Janette:I must agree
This crew. My heart hurts at how much I adore them. This is so unfair. Right as I’m starting to get into my Armenianness and making some Armenian friends, and now that Mom and I are in such a good place, I’m risking destroying it all. Mom has been so cheerful. I want to keep that going as long as possible. But if I tell her about Erebuni and me, she’ll freak out; her mind will immediately jump to what everyone else will think of us. From a regular, respectable family to something different.
See, this—this!—is why I never got too close. Skirt the linesof what is “normal” and you’re labeled an outcast. This group wouldn’t abandon me, obviously, but my family, the community at large, I’m not so sure.
I should tell Erebuni about my situation. That I’m not ready to be public because I’m not out yet. I never technically told Erebuni that I’m closeted. Or nontechnically. I skirted that topic altogether. But I did mention that I’m not ready to tell my mom about us, so hopefully when she sees or meets my mom (my heart pounds hard at that thought), she’ll remember that. The thought of telling Erebuni I’m not out—it’s terrifying to think my confession might ruin things. I mean, would I want to be in a relationship with someone who had to hide me from their parents? I wouldn’t blame her for putting an end to this before we really got going.
There’s this part of me, a tiny voice, going,Hey, what the hell are you doing?and I know I need to confront this all eventually. And byconfrontI mean either decide that dating a woman is too big for me and I can’t do it and break up with Erebuni—and, really, is that an option for me now? It’s not.—or somehow come out and hope I still have some family left afterward. Ugh, why do I have to make this choice? I wish I didn’t like her so much, wish her whisper-soft voice didn’t set every hair on my body on end, wish she wasn’t so understanding and curious and ambitious so I could say,Nah, not worth it, and go back to dating only guys.
But I can’t. So I’ll have to make this decision after the banquet at some point. Besides, we’re so early into this very new, budding relationship. I shouldn’t have to make this choice now. I want to just revel in it.
Like how I woke up in Erebuni’s bed this morning, the big Armenian tapestry tacked to the wall above us, her sleepy arms holding me close. We slept a decent amount after hours of tiringeach other out. She is so expert at teasing—she is the teasiest tease—and that is maybe my only kink. Don’t do the thing, don’t touch the spot, but circle around and around and around it for hours, and then when I think I might die, plunge yourself in it. That whole time, it was like I was narrating exactly what I wanted her to do, except I wasn’t, she just did it. Not that I would feel shy about telling her what I want. Very different from Trevor, who is efficient in all things and likes to get down to business (and finish said business) as quickly as possible. He called a BJ a “tune-up” once.
After an initial sleepy, half-awake period when it seemed like she was trying to go back to sleep and convince me to come with her, she jolted up, slipped on a black robe, and assured me that I didn’t need to follow, and then a series of thumps and clangs sounded in the kitchen. She made me an Armenian breakfast. Foul (worst transliterated name ever; it’s pronouncedfool, but that looks just as bad in English) is one of my absolute favorites, and my mom occasionally makes it on weekends. It’s fava beans topped with tomatoes, parsley, lemon, and olive oil. She busted out some Armenian string cheese and mint, and I felt like I was at a relative’s house, but in the best way. With that feeling of home I could never quite obtain in my own home.
After some more deliberation about the shirt, a text catches my eye.
Arek:I think we all want to know what the MC is wearing tomorrow
Arek:Nar, did you get a special sneak peek?
My heart catches in my throat, and the sharp black strokes of Arek’s message are thrown into focus. This is the first mention that anyone knows what’s happening between Erebuni and me.And honestly? The shock of it isn’t great, but I’m relieved. I can actually tell someone about Erebuni and me and enjoy it.
Thinking fast, I text back,I’m not telling.
Then I text Erebuni,So they know, eh?
She replies,I should have mentioned that I told them. It slipped. Are you mad? You can be.
I’m not, at all, and I want her to know it.
I hate how messages can get misread over text, so I decide to call her up like it’s 2005. Plus I want to hear those dusky tones.
She picks up. “You are mad,” she says. And that voice, though anxious, does not disappoint. I’m transported to this morning, back in her bed, our post-breakfast dalliance. A wave of prickles rushes over the back of my head.
“Quite the opposite.”
Trevor always hated when I said anything remotely British.You’re not British!I hear him braying at me. But Trevor is not here, so I canquiteall I want.
The group chat is going mad over my response, but I refuse to really read any of it and won’t respond until I’m off the phone with Erebuni.
She sounds like she’s been acquitted. “Oh thank goodness. Janette noticed us holding hands after the lecture when we all said goodbye and asked me about it. I didn’t tell her not to tell anyone, so the word spread. They think it’s cute, though. Everyone’s happy for us.”
“So am I.”
Here—this is where I should tell her about the banquet tomorrow, that I’m not ready to come out to my family yet. In the distance, Nene begins to play piano, a pedal-heavy melody that brings to mind what it might feel like to walk in the countrysideon the arm of your beloved. Some chaste ambling, chaperoned closely by your parents, or whatever weird stuff they used to do back then.
My mom shouts from downstairs, “No pedal! It’s after ten. The neighbors will complain.”
Erebuni doesn’t seem to hear. She says, “Good,” in that way that’s a smile, that’s a promise of every beautiful thing to come. During dinner last night, I learned so much about her. How her family would drive down to LA for her mother’s art shows. Her father’s local fencing business (The classic duo of the artist and her husband, the fencing magnate,Erebuni had joked). Her childhood dog, Garni, who was so beloved that when he passed, her heartbroken mother never allowed the family to have pets again. Her much younger sister—who was a surprise—who is still in high school and is obsessed with K-pop and was class president this past school year. Erebuni misses her most of all. She intimated that she’d love for me to meet her someday, and I am so down. Fresno always held this mythology to me, like it’s this magical agricultural land in the center of California that’s full of third-generation Armenians (and also plenty of first-generation Armenians). I have no idea what it looks like, what it feels like, because I imagine flatlands full of crops, but I know it’s a sizable city. The important thing is that in my mind, any shop you walk into, you’re likely to overhear someone speaking Armenian. I want to go there.
Erebuni will still care about you, I tell myself,if you tell her you need a little more time to come out to your family. I want to be courageous. I want to be the person who saves herself.
“The only thing,” I start, and my heart pounds in my ears. I can’t do it, I can’t do it. My feet feel too hot suddenly, dry and burning. I yank them away from the heater, spin in my chair toface the bed. Then I will the words to appear. I clench my jaw like I’m physically extricating them. “Is that I’m not exactly out yet. And by not exactly, I mean not at all.” Then I talk fast. “Oh God, I’m sorry, I’ve been keeping that from you because I’m so embarrassed and worried, but I had—I had to tell you.”
Erebuni jumps in quickly. “Nar. Please don’t. Don’t be embarrassed at all. I know not everyone is in the same boat.”
I didn’t realize I’d been closing my eyes while speaking, but at Erebuni’s words, I open them. My warm, familiar room; the frills of the comforter ripple like a beckoning pond. I stand up, my entire body sighing with the act, and plop on the bed.
