoon. I am living to see her smile, her wide mouth, prominent teeth with incisors so sharp they look vampiric. I can imagine her dragging them across my neck, my arms...
“Should we meet Kevork?”
Ugh, yes, I guess so.But then can we get back to us?That’s what I want to say. Instead: “Sure. Let’s rip it off like a Band-Aid.”
She pushes off from the barrels—springing up to her full height again—and ventures back into the swarm.
“Really? Not going to give me any hints this time before we meet him?”
I can hear her smile in her answer. “Nope, that’s all you get.”
A woman waves Erebuni down and gives her two cheek kisses. And because this woman is quite pretty in her little black dress, a flash of jealousy rises up in me. Then flickers out just as fast, because I know nothing about her, and Erebuni, after saying hello, keeps walking withmeto our next destination.
“You know everyone, huh?”
“Just the same large group of people I see everywhere.”
Makes sense. She plans these events. That’s a whole other level of involvement.
She pauses, then taps the back of my shoulder, and again I’m swearing at this thick jacket denying me closer contact with her. I love the respectful insistency of her tap, though, from what I can feel. She leans in and whispers into my ear. I barely hear her say, “That’s our guy.”
Every inch of my skin prickles.
Please just keep your mouth there, or better yet, bring it closer, lips barely brushing my skin.
I realize my eyes have been closed, so I snap them open so I don’t betray the private moment I was having. There’s our next specimen, and sure enough, I recognize him from the sheet. Pale green eyes that tilt downward, olive skin like Erebuni’s, an ill-fitting brown shirt, and frumpy slacks. His face is kind looking; I hope I’m judging right. He’s standing alone at a two-person high-top table, tapping at his phone. And despite being a jeweler, he is not wearing a single piece of jewelry, not even a watch.
“Parev, Kevork,” Erebuni says. Kevork looks up, a look of serene confusion on his face. She continues, “It’s Erebuni, we met atthe Heros Baghdassarian meet and greet a few months ago. This is my friend Nareh. We were passing by and thought we’d say hi.”
The confusion lifts, but serenity mixed with ennui persists. “Oh. Parev.”
