“It never seemed like the right time.”
Lamest excuse in the book. It was more that I didn’t want to ruin our brand-new relationship with a closet semi-engagement.
“You said, ‘was.’ So you’re not engaged now?”
I never told Trevor no. I still have the ring. I mean, when he came back I was going to have some face time with him and break it off for good, in person, like a decent human would. But because I haven’t had that chance yet, it’s been this weird up-in-the-air thing. That’s what I should tell Erebuni right now, or just say, “No, I’m not engaged,” but instead I hesitate, because I’m trying tofigure out how she would hear it, how her perception of me in this moment would color her understanding, and it doesn’t sound flattering, to be honest.
A car pulls out of the lot, the mist thick in its lights, and exits the school. People are already leaving. I search for the right words and don’t say anything.
Erebuni throws up her hands. “What am I supposed to think after all this? You’re bi but not, you’re engaged but not. Even at work, you want to confront your boss in theory but you don’t do it head-on. I want to scream, ‘Pick one!’ You want everything and everyone, it seems. You can’t play whatever side is most convenient at the moment.”
This recognition passes over me, and I see at once how I haven’t been able to give up any of my safety nets. I can’t sacrifice any of it. I don’t know how to be anything else. There’s nothing I can do. I can’t change decades of being like this. “I know, I know...” I’m saying.
She crosses her arms. “This is really—I wanted this to become something. I liked you a lot.”
Liked, past tense. We’re on the precipice now, and she is ready to jump. “Erebuni, please. I am so sorry. Have I said that yet? I mean it. I know I need to work on this part of myself, but it’s tough for me. I feel the same way. I like you so much. This, us, it’s special. You and I have something—”
With a brief shake of her head, she says, “Please don’t. I’d prefer if we didn’t talk.”
Then she turns and leaves, the long walk back to the hall. Heavy clicks against the pavement. The tinier she becomes, the foggier, the more she’s all around me. She’s so huge, the ghost of her.
You had something so good, so real, I tell myself. Real, that wasit. Erebuni called to all these dormant parts of myself, and in thanks I stomped all over her.
I have this idea that it’s cold, but I don’t feel it. I should be feverish and complaining and crying about my hair. I sit down on a bench by myself, and all at once my butt and thighs are wet from the condensation. I laugh at it, out loud, a thick, choked thing.
Left alone in the quiet, only the vague bass in the distance, I’m thrown to the bottom of the ocean, that image I always conjure during meditation because I imagine it as being quiet and peaceful. But now I’m in these depths, and it’s suffocating, tons and tons of pressure, surrounded by a frenzy of deep, dangerous life. How could I have ever thought this was a calm place? I’m going to die down here.
My heart skips once, twice, and I gulp for a breath, desperate to try and find it again. My heart beats irregularly, a piano trill out of control, and I’m sure this is it: I’m having a heart attack, and I’m headed toward death right here. Without Erebuni and with that final horrible conversation with my mom, this is how I go. I gasp for more air. I put my hands over my face and bend over my lap. Then I hear it.Ba-dum, ba-dum. The beating of my heart, it’s slowed, it’s regular. Thank God. The hotness of my breath permeates through my dress to the tops of my thighs, and I let myself recognize that it feels good.
Deep breath in and long breath out.My meditation app would be so proud,I think bitterly.The only one who cares—God that sounds so pitying, I need to get a grip on myself.
Searching for reassurance, I look toward the night sky, but all I see is black-gray fog punctuated by bright spots of streetlights. When’s the last time I saw the moon, I wonder. How am Iexpected to be a good person, make regular decisions, when there hasn’t been a moon in the sky for weeks? I must be going nuts.
Especially because I have to go back in there and pretend everything is okay for the sake of my family.
And from their perspective, it probably is. When I walk back in there, I’ll look just like the selfies on my Instagram page: I will be smiling, I will be alone, I will be straight again.Wasn’t that worth it?I spit at myself.
21
Give a horse to him who tells the truth that he may escape after telling it.
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—Armenian Proverb
It’s the Sundaymorning meeting at work, and after a night staying up poring over my computer, then attempting to sleep, drinking too much water, and getting up to pee over and over, I made it. You know, physically. Because I didn’t arrive early, I’m sitting in one of the bad chairs, one that slants slightly downward and squeaks and complains with my every micromovement. I’m staring at the cheap white conference table, but layered on top are scenes from last night: Erebuni in the fog so wrecked from being lied to repeatedly. My mom basically saying that what people think of us is more important than who I am or what I want.
The AD part of the evening (after the death of my soul) was a travesty. My pretend smile must have been chilling, because Diana looked disturbed instead of sympathetic when she asked me if I was okay. I told her I was great. She told me Aunt Sona showed her that picture of me kissing the emcee. I told her no, that wasn’twhat it looked like. She’s just my friend. Aunt Sona is looking to stir up trouble, I said.
We stayed just long enough that it didn’t appear that we were escaping, but with the first wave of departing guests, Mom, Nene, and I wove ourselves among them and got the hell out of there. Thank God for Nene because she spent the entire (short) car ride home remonstrating and laughing at the gall of Garen the violinist. Mom and I did not say a word to each other directly.
We didn’t this morning, either.
“Nareh?” Richard’s voice grates in my ear. He usually avoids saying my name, and I remember why; it’s because he says it like it’s painful for him (and it’s more painful for me hearing it asNahr-aye). The whole conference room is staring at me like he’s been trying to get my attention for some time.
“Yes?” I ask, my tone haughtier than expected.
“Your pitch?” he asks, matching me.
