Hold My Hand Page 10

  “And is this a cause you’d be willing to invest in?” Ethan asked hopefully.

  “Wholeheartedly.” Alek exhaled, not realizing he’d been holding in his breath.

  “Whenever you’re ready, of course, at your own pace, and without any pressure.” Ethan gently ran his fingers through Alek’s hair. “Because really, who wants to be that dick boyfriend pressuring someone into having sex before they’re ready? So I want you to know—I’m here. Whenever you want.”

  “I love you, Ethan.” Alek had known, for a while, that he was going to say those words. He had rehearsed them, in his mind and out loud, wanting to make sure that he got them just right the first time. He’d pondered over which word to emphasize, how much to pause between them. But now, they just came flying out. “I love you.”

  “I wanted to say it first!” Ethan blurted. “I can’t believe you beat me to it!”

  “That’s what you have to say? I tell you that I love you and that’s your response?”

  “It is, because we will always know that you had the balls to say it before me. And I hope that you don’t hold it against me too much. Because I love you, too, Aleksander Khederian.”

  Alek hadn’t expected to hear those words back any more than he’d known he was going to say them in the first place. And he certainly hadn’t expected his heart to burst into a thousand tiny glittering pieces.

  “I love you, too,” Ethan repeated, gently stroking his hands through Alek’s hair. It would be frizzy now, Alek knew. That’s what having an Armenian ’fro meant. But for Ethan’s touch, it was worth it.

  “Let’s do it!” Alek said.

  “Do what?” Ethan asked.

  “You know. Sex. Let’s do sex!”

  “Really?!”

  “It’s our six-month anniversary, I’m here with my boyfriend who I love, who loves me, in New York City, which we both love. Snow is falling, we’re alone, my parents have no idea where the hell I am, and if losing my virginity means I may break curfew, so be it! Is there ever going to be a more perfect time?”

  “You don’t have to ask me twice.” Ethan jumped off the bed, stripping his clothes off as he went.

  “What about condoms?” Alek asked.

  “I’m on it.” Ethan rifled through his bag and extracted a box that he tossed to Alek. “Now let me see what Lesley has in the way of lube.”

  Alek inspected the light-blue paper box of Trojans.

  “We’re in luck!” Ethan reentered the room with a bottle of K-Y Jelly.

  Alek removed one of the condoms from the already-opened box. “How old are these? Mrs. Sturgeon said you should throw condoms away after a year to be safe.”

  Ethan smiled. “All good, man, I just got them.”

  “Really?” Alek examined the condom in his hand and then looked at the remaining one in the three-pack box. “When?”

  “Just—” Ethan stumbled. “Just last week.”

  And then it all dawned on Alek, so clearly he couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it before. “Oh my God. You cheated on me.”

  10

  He cheated.

  Ethan cheated.

  Ethan cheated on me.

  There was no fight. There was only flight.

  Even if he’d wanted to, Alek couldn’t physically have made himself stay in the apartment. Ignoring Ethan’s protests, he grabbed his jacket and ran, cursing the front door as he fumbled with its latches and locks. He finally got the damn thing open and burst into the hallway.

  He knew better than to wait for the elevator: “In case of emergency” didn’t just mean fire. He bolted to the stairwell, tripping over a neighbor’s stroller.

  He took two, sometimes three, steps at a time, terrified that he’d stumble and fall down the sharp-right turns of the descending stairs, but also wanting it to happen, wanting something painful enough that it would eclipse everything else. And wouldn’t Ethan feel terrible if Alek hurt himself now?

  He flew past the doormen, ignoring the question he couldn’t make out, through the innocents in the lobby, extras in a scene they’d never understand.

  Alek exploded out of the front doors of the apartment building, gasping for air, as if he’d barely survived a supervillain’s trap. The snow still fluttered gently outside, the weather suggesting a rom-com that couldn’t be further from what Alek was feeling. The vendor’s honey-glazed nuts, the gusts of cold wind, the honking cars stuck in traffic—all the sensations of New York in winter bombarded him.

