thing to a never thing.
“I am,” she said. “Worth it, though.”
She touched my leg with the toe of her shoe. I felt tenderness for her in that moment. I could tell that she was getting tired of our asymmetry. We’d been together on and off for four years, and by now she was beginning to resent the way I treated her, the decreasingly little effort I made, the fewer gestures of affection, the amount of time I spent elsewhere. I resented her for offering no resistance, for refusing to say something directly and choosing instead to let passive aggression seep through. She knew me better than anyone—we’d met in eating-disorder treatment; she had seen me at my most vulnerable. But it sometimes seemed like she still couldn’t see through me, still chose to believe in a version of who I was that we both knew no longer existed. And yet, as each other’s first relationship post-recovery, we were desperately clinging, terrified to let go.
I reached into my bag and pulled out an envelope, my acceptance letter folded up inside. “Well,” I said, tapping its short side on the table. “I signed it.” I felt a surge of fresh anxiety.
“Yay,” she said, halfheartedly. She sucked the straw in her drink; the last of the liquid rumbled as it gave way to emptiness. “Need me to mail it?” she asked. She had access to stamps on campus.
“Would you mind?” I said, sliding the envelope across the table. “By the way,” I said, shifting in my seat. “Guess who’s on her way to town?”
Anna hesitated for a moment. Then: “She is? Right now?”
I nodded. We both knew it was impossible to predict her visits. My mother was a consultant of sorts, a “cultural liaison,” which meant she was never tied to an office or location. “I bet she works for the CIA,” Anna would jokingly suggest.
“Where’s she staying?”
“I don’t think she knows yet,” I said. “But I’ll probably stay with her, at least the first night.”
This always annoyed Anna. “Isn’t that a little weird,” she’d asked several times before, “to share a bed with your mom when you’re in your twenties?” And I would assure her it was normal in our culture. But by now, she knew better than to address it.
As a consolation I offered, “Want to have dinner with her tomorrow night?”
Anna perked up. She’d been waiting for this invite for quite some time, and I was just as surprised as she was to find myself extending it. My mother had met Anna only once before; I’d introduced her as my “roommate,” and tried not to think about what I’d do if things got serious between us, never letting myself visualize our future, a family, anything beyond the present moment. Ever since then, anytime my mother came to town I tried to hide her visit, which wasn’t easy to do. And if I failed, then I’d have to explain to Anna why she couldn’t join us. “I don’t get it,” she would say. “I’ve introduced you to mine.” This was true; I’d met her parents and entire extended family on numerous occasions. She’d introduced me as her live-in girlfriend and they seemed completely fine with it, which had always seemed very strange to me
Anna looked at me dubiously now. “Wouldn’t she rather meet your boyfriend?”
I rolled my eyes. “Stop,” I said. “You know I hate having to lie.”
I’d invented Andrew, an imaginary boyfriend, to tell my mother about whenever the topic of relationships came up, which seemed to happen more and more often. I’d transposed Anna’s background and statistics onto him, in male form. “Are we ever going to get to meet this famous boyfriend of yours?” my mother would ask.
“Someday,” I would say. “He travels a lot for work.”
Anna now seemed faintly excited. “Are you—” She hesitated. “Are you planning to tell her about us?”
I thought about this. Was I? And why now?
Why not now?
I told myself it was Anna who’d been pressuring me to tell her, though really it was me who probably wanted to. Guilt, for one thing, in both directions. I was tired of the weight that filled the air when the topic of my family came up. I was tired of deceiving my mother. Maybe telling her would precipitate something, some change, though I wasn’t quite sure what I felt was in need of changing.
“Yes,” I heard myself say. “I’m planning to.”
Anna touched my shoulder. “Then I’ll come,” she said.
My stomach dropped, air rising and then escaping from inside me. At the table beside us, a couple was discussing their daughter’s after-school pick-up plan. Anna checked her watch. “I’m going to be late,” she said. As she stood up to leave I found myself noticing her as if for the first time, her lanky figure, her pale freckled skin and short auburn hair. “See you tonight?” she asked. And then, before I could interject: “Oh, sorry, I mean tomorrow?”
We kissed once more and she rushed out. Alone again, I looked around the café and expected to see people staring, but no one was. “We’re not in Saudi Arabia,” Anna would say whenever I drew back if she tried to take my hand in public. “No one here cares.” I pulled the bowl of whatever she’d been eating closer to me—granola—and finished the last few spoonfuls. Then I looked past Brokeback and out the café window. I watched Anna wait dutifully for the walk sign to flash before jutting across the circle, underneath the Pavilion Theater’s marquee, and into the mouth of the subway.
THE NEXT DAY ANNA AND I MET UP AT OUR APARTMENT before dinner. She was wearing a V-neck sweater and a corduroy skirt, an awkward effort to look feminine in spite of her boyishness. Maybe she thought it would better ingratiate her to my mother. But her efforts were in vain—I knew my mother wouldn’t be all right with this situation, especially if she looked even more like a woman.
We took the Q train into Manhattan, and as it hurtled across the bridge over the East River, I had a brief image of it derailing. Wouldn’t that make things easier? I felt nauseated with worry at the thought of the three of us sitting there, attempting to have a normal dinner, my mother potentially piecing things together. Before that night I’d tried coming out to her once; after things ended with Kate, my college roommate and secret girlfriend, and I was desperate for comfort. “I like both,” I’d confessed into the phone. I could practically hear my mother weakening down the line; all the strength she seemed to normally possess had disintegrated. “Is it official?” she’d asked.
I was unsure of what “official” meant, in the context of sexuality. I imagined it to mean “are you sure” or “is there no way you could just not be that way?”
She hung up before I could respond. In the weeks after, she would complain to me about her life, as though I were an objective observer. “I should’ve had better,” she’d say. “I deserved so much more than this.”
I supposed my phone confession counted as official, but still I couldn’t imagine how my mother would handle it, face-to-face.
“What are you thinking about?” Anna
