“This is actually happening, right?”
“It is,” she says. Then, confessionally, she says, “I couldn’t bear to be away from you. Everything I did had a little less luster in it, even the things I’ve always cared most about. Your article, then your post, I knew they were a turning point. You made such strong, difficult decisions. I feel bad for ever doubting that you could. I’m sorry I didn’t have more faith.”
I’m still not over the thought of her missing me during the lastcouple of weeks. How she must have felt when she saw my article, then my coming out post. Part of me knew, though, that it wasn’t entirely over with Erebuni. That silver thread that connects us over the ether, it was stretched taut but wasn’t broken. She must have felt it, too.
“No, no, I’m the one who’s sorry. That night at the banquet, let’s face it: total shitshow.”
She laughs. “Total.” She pulls a small white petal out of my hair. “But you more than made up for it.”
She reaches for her bag. “And,” she says, pulling something out, a bookmark maybe. “Speaking of the banquet...”
She hands it to me. Our photo strip from that night. “I’m not embarrassed to say I’ve been carrying it around in here. Just in case.”
Every one of these photos, even the two silly ones, is radiating our joy at being with each other, with ourselves. They capture us entirely as we were, and, as I allow myself to hope, as we will be.
“I can’t believe it. Mom said she’d thrown it away, and I was so angry at her.”
“Two copies,” she says with a contented grin.
I hold it in my hands like a precious piece of jewelry I thought I’d lost.
“They’re beautiful,” I say.
Being here with her, like this, is exactly what I’ve wanted. Her Cheshire smile and the knowledge that she’s been thinking about me this whole time. Her forgiveness. But I’m also starting to get self-conscious. I haven’t felt like much these past few weeks. I’ve been a pajama-wearing, chore-doing shell of a person, wishing for better things. “If you want to give this another shot, I’m not sure how much I have to offer as a girlfriend. I’m unemployed, andwho knows when I’m ever going to get work again. I was fired. I mean, you read the article. You sure you want to date me?”
I’m half joking, but also mean it, and I hope she sees that.
“I did see that. I thought it was very Armenian of you. Die in honor of the cause, up against bigger enemies.” She smiles at her little joke, then says, “You’re full of potential. In fact, last week I was talking to a friend of mine who’s started up a Vice News–like media company focusing on Armenian issues—longer form, more storytelling. Of course I thought of you, but at the time I assumed you were still working at your station. I didn’t put two and two together until now.”
I force myself to tune in to what she’s saying because there’s a full-on parade with a drumline and sparklers going off in my head. This could be it.
She continues, “If you’re interested, I’ll connect you. He’s looking for reporters.”
My guardian angel. That would be a dream, the perfect outlet, the one I didn’t let myself hope for. It sounds better than any other job that’s passed through my mind these past few weeks, and I find myself already thinking about stories I could report on. It’s not a sure thing, and I’m not sure if a company like this would hire me since all my segments are, well, cotton candy, light and sugary. But I do have my article. The Armenian cooking class. The Armenian banquet piece with Congresswoman Grove. I can show them just how badly I want this.
I haven’t said anything yet, and Erebuni adds, “Only if you’re interested. I didn’t mean to barge in on your career.”
“No,” I stop her. “It’s incredible. I would love it.” I feel possessed by something, the immenseness of possibilities, a pure rush ofoptimism that nothing can shake. I want to share it with her, beam it in her direction.
I say, “I would love to tell you all about why. I want to tell you so much more, and hear everything about what you’ve been doing. Can I be super forward and ask, can we spend the whole day together? Do you have any plans?”
She doesn’t seem surprised at all by this, and is as even as ever when she brings my face close to hers. “I have no plans but you.”
I take hold of her hand, kiss it, but don’t let go. We continue walking around the conservatory, noticing plants we walked by but didn’t see before. Even if we spent the entire day in here, we’d keep discovering something new.
We walk slowly, stopping to breathe in the magic of these plants. We pause sometimes to kiss, to rest a head on a shoulder. We do exactly what we want.
Epilogue
It’s better to go into captivity with the whole village than to go to a wedding alone.
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—Armenian Proverb
“Now we’d liketo invite everyone on the dance floor to join the happy couple.” The DJ’s voice booms over the speakers, the lights turn neon blush.The happy couple. The words take root in my mind, that crashing recognition once again that this is the wedding of my dearest cousin, my friend from birth. And what a venue, the Manor Hotel, one hundred years old with sky-high ceilings and turn-of-the-century gilded detailing ornamenting every inch of wall. I’m sitting in some fancy tufted chair, all of Diana’s (and a smidge of my) hard work with her dream linens and silverware and flowers—from a professional florist this time, thank goodness—surrounding me. My place is at the king’s table, with the other bridesmaids and their dates. And Erebuni at my side.
She’s wearing a dark purple cold-shoulder dress with sheer puffy sleeves and her layers of necklaces. On her eyes, a stroke of metallic purple shadow. Dark matte lipstick. She’s radiant, my date.