  He ran blindly, wildly, through stalled traffic and throngs of well-dressed New Yorkers, across Fifth Avenue, into Washington Square Park, past tourists and pedestrians, like he was late for a train only he could see.

  He tripped over something—he didn’t know what—and fell to the ground, into a puddle of slush mixed with New York pollution. He got up, panting, heaving, feeling tears he didn’t know were there freezing on his face. The cold air stung his lungs.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder and even through his jacket and sweater and undershirt, through all the layers, he immediately knew it was Ethan’s.

  Alek smacked it off and turned with a ferocity that surprised them both. “Don’t. Ever. Touch me. Again.” His voice sounded feral, even to his own ears.

  Ethan snatched his hand back, as if he’d been bitten by a snake. “Alek, please. Please let me explain.”

  During his visits to New York, with Ethan or with his parents, Alek had witnessed countless scenes far too private for public: A strung-out party girl licking her equally strung-out party boyfriend’s forehead on the subway. A man, almost entirely naked, sleeping peacefully under scaffolding, snoring gently with each exhale. Two guys kissing and groping each other in a building doorway one night, oblivious to (or aroused by?) the free, six-second peep show provided for anybody walking by.

  The way passersby around Alek picked up their pace just the slightest, making a point of simultaneously averting their eyes and trying to catch a glimpse of the drama unfolding before them, told him he was performing in one of those scenes now. And just like all the performers in the scenes he himself had witnessed, he didn’t give a damn.

  “Alek, please—” Ethan started again.

  Alek shoved Ethan back, full force, then turned and ran, sloshing through the puddles of melting snow.

  * * *

  He had no sense of how long he’d wandered through the city, stumbling through blocks he didn’t know, neighborhoods he’d never visited, places he’d never remember. His adrenaline crashed, but he continued walking, until it was dark, then cold, then colder, then really really freezing too-cold. When he felt what could only be frostbite claiming the tip of his nose, he staggered in to the nearest subway station.

  Luckily, he had grabbed his jacket. Luckily, his wallet had been inside his jacket. Luckily, he’d been coming into New York for months now, on trips chaperoned by his parents or Ethan’s dad. His six o’clock curfew was a thing of the past, he knew, obliterated, like roadkill. And he knew he should call his parents. But it hadn’t occurred to him to grab his cell phone as he fled Lesley’s apartment. And although he might’ve been able to locate a pay phone (did pay phones even exist anymore?), when he imagined what he might say to them, no words conjured themselves. So he didn’t.

  Half of the people waiting for the subway at the Canal Street stop were dressed like Alek: as if it were any other winter day. But the other half were costumed as Santa Clauses, drinking openly in a way that made it clear they’d been doing so all night. Something about the sight of all those Santas—men and women of all ages, clearly inebriated past the point where they could pretend they weren’t—so happy, so rowdy, so innocent, so clearly not having just learned that their boyfriend had cheated on them—pissed Alek off. And the more drunken holiday cheer they seemed to possess, the more they pissed him off.

  Nothing could’ve made Alek more miserable. Or at least, that’s what he thought until a knot of carolers, emerging from the platform below in a mess of green and red, launche
d into holiday classics in three-part harmony.

  He filed onto the first subway train that arrived, shooting very un-Christian eyes of hate, first at the carolers who followed him on and then at the girl with purple hair who ran in just as the doors started closing, jamming her foot between them so that her slower friends could catch up. If looks could kill, Alek would’ve committed first-degree murder. Purple Hair and the Tardies cackled continuously between Canal and Penn Station, giggling at jokes unclear to everyone on the train car, and maybe even themselves.

  Penn Station, that architectural abomination, was packed with travelers arriving to and departing from New York City for the holidays. Alek looked for the big sign in the main waiting area only to discover it had been replaced by two large video monitors on either side of the room. Apparently, nothing could be counted on. He hovered under the monitor on the west side, impatiently waiting for the next train on the Northeast Corridor to reveal its gate number.

