Luke continued, and ever determined to have my first make-out session not be an utter failure, I stuck it out for another ten minutes.
Finally pulling away, I placed a hand on his chest. “I should get going. I’ve got an early day tomorrow.”
He looked like a disappointed kitten. “Are you sure? I haven’t even shown you the bedroom yet. I just set up some color-changing LED lights.”
“Maybe next time. Thank you for the drink and... this.” I motioned between us.
Luke gave a satisfied grin. “You’re welcome, peaches.”
Bleh. I held back a wince. He gave me the nickname after I wore a peach-colored dress one time. It was sickeningly sweet, and I had to get out of there before death by cringe.
During the Uber ride home, I closed my eyes and let the warm summer wind kiss my skin. The air smelled like pavement and jasmine flowers as the car zipped through the gritty Los Angeles streets. Is this what my parents left the Middle East for? To have their valedictorian daughter kissed terribly by an Instagram-influencing nitwit wearing light-up gloves?
Sighing, I pulled out my notebook and pen and started doodling. The thought of seeing Luke in class for the next six weeks was anxiety inducing.
My brain ran wild with questions. Would the kissing improve, or would I be subjected to another round of tongue lashings? If the kissing was this bad, then how would the sex be? Would he keep the gloves on during sex?
But my late-onset virginity stressed me out the most. So far, Luke was my only contender and guaranteed to make my first experience memorable in all the wrong ways.
At first, my abstinence was because sex simply never interested me. The boys in school were gross, and I was dealing with some serious self-confidence issues. It wasn’t until near the end of college that I started investing more in myself. I focused on a diet that made me happy, a doable gym routine, and a style that made me feel confident in my skin.
But by the time I was ready to date, I found out mendo notlike virgins. They want a virgin with escort-level sex skills.
I was far from that and felt like a failure even though I did everything right. I got a sensible business degree, I was a selfless daughter, and I never slept around. But in the process, my dreams and desires were slippingaway.
My nervous scribbling indented the paper, almost poking a hole through the other side. I was on the verge of having a nervous breakdown. I didn’t even realize what I was drawing.
A tumultuous sea crashing against jagged cliffs lay before me. I imagined standing on those cliffs in front of the endless sea, the spray of the ocean waves lightly sprinkling my face, the wind flowing through my hair as if it was a sail waving out to other ships.
I had never been anywhere like that. I’d never felt that freedom firsthand, but I could imagine it, so I could draw it.
Maybe when things slowed down at work, I could finally travel.
My parents didn’t take kindly to my plans of exploration beyond our Los Angeles home. They were traditional in a way where children stayed close to their parents until DEATH. It wasn’t in Armenian culture for girls to leave their parents’ house, even if they were old enough. Unless they were married of course.
So I lived with them until my best friend Elspeth needed my help. Elspeth’s mom, Lindsey, was diagnosed with cancer, and it had gotten worse this past year. Since Elspeth’s father abandoned them when she was seven and her two half brothers lived across the world, I moved in to help take care of her.
Gaining independence from my parents was the hardest thing I’d done. So, instead of asking for permission, I packed my things and moved my stuff to Elspeth’s before breaking the news to them over dinner. There was yelling, tears, and the silent treatment, but I did it.
As a compromise, I still slept at home on certain days of the week. The back-and-forth trips were exhausting, but disappointing them was my worst fear. I also promised to move back in once the time came, but I was putting it off for as long as possible. I’d hoped they’d get used to the feeling of me being more independent, but anytime someone would ask, they’d still assure them I was moving back any day now. It was a heavy burden being the only child and constantly feeling guilty for wanting to be selfish. They did so much for me. They came to America with nothing and gave me a good life, but it frayed my nerves.
Taking the art class was the closest thing to feeling the freedom I just captured on the page. I finally had something of my own. But the most surprising discovery was the utter joy I felt at the possibility of failure. Failing this class didn’t affect my degree or disappoint my parents. It was for the pure fun of it, and if failure happened, it happened. I’d continue to draw anyway, and life would go on. It was bliss.
Chapter 2
Nairie
I stared at the old couple in front of me. The man’s gray eyebrows furrowed as he squinted in my determination. The woman’s head lightly shook, her thin lips set in a tight line. They were so frail, but their will was strong.
The wife licked her lips nervously, making the edges of her pink lipstick lopsided. Her eyes were magnified behind ancient, yellow-tinted glasses. Her husband’s hands hung at his sides in frustrated fists, the zipper of his tweed slacks still open from his last visit to the bathroom.
“I insist, take some cookies for the road.” I pushed the tin toward the elderly couple.
The old man put up his hands. “No, no, we’re fine.”
It was customary in our culture for hosts to send guests off with leftovers after a party. If you didn’t give something to your guests to take back home, you were a bad host. In turn, guests would have to deny the offering because if you do accept the leftovers, you’re being a bad guest. See the problem? To make matters worse, this particular couple was being especially difficult.
Luckily, my mother came in for the assist. Nobody could say no to Mariam Kazarian. She had black curly hair that bounced every time she talked and the same brown eyes as me. She didn’t have a small nose, but it also fither face shape and gave her character. My mom always wore low-cut tops to show off her ample bosom and bangle bracelets that jangled whenever she seasoned her cooking.
