I open the text.
This is an unexpected, excellent piece. Thank you for sending it to us.
Us.Us?I look at the top of my screen and see all their names: Arek, Janette, Erebuni, Vache.
I stifle a scream. I texted the group chat. Vache was the last one who texted—I knew I had scrolled too far down to find his name, but I wasn’t thinking... Oh lord.
Then Arek texts,Not sure why ur thanking me but if u need someone with a shotgun for ur ex boss just let me know. I got u girl
Shit, shit, shit. Yes, Arek’s message was sweet, and I’m relieved he’s rallying to defend me after I broke his friend’s heart bylyingand being a horrible person. But. I need to not look like a weirdo, ASAP, so I text back.Sorry, I meant to text this to Vache. He helped me edit it. Direct all praise his way, the man is brilliant
Then I let out a primal groan. Erebuni’s going to think I sent it to her on purpose, like the snake in the grass I’ve proved myself to be. I reread her message.Unexpected. I mean, right, it arrived in her texts out of the blue. Butexcellent, that word holds promise. You don’t sayexcellentto someone you hate.
My phone announces another text, and while part of me wants to take my phone out back and shoot it, a stronger part is too curious about the new, looming message.
A text from Erebuni. A private text, not in the group chat (I double-check). It says,I’m proud of you, Nar. I’m glad you sent it, even if it wasn’t meant for me.
I can hear my heart beating, it’s running so fast.Nar, so familiar, it feels like she’s leaning in close. She’s proud of me, which means, first of all, I’m worth being proud of, and second, I did something, I took action, and she recognizes it. I have a chance. Or I might have a chance.
Before my brain has a chance to censor myself, my heart taps through my fingers,No, thank you for giving me the courage. And then, I know this is a lot to ask but would you by any chance be willing to meet?
Almost as soon as I send it, I think,What have I done?But then I burn with the risk of it, that it might actually pay off. The three dots appear, showing she’s typing.C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.
Then, it comes.I don’t think I’m ready yet. I’m still pretty hurt by our conversation.
Oh God, that feeling of shame, it hits like a fall to the floor, pain spreading almost instantly. I wonder briefly if I’ll ever stop feeling this way. I can’t believe I pinned so much expectation on this article. As if my being brave in one instance was enough for her to say,Actually, yeah, forget all the lying and betrayal. I’m cool now.It seems so obvious that it isn’t enough.
Then the dots start again. A message arrives:But this article, I mean it, I am proud of you.
Just like that, a glint of hope is back. Her words are like a healing balm.I know my truth stung, but here’s something to make ita little less harsh. She wouldn’t give that attention and care if she were completely done with me, if the door were entirely shut.
It’s on me. I need to act, and I have a hunch about what my next step could be. I’ve been hearing some words in my head since last night, urging me to examine them, tell them. When I closed my eyes, face resting on the pillow, they spiraled above me, calling out. I heard them again this morning but pushed them away, concentrating on the article drop. But I should pay them more attention, as hard as it’s going to be.
First, I text Erebuni back.I understand. And thank you again for saying that. You helped me realize it needed to be written. There’s going to be more. I’m choosing a side.
Then I decide that I am going to head downstairs and come out to my mom.
27
Every man has in his heart a lion that sleeps.
???? ?????? ??????? ?? ????? ? ??????:
—Armenian Proverb
I will myselfto walk down the stairs casually, which translates into an airy bop, like I’m a Fred Astaire wannabe. But I know that I can do this. I can tell Mom.
Nene is on the couch reading a French book about Beethoven. Her brow is furrowed, and I don’t want to break her concentration. Mom’s in the kitchen, wearing a flattering navy housedress. Stress cooking, by the looks of it. She’s brushing the tops of phyllo dough pieces with egg yolk to make them crisp up and shine in the oven. There’s also a pile of green beans ready to be trimmed. Beureg and fassoulia (a green bean, tomato, and ground beef stew) for lunch. So lucky.
“You finished your important work last night?” Her tone is somewhere between haughty and curious.
“I did. And you know what I can go for? Some sourj.”
My mom sighs. “I’m busy here but afterward.”
I open an upper cabinet, and there it is, the jezveh. Ours iscobalt blue with a long-trained peacock painted on it. “I’m going to make it,” I say.
“You?” She stares inquisitively. I don’t blame her, I’ve never made an impromptu Armenian coffee here at home.