  His eyes darted left and right, knowing that Ethan couldn’t possibly be in that cavernous room but still on the lookout for him. A few times, he was sure he spotted a flip of hair or a puffy coat that belonged to his Ethan. But on closer examination, the hair revealed itself as not nearly blond enough, or the jacket not the right cut. Besides, Ethan wasn’t his Ethan anymore.

  “There you are!” A hand planted itself on Alek’s shoulder familiarly.

  Alek turned around quickly, flinging Ethan’s hand off.

  But it wasn’t Ethan. It was a stranger who’d clearly mistaken Alek for someone else. A stranger who looked nothing like Ethan.

  “Sorry, man.” The pimply twentysomething didn’t even sound like Ethan. “You look just like my man Mahmud.”

  Alek told his quickened heart to slow down. He turned away.

  The gate number finally flipped into existence. Alek waded through the crowd, ducking and dodging and even using an occasional well-placed elbow to guarantee his progress and seat.

  He didn’t know how he was going to explain to his parents why he was so shockingly, wildly, inexcusably late. Nor could he especially find it in him to care.

  He plopped himself in one of the two-seaters at the back of the car, one of the banks that didn’t even have a window, to ensure he’d be as far away from everyone as possible. A few drunk Santas stumbled on just before the doors closed, surrounding Alek with their foul stench and syntax.

  As Alek contemplated moving to another seat, the Santa from across the aisle leaned over and asked, “Do you know where the bathroom is?” His fake beard was askew, the stuffing from his belly poked out from all sides, and his breath reeked of cheap, stale beer. “I think I’m going to…”

  The vomit didn’t land on Alek’s clothes, per se. But looking down, he knew he’d never wear these shoes again.

  * * *

  Alek’s mother was at the front door before he could turn the key in the lock. “Oh, honey, thank God you’re okay.” She wrapped him in a bear hug that surprised Alek with its strength, dragging him into the house. “We were worried sick. Why didn’t you call? Why didn’t you pick up when we called?”

  He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to answer these questions or if they were just rhetorical, so Alek chose to believe the latter.

  As his mother wrestled with her cell phone, Alek kicked off his vomit-stained shoes.

  “Boghos, you can come home.” Alek’s mom’s voice quivered on the phone, as if she might start crying. “He’s home.”

  He knew he should answer his mother, say something, apologize, explain. But he was just so tired. Tired of his life, his house, his parents. Tired of it all.

  His mother put the phone away. “We called you, then Ethan, then his dad, then the police. I tried to get them to issue an AMBER alert, but they said I had to be able to prove that an abduction had occurred. I explained to the officer that you’ve never even been missing for two hours, and by the time I could prove that you had been abducted, countless horrible things could’ve happened to you, like drowning in the Hudson River or being kidnapped by a cult and subjected to brainwashing, but he wouldn’t listen, so I asked to speak to his superior officer, and she said…”

  Alek shed his jacket on the stairs as he climbed them to go to his bedroom.

  “Where are you going? Honey?”

  He closed his bedroom door behind him and climbed into bed, still wearing his clothes. Mercifully, sleep came quickly.

  * * *

  “Alek? Are you in there?” The sound of his father’s voice jostled Alek out of unconsciousness. “You’ve got twenty minutes before we leave for church.”

  He cheated his eyes open, cursing the brightness of day. The robot clock on his nightstand told him it was almost eight. But then again, nothing, literally nothing, sounded worse than going to church.

  He closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

  * * *

  “Alek? Honey? Everything all right?” The closed door was Alek’s only salvation, the only thing protecting him from the rest of the world. And this time, his mom.

  Robot clock: 12:57 p.m.

  “It was a wonderful sermon; I think you would’ve loved it. All about faith and facing the future.”

  He closed his eyes again. He wasn’t tired anymore. But he begged that sleep reclaim him. Like a friend who did what you wanted even if it wasn’t necessarily good for you, sleep complied.

  * * *

  “We absolutely cannot condone this kind of behavior.” The door, against all odds, remained closed, but his father’s voice on the other side was clear.

  “Let him rest,” his mother responded. “Something must’ve happened.”

