She stares right into my eyes with a sardonic expression. “Yes, now days you can marry a woman.”
I can’t believe she actually referenced gay marriage and my sexuality so baldly. I’m a bit taken aback, and also want to share more about Erebuni with her. She’s my mom; I want to tell her I’m hurting. But when I speak, it comes out wrong, defensive. “Yes, you can. Lucky for you, that woman doesn’t want to talk to me anymore.”
Her face closes off to me. “I don’t want to know. You sort out your own affairs. I’m assuming no reds.” She turns around, not shutting the door, and leaves. The pink sock falls to the floor.
I’m feeling wild and impulsive and angry and annoyed and so, so badly in need of love. You want grandkids? Fine. I’ll give you grandkids. I lunge for my phone, and text Trevor back,I’d love to see you too.
24
Pull a thread and a thousand patches will fall off.
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—Armenian Proverb
A few hourslater, I’ve showered, well and truly scrubbed myself, and taken my time blow-drying my hair and applying TV levels of makeup. I want to look good. After all, I’m headed to Trevor’s to convince him I’m worth taking back.
I open the jewelry box where I’ve stashed away the ring this past month. I have to take the ring with me, obviously, but do I wear it? It seems so... final. I could just try it on, see how it feels? I slip on the ring, and the diamonds lining the band scratch at my skin. I haven’t worn it since the day Trevor pushed it onto my finger. It’s beautiful, no doubt about it, and it’s the ring Dad would say I deserved. I suppose I’ll just wear it. Dad would be proud of me now.
I slink downstairs hoping to avoid Mom. I hear the scrape of a pot on the stove and the sound of running water from the kitchen, so I’m extra quiet. As I kneel by the shoe rack at the front door, the heavy buckles on my sandaled heels clink when I pickthem up. She peeps out from the kitchen doorway as if she’s been on alert for danger.
“Just me,” I say, trying to play off my unexpectedly leaving while looking like I’m headed to aVoguephotoshoot.
“Where are you going?” she asks, her eyes narrowed.
“To Trevor’s. He’s back,” I add, when she appears shocked.
“And what you’re going to do there?”
“What do you think?” I wave my ringed finger at her.
I feel a little bad, not consulting her or looping her in until now. But I’ve also kind of had it with my mom. This is what she wants. Well, the end result, anyway—marriage and babies. I fasten one of the shoes and work on the other.
“Oh,” she says, considering. I guess she wasn’t expecting that answer. She probably hasn’t thought about Trevor for weeks.
Both shoes on, I stand up. I love that initial feeling of wearing high heels, when you feel so tall and see the same room from a new view. It makes me more confident about my decision. I’m literally towering over my mom. She looks like she’s piecing together a puzzle, and she says, “Okay, then. Do what you think is best.”
Hmm. She’d rather me be with Trevor, a guy she doesn’t like all that much, than be with Erebuni, a woman who I’m sure, if she got to know her, she would adore. This is how the world works. This is who I have to be to make her happy. I grasp the keys in my hand so tightly the teeth dig into my skin, but I don’t let go.
As I make to leave I say, without looking back, “I will.”
•••
After fifteen minutesof circling for parking, I wedge my car into an ultra-tight parallel parking spot on the left side of Trevor’s one-way street (I’m a parking goddess and I demand praise for this).He lives in the Marina, in a cream-and-gold early-1900s apartment building similar to all its identical siblings on the block. He’s high up the hill, and you can see views of Alcatraz and the Golden Gate Bridge from his living room.
When I step out of the car, it hits me that it’s sunny. And warm, even. There are a few watercolor-soft streaks of clouds in the sky. A nice day for a reconciliation. I leave my jacket in the car and check my phone. Two missed calls from Mom. Hmm. But no texts, so it can’t have been urgent. She probably wanted to wrap up our earlier conversation in a way she found more suitable, where she had the upper hand. Mom likes to win arguments, especially with me. I’m not calling her back.
I head to Trevor’s apartment building doors. I press the button for apartment number twelve, and a few seconds later comes the scraggly buzz of the door unlocking (which sounds more like something has gone horribly wrong than right, but I’m used to it after so many years). The last time I was here was a month and a half ago or so. The entryway smells the same, old wood with a touch of vacuum, yet the carpet on the stairs has had dirt stamped into it for what seems like five decades. I’m sure every resident can hear me as I creak my way up the steps, on the way to tell Trevor, “Yes, I will marry you. Let’s live together and create a life.”
I stand in front of his door and don’t knock. I could just leave. Slip the ring under the door and bolt.
God, what am I thinking? No, I came here to be with Trevor. There’s nothing wrong with him. He’ll make a great life partner.
I raise my hand to knock, but the door swings open before I do. He must have heard me coming up the stairs.
Trevor is before me, light stubble covering his face. It makes him more handsome, which somehow annoys me. Without a wordhe takes me into a hug, and it’s very sweet, but also my neck is squished uncomfortably, and if this lasts much longer I feel like I’m going to pull something. He feels so bony and hard compared to Erebuni. I squirm out and smile at him so he’s not hurt that I pulled away.
“You look great,” I say.
