“I took it off because I didn’t want to take the spotlight away from Diana, but also mostly because I didn’t say yes.”
She waits a beat, absorbing my final words, then all her features lighten. She crosses herself twice and says, “Thanks to God. He was not right for you, my hokees.”
Then, as if nothing happened, she starts placing the rest of the game cards on the final table. I trail after her, almost indignant.
“Well I didn’t say no. And Dad always liked him.”
That’s an understatement. Dad fawned over Trevor. Thought he was exactly the type of guy I should be with, a real all-American boy who had a regular barber and wore boat shoes. And Trevor was with me the night Dad died. He saw me entirely undone and showed me so much kindness many months later when I was tired of holding up my glossy facade all day. Remembering thatmakes my stomach feel tight. That’s what a person should want out of a relationship. Right?
My mom sighs. “Trevor grew up how your Dad wanted to grow up. He wished he was Trevor, tall and American with university degrees.” Early on, Dad took to him so quickly. He would clap Trevor on the back twice and call him “my boy,” and every part of his face would swell, his moustache spreading wide across his mouth. I miss that expression of his—the pride in me for choosing so well. My stomach turns at what Dad would think now.
She continues. “Anyway, it is your life. I’m not trying to tell you what to do. I’m only saying my opinion about you together.” Then she walks over to the dessert table to straighten out the cupcakes I previously arranged.
In other words, because she agrees with my decision not to accept Trevor’s proposal, she’s not going to launch into the usualopinions. Nothing’s stopped her before: lamenting how he joked that her sarmas looked like deep-sea slugs, or how she always wanted me to be with a classy man, or how some people just didn’t look like a couple. She would also pull some random guys’ names out of thin air, like a Sako Berberian or a Armen Shamlian, and say how they were impressive young men whose parents were pharmacists or professors, and wow, they were still bachelors; how lucky a girl would be to bag one of them. She’s never outright tried to stop me from being with Trevor, because he is handsome, with a promising career, and those virtues go a long way in my mom’s book. But she’s always been passive-aggressive about him.
Then I wonder if my mom’s thoughts on Trevor did secretly sink their hooks into me. If that was the real reason I turned himdown last night. She’s always been there, hovering around my every decision, but with Trevor, I thought I blocked her out. A white guy, an odar; talk about him all you want, it’s not going to change my mind. But God, of course she got into my head. There it is again—this party dress feels suffocating.
My mom spins around all of a sudden. “Wait. Is he not in Denmark right now?”
“Germany.” His first love.
“He works hard, and he’ll get far. That’s one good thing about him.” She’s giving me whiplash with her Trevor takes, but that’s Mom. She straightens out the ribbons on a nearby table. “So what are you going to do during this time? Make a pro and con list like in that show? You know, with the blond woman. Tall? Sometimes her hair looks oily on top—”
She interrupts herself, like she’s been possessed. Her hand is stopped over a piece of golden pomegranate decor.
“You will go to Explore Armenia,” she whispers.
It takes me a second to realize she’s talking about that big Armenian event that happens every three years, the one she was nagging me about yesterday. Must have been the pomegranate that reminded her—Armenians are obsessed with them, a symbol of fertility and abundance. We have five of them in our house, a modest number.
“Uh, yeah, we’re going to that final event.” I inwardly groan thinking about how my mom has signed me up for some overpriced, boring-as-nails banquet. But a small part of me rustles for attention, reminding me that Mom is finally going out again after Dad’s passing, and I should be supportive of this.
Plus, the keynote speaker is going to be Congresswoman Susan Grove, who represents the fourteenth congressional district,which is the one my newsroom covers. She’s a quarter Armenian and tends to champion Armenian causes, so somehow the Explore Armenia committee ensnared her into showing up at their party. Mark (evil Mark) usually sits in the press pit when she gives announcements, but I’ve never gotten to meet her. What if I could cover the banquet? She might be willing to give a quote. Ugh, that’s stupid, though. I’m dreaming that I could land an exclusive interview with a congresswoman. That’s “out of my lane,” as my boss would say.
My mom is smiling now, a big optimistic grin. “You will go to the other events, too. The men there, they’re looking for Armenian women to marry. There is a reason they do the events all through June. Very romantic.”