  If they only knew the half of it, Alek thought, floating between reality and the nightmares that pursued him.

  His robot clock, a bar mitzvah party favor, came to life, marching around the perimeter of the room before launching into a fully orchestrated “Hello, my baby, hello, my darling, hello, my ragtime gal,” with top hat, cane, and choreography.

  And then, blessed sleep, again.

  * * *

  Almost two hours later, Alek’s body reached its physical limit of unconsciousness. He thought about taking a shower, but just the amount of exertion required seemed un-musterable. Plus, he ran the risk of having to see or be seen by one of his family members and the interrogation that would inevitably follow. Staying here, by contrast, under the cover of the warmth of his bed, felt infinitely more attractive. There was a reason they called it a comforter.

  But, as he was finding out, you can’t always get what you want.

  “Alek, honey, Ethan’s downstairs.” Alek’s mother was trying to sound conversational. But even with the door between them, Alek could hear the concern straining her voice like a guitar string stretched too tight, about to snap.

  The robot clock gazed at Alek unflinchingly. Almost three p.m. Too late to pretend that he was still asleep. Too late for many things.

  “Tell him to go away,” Alek croaked, his voice rusty from disuse.

  “What’s that, honey?”

  Alek pulled back his down comforter. He forced himself out of bed, throwing himself on the floor so that the impact would force him into consciousness. He unlocked the door and opened it the most minute crack.

  “Tell him to go away.”

  Alek didn’t know what he looked like, but judging from his mother’s reaction, it wasn’t good.

  “Are you sure, honey? I said Ethan’s downstairs.”

  “I heard you the first time. And I’d like you to tell him to go away. Is there something about that you don’t understand?” Alek didn’t wait for his mother to respond. He closed the door immediately, the satisfying click giving him a moment of solace. The sound of his mother’s retreating footsteps provided another. Being able to witness the scene below, between her and Ethan, would’ve made a perfect three, but he’d have to settle for his imagination of his mother’s awkwardness and Ethan’s hurt.

  He stood in his room for a moment, disoriente
d. It was certainly his room, his furniture, his robot clock, his Andre Agassi tennis poster, his desk, his bed, his closet, his bureau. But it all felt wrong, somehow, like during his sleep, everything had been rearranged in its mirror opposite.

  Now that he was up, there was plenty for him to do: change out of yesterday’s clothes. Shower. Eat. He must be hungry, mustn’t he? But none of those options felt nearly as appealing as getting back into his bed and under that inviting down comforter, calling to him more seductively than Odysseus’s sirens.

  He was already safely ensconced back in the cocoon of cotton and down when he heard another knock knock knock on his door.

  “Honey, Ethan brought your cell phone. And your egg.” It was his mother again.

  Alek had no response to that information, so he didn’t say anything.

  “Honey, did you hear me?”

  Silence.

  “Do you … do you want to talk?”

  Did he want to talk?

  No, he didn’t.

  “No, Mom.”

  A long pause followed.

  “Honey, would you open the door?”

  Would he open the door?

  He didn’t think he would open the door.

  “Okay. I’m going to leave your stuff outside your room. You know we’re here if you need anything, okay? Or if you want to talk, or … anything.”

  Alek wanted to thank his mom. But he didn’t have it in him. All he could do was stay in bed, under his comforter, away from the world of cheating liars.

  11

  Alek’s life had been built on a series of assumptions, ranging from the microscopic to the cosmic: Dark chocolate is better than milk. Tennis is the best sport. Older brothers are a pain. Eating eliminates hunger. Gravity prevent objects from floating off the ground. Ethan will always be my boyfriend.

  True, Ethan had only been Alek’s boyfriend for the last six months, while gravity had been anchoring objects and dark chocolate trumping milk for all of eternity. But that didn’t make it any less of a defining tenet of his understanding of how the universe functioned. And although he could remember the time before he met Ethan, also known as the first fourteen and a half years of his life, those sepia-toned memories dissolved in the technicolor of post-Ethan. Now, post-post-Ethan, there was nothing.