I’ve never beento the Conservatory of Flowers. That’s the tragedy of being raised in a city; you rarely visit the touristy spots, which are landmarks for a reason. We tried to go to Alcatraz once, my dad and me plus Diana and her dad. But when we got to the pier, tickets were sold out since apparently you have to plan these things in advance. I wish I had gotten to go with Dad, and I never attempted to see it again. But maybe I could with Mom and Nene; we could visit its craggy rocks and remember him.
I told both Mom and Nene that I was meeting Erebuni, and Mom gave me pointers on what to wear and how not to sound too desperate, which I will totally take. Nene told me to bring her home for dinner again.
The building looks like a massive white birdcage from the outside, and as I approach it, I can’t help but feel like a sparrow hopping back into its home. It’s eleven in the morning, still foggyover here and cool, but it’s burning off, not as thick as earlier. I’m shivering in a white off-the-shoulder top over some blue jeans with a casual raw hem plus blush lace-up ballet flats. I am going for suggestive shoulder skin to tempt the mind in a look that otherwise says I’m not trying hard (I swear).
I glance around the vast park to see if there’s a willowy witch among the groups of people, but I don’t see Erebuni. She might be inside already, and I’m too nervous to text since it’s eleven on the dot. Don’t want to seem desperate. I press in alone.
Inside, it’s a total contrast. Dark, tight spaces with plants groping for you with their ferned branches and waxy leaves. And the heat—you can practically smell the humidity. None of these tropical plants appear to be native to San Francisco, which makes sense considering the heat they need to thrive. I suck the air in through my nose and feel like I’m being cleansed somehow.
It’s quiet in here, the couple of other patrons are speaking in hushed voices as if they’re in a library. I feel like I was somewhere similar recently, and then I remember Kiki’s conservatory, the glass entrance to her garden. Then I remember Erebuni in her bloodred top. Kissing her on the old velvet couch. Before me there’s a long, tall plant, with soft furlike leaves at the end. The softness of the texture reminds me so much of that moment in Erebuni’s cottage. Then there’s a light tap on my shoulder, and a small “Hey.”
I turn, and it’s her. She’s preened. She’s wearing a plunge-cut black top over jeans and dark lipstick. The greenery surrounds her like an aura, which gives me a sense of her divinity. Then I feel this rush over me, an insanity where I’m questioning if it’s really her or if my mind invented this figure. I realize I never expected to see her again. But it’s actually Erebuni. Hermicromovements, the side-smile (the world’s friendliest snarl); I couldn’t have invented that.
There’s something about her, though, a tenseness that hasn’t been there in any of our past encounters. Neither of us goes in for a hug. There doesn’t seem to be any question that it’s a no on that front.
“I like your top,” I say, stupidly. “I could never wear anything like that.”
Ten seconds in and I’ve gracefully drawn the conversation toward boobs. I am so goddam hopeless.
“Sure you could,” she says.
It seems like she’s about to speak again, but she stops. Instead, stillness surrounds us. If I don’t say anything now, it’ll be unbearably awkward. I gesture around us, “What a place.”
She sounds her agreement. “Should we look around?”
“Definitely.”
We both lead the way at once, in different directions, causing us to bump shoulders. I smile, rub at the spot where we touched.
“You go ahead,” I say.
“No, you,” she replies.
I take her up on it and steer us down a hallway where the plants on either side have grown into each other above us, forming an archway. There’s an art deco metal grate along the floor, which my soles tap against.
In front of a delicate spider-shaped flower we both stop to admire, she says, “I didn’t mean to ghost you after the banquet.”
Thank God she pushed us into this conversation. My cowardly ass was not about to. But now that we’re in, I might be able to steer through the currents. I make a couple of noises to indicate that it was understandable. She continues, “But I was so hurt.And I thought if we talked, I’d get back with you and pretend it never happened but hold on to this resentment, let it poison our relationship. I didn’t want that. I should have been more up-front. But I was pained and shocked by the engagement news. By what you said to your mom.”
That night hits me all over again, the way she looked at me, utterly betrayed. And she wasn’t wrong. To push the memory away, I focus on a waxy lily, a green so light it’s almost yellow, so shiny it could be fake, like they stuck a decoy in here and there to make the place look more lush. But I know that’s not the case. Everything here is real.
I find myself unable to articulate how sorry I am, and I’m certainly not able to look at her. At least we keep walking. My eyes straight ahead, I say, “I know. I can’t blame you. Not that I’d blame you, it’s just an expression. I mean, it was a lot, that night, and I’m sorry for it.”
She takes a breath, like she’s bracing herself. “People’s word, it’s important to me. I like to trust, be full of abandon in relationships. Friendships, too. And while of course, of course I understand people’s situations in coming out are different, it’d be very hard for me to be the hidden girlfriend. I can do that for a bit, but I need there to be some trust that it wouldn’t be forever. And after that night I wasn’t sure I’d ever get it.”
I nod, eyes downcast. “I can see why you thought that.”
She stops walking. “But I’ve been a wreck, Nar.”
What? I always assumed she angrily moved on. That she had her private rage against me and then popped right back into her daily routine. I can finally look at her. She appears actually distraught. Hands clasped together, like she’s afraid to separate them.
“I missed you. We barely... we were together a couple weeks, but it felt much longer. I convinced myself you went back to your fiancé and I shouldn’t reach out.”
I have to say something here. If I wait, my timing might feel too late, an afterthought. I want to be up-front with her.
“I did—”
She interrupts. “What? But your post... You mentioned me in a way that made me think you couldn’t be with him.”
