But. Oh God. The banquet. The one my entire extended family has tickets to, including Mom. Erebuni and I, we’ve never talked about it. The moth has disappeared, and with it, so have the little plinks, but I feel no relief. Maybe it finally got zapped dry.
My face must have faltered, because Erebuni asks with tenderness, “Are you okay?”
Other than the fact that I have no idea how I’m going to juggle my secret girlfriend with my probably homophobic family, yeah. It’s too big. A giant block of panic I can’t begin to unpack. I want to focus on this beautiful gesture Erebuni is doing for me, not ruin it with the layers of shame and pressure that are building up around the implications of our relationship.
I brush away her concern. “My boss has been so negative about me lately anytime I try to rise from my position. I’m not the kind of person to stir up trouble.”
I immediately feel like an asshole for saying it. She’s presented me with a career-changing gift (at some cost to her, I’m sure), and I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but I want to be realistic with her about how this might go down at work.
She peers at me with intent. She’s not upset. “I never told you this, but I watched a lot of your segments.” Then she instantly blushes, aware of what that means. I’m smiling. I can’t help but think about her stalking my stories the way I peeped her Instagram. Her head gives a little wobble, and it’s so endearing, her shyness. “I know,” she waves me off. “I had a crush! But I wanted to tell you, I sensed a hesitance in some of your stories, like you were doubting yourself.”
She noticed—? I never thought of myself that way, but at the same time, the moment she says it, the words ring of truth, and I know what she’s talking about. Something always feels missing while I’m reviewing footage of myself. I was never sure what it was. I assumed it was my posture or lipstick or that I was plainly less talented than other reporters. I marvel at her eye, her ability to see what I couldn’t about my own damn self.
She touches my arm, like,Wait, I’m about to give you good news. It’s agony to not pull her closer to me, press myself against her. Not yet. I want to be a good listener. “But when you did the cooking class, that vanished. You were full of pride. When you posted about the class on Instagram, the same thing. Your writing was crisp. It came from a place of strength. I know you can be that person.”
She is so sincere in her words, in the way she doesn’t break eye contact, that I can’t help but believe her. I need to believe her, that I can be more than the reporter who takes on the garbage no one else wants. I’ve been getting in my own way. Okay, that and probably some systemic sexism, but I haven’t been helping my cause.
But what if breaking political news isn’t what I want to cover? The cooking class, interviewing Congresswoman Grove at the banquet, these are slower stories. Slow doesn’t mean worse, not by any means. But I’m seeing now how I prefer this type of storytelling. Part of me resists the thought; I should want to be a shark, pushing my way into the news like Mark, interviewing bereaved family members fresh in shock, pulling my camera out when conflict arises (instead of,eep, calculating whether I can fit under the audience chairs like I did today). What if that isn’t me, though? The thought is too terrifying. No, the news is who I am. Dad’s vision for me that I’ve been proud to fulfill. For now, I need to concern myself with convincing Richard to let me interview Congresswoman Grove if Erebuni can pull off her part. That’s it.
Trying to sound more confident than I am, I say, “I’ll do my best. Let me know if she’ll agree to the interview, and if so, I’ll put together the shiniest pitch so Richard won’t be able to refuse.”
She leans back, seems satisfied. Now I have more motivation to get this piece on air; I don’t want to let Erebuni down. I hearher words again,a place of strength, and think, yes, I can tap into that. Okay, I’m doing it. Me. The reporter covering the annual Redwood City corgi parade no more.
We finish up, occasionally pressing up closer on each other. We walk to my car, holding hands under the muggy sky. Gaggles of students rush by us, drunk and shopping for records at Amoeba, and I marvel at how young they seem. Not sure when that happened, when I wasn’t one of them. They listen to different music, have different inside jokes, have different heroes. And the most notable difference between us—or rather, between the me then and the me now—is that before, I had only myself on the line. As a student, I had an independence I didn’t fully appreciate—whether or not I succeeded or failed impacted only me. There seems to be so much at stake now.
Erebuni’s hand slides against mine, and though we’re together now, I’m already planning the next time I can see her. We could go on a date, hopefully before the banquet this weekend. God, the whole family-at-the-party thing keeps cropping back up in my mind. But I’m here with Erebuni in this moment, and I refuse to let that ruin our time together. I have a lot of faith in future Nar. She’ll come up with a brilliant plan that I wouldn’t possibly be able to think up now.
We reach my car, parked on a tree-lined residential street quite a few blocks away from campus. It’s a pretty street; there’s a murmur of leaves in the wind. I don’t want her to leave, but I also can’t invite her over—my mom and all. I wonder if she’d... I unlock the car and motion toward the back seat. “Can I interest you in a car make-out session?”
She reaches for the handle. “Like teenagers in the high school parking lot.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, she climbs in, and I press in after her. “You speak from experience?”
“Perhaps,” she says suggestively, impishly. I love when she’s like this.
I drape my legs over her, and I want to kiss her and roll around back here and forget that there’s anything bigger, but I can’t leave it hanging. She’s a badass woman—in her thirties for God’s sake—and I’m giving her the seventeen-year-old treatment. “I’m sorry to make you have to throw it back to high school. My place isn’t—it’s awkward with my mom and all.”
Her arm wraps around my back. “I understand.” She hesitates for a moment. “But, Nar, I like you. I want you to know.”
I’m totally frozen. She likes me. I mean, I know, after what happened in her home, that she doesn’t dislike me, but the way she said it—there’s more meaning behind thislike. I can’t move, because I want what she’s saying to be real so badly, and I feel like one tweak and the spell will be broken. She continues, “I hope this isn’t just a hookup for you. That’s fine, of course, but I’d hope differently.”
My whole soul grows bigger. This is—I mean, part of me figured, our texting, meeting all manner of her friends, inviting me to all kinds of events. It’s not the trajectory you take for a casual hookup buddy. But hearing her say it, confirming that she wants this to be more, it fills me to bursting. I want it, too. Forget all the outside noise and the voices telling me,This is a harder path. You’re going to regret it and hurt your family.Those voices aren’t coming from a place of love. And I know, yes, we’re in the goddamn back seat of my car right now because I can’t take her home, but I wouldn’t take anyone home this soon anyway. Let it be just us for a little while. Then the rest of the world.
I make sure she can see, in my eyes, my openness and seriousness. “No, it’s not just a hookup for me. I like you, too. A lot. If you weren’t sure of that, it’s only because I’m holding back so I don’t look like an obsessive fangirl. This means a lot to me. You do.”
She speaks, her voice so breathy it sounds like she’s writing in cursive, “I’m not the only one, then.”
“You’re not.”
I kiss her, then lie back, inviting her to climb on top of me. She kisses my neck slowly, deliberately, and the ginkgo tree outside twinkles under the streetlamp. The heavy clouds give way to a light rain that dots the window, and I am transported; I’m in a beautiful place, inside a glowy pool at night with the woman I am falling for.
17
When a misfortune oppresses you, they will tell you it is a good sign.
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—Armenian Proverb