Oh God. This is so like her: Five minutes after she finds out I rejected Trevor’s proposal she tries to set me up with Armenian guys. My body tightens in defense. “I hate to dash your hopes, but I’ve barely processed what happened last night. Now’s not the time.”
My tone doesn’t register. I see it in her eyes, she’s ready for battle. “Now’s the perfect time. I will call Nora Tereian and—”
She halts midsentence because the first guests have arrived, thank God. They’re family friends who she and I both adore but who commit the terrible faux pas of arriving early at every event. For Armenians, on time is early, thirty minutes late is on time, and everything after two hours is late. Showing up before the event’s start time is borderline unforgivable. But we give them huge smiles and hugs. The older woman compliments the room and says to me, “Darosuh kezee.” It means “May you have the same luck,” as in, “May you snag a good man soon.” From her expression I can tell it comes from a kind place, but all it does isremind me that I had that luck, but I said no. I tell myself to stop thinking about that; it’s time to play hostess.
•••
The bridal showeris wrapping up, and everything has been going perfectly—on paper anyway—except for Diana’s elementary school music teacher who’s offended by her placement at the old ladies’ table and made a rude comment to Diana’s mom. Otherwise, technically flawless. I gave my speech—short and sweet (insert “Just like me!” joke here)—while transported outside my body, as if someone else inhabited me. That’s how it’s been the whole shower; I can joke around with Diana’s and my absolute favorite cousins who came up from LA, make small talk with my old piano teacher, and buzz around doing host duties, but I might as well be some false Nar double doing a perfect imitation of me.
Not Diana. She—my perfect cousin who is three inches taller than me, slimmer, with thicker hair, and marrying an Armenian guy to boot—looked genuinely radiant all day. She feigned an unrushed demeanor while tearing open the ten thousand gifts she received as fast as she could while gushing over each and every single one and thanking the gift giver. There’s something about Diana where she can actually exist in and appreciate the present moment. She doesn’t immediately start planning for the future or bury herself in comforting past memories when things get tough. I envy her that.
After the last guest leaves, it’s just me, my mom, Diana, and her mom on cleanup duty. And Nene, who straight up ignores the hubbub around her and seems relieved to be back into her novel of madeleine-induced stream of consciousness. Diana’s fiancé, Remi—who appeared in the last fifteen minutes of the showerwith a bouquet for Diana, to many squeals of delight—is also here, moving boxes of china and kitchen appliances into her car.
I’m spent and full, verging on sick, due to all the pistachio macarons and buttercream cake and crunchy Armenian pastries dripping in glossy rosewater. It might not be just the food, either. Something one of Diana’s tantigs said keeps running through my head, not letting my brain rest (and no, it wasn’t the time this same auntie informed me of my weight gain at a funeral. I was five). She was gushing to Diana about how her kids will go to the Armenian school (I mean, yes, tantigs make these assumptions if you get married) and how they’ll help carry on our language. My mind immediately jumped to Trevor: how dismissive he’s always been about my Armenianness; how while I was on the phone with Diana and said a couple of phrases in Armenian, he jokingly told me to “stop talking that devil language.” There’s a difference between marrying an odar who respects your culture and one who is... like Trevor. I can’t help but think the branch of Armenianness would be snapped off with any children I had with Trevor. And suddenly that bothers me.
I wrap up one of the tablecloths, now stained with frosting smears and champagne spills, and toss it in the rentals bag. I try to feel how satisfying the takedown is, how I can clean and clear and put everything in the place it belongs.
But my brain won’t stop. I keep hearing that phrase I heard directed at me so many times today:Darosuh kezee.Every single one felt like a cut. Because if I had said yes, would that be the kind of daros I want?
In the corner of the room Diana’s mom has stopped working to pull Diana close in a hug and tell her how happy she is for her.There’s an immediate tug in my stomach that’s sad, longing for the same. And as if the scene can’t get any more sentimental, her fiancé strides up a moment later, pulling both of them into a hug and calling Diana’s mom “mayrig,” which means “mother” in Armenian. The two of them share a look of affection so sincere, it feels like I’m intruding. They are both completely synced and reveling in how lucky they got. I look away.
My stomach clenches with grief. I’m happy for Diana; this feeling has nothing to do with her. I just... Now that I see Diana and her fiancé and mom together, and now that I’ve gotten so close to being engaged myself, I feel how wide the gulf is between my scenario and hers. With Trevor, I will never have what she has. Maybe never with any odar.
