27. Omar
Chapter twenty-seven
Omar
Ever since I’d been little, I’d loved to fly. Most people hated waiting at the airport, going through security, and dealing with the hassle of luggage and whatever else might happen when taking a trip. None of those things bothered me. In fact, they were part of the fun, a bit of unknown wonkiness that could turn a simple voyage into an adventure.
Despite my father’s prognosis, I couldn’t help but feel a thrill of jittery excitement when passing through the spectrometer and heading toward my gate. The direct flight from Atlanta to London would take eight hours. By anyone’s standard, that was a long time for an ass to snuggle with a not-so-cushiony seat. This was where diplomatic privilege made up for many of life’s ills. Thanks to my black-jacketed passport, a perk of being the son of a soon-to-be ambassador, I sailed through every stage and received a quick upgrade to the comfy, puffy, fully reclinable first-class cabin. A champagne flute was thrust into my hand the moment I stepped on board the plane.
Why people hated flying was a mystery to me.
I’d only taken a couple sips of bubbly when my phone chimed the notes to, “London Bridge is Falling Down.” That was my customized ringtone for Matty. No, there was no logical explanation for me using a tone that resembled the code phrase that meant the Queen had died. While searching for a perfect sound that screamed Matty, I came across the tune. It was happy and perky and made me smile. It was Matty played on a xylophone.
Matty : Miss you already.
Me : I just settled into my seat, champagne in hand.
Matty : I was all ready to be supportive and loving, and you had to go throw champagne in my face?
Me : Ha. That would be me, a champagne tosser.
Matty : Doesn’t “tosser” have a specific meaning in Brit land?
Me : Wow. I am impressed with your knowledge of the King’s English. It does, indeed, have a pejorative meaning.
The dots were still for a long moment before dancing.
Matty : Pejorative? I had to type that three times for spell check to accept it. Thanks for using words I can barely pronounce, Mr. Fancy Pants.
Me : That would be Mr. Fancy Nickers, thank you very much.
Matty : Remind me. Why do I love you?
Me : I’m witty, reasonably cute, and know how to hit your prostate from any direction.
There was another pause before his next message pinged my phone.
Matty : I’ll have you know, two nurses, a doctor, and a whole ER full of patients just turned to see if I was having a seizure at the nurse’s station. I think Sisi might call for a psych consult—for me!
Me : Glad to be of service, my love.
Matty : And then he calls me “my love” and the sun is bright again. *sigh*
Me : You are, you know.
Matty : I am what?
Me : My love.
Matty : Oh, I know that. That’s old news. So is the prostate thing. Although, my prostate will miss you even more than my brain and heart. You need to hurry home.
Me : Two weeks is a long time, isn’t it? We might need to do a little video chat.
Matty : Just chat?
Me : Surely, one of your patients will present something you could use to tickle your prostate while we chat.
Matty : Oh, God, I think I might hurl.
Me : Taking off. Gotta go. Love you.
Matty : Love you, too. No clue why, but I do. Toodles.
Toodles? Only Matty would end a chat that way. I laughed and tried not to spill what was left of my drink.
The flight attendant was by my side with a towel in a flash. Her brunette hair was pulled so tight I doubted she would ever need an eye lift. Thick black liner brought out the blue in her eyes but also made me wonder if she’d gone to a goth club the night before. She smiled and leaned down.
“Let me get that for you, sir. Everything all right?”
“Oh, thank you,” I said, scooting aside so she could wipe the armrest. “My boyfriend just said something funny.”
“Aw, that’s sweet. How long have you been together?”
No one had asked me that before, not about Matty and me. It felt weird to say aloud. Months felt like years . . . or a lifetime. We’d become close so quickly that I almost couldn’t remember a time when blond curls weren’t bouncing their way through my life.
“A few months. It’s still new, but—”
“When you know, you know.” She smiled warmly. “I need to finish my preflight, but I want to see pictures once we’re in the air, if that’s all right.”
My heart fluttered. Someone wanted to see my boyfriend. And I had one to show! Pride and excitement and an overwhelming sensation of being dunked in a hot tub full of chocolate made me want to leap out of my seat and scream, “I love Matty Vance!”
Then the mental image of all that hot chocolate dripping off my body quelled my fever.
“Absolutely.”
“Great. I’ll get you a new champagne, too. Stay right there.”
She winked and dashed away, as if I had somewhere else to be—on a plane, a plane that was about to take off. Was that flight attendant humor? Did she say that twenty times each day, like me singing the same lullaby over and over to get my tiny patients to calm?
I flipped through my phone, finally resorting to Facebook. Social media wasn’t my favorite thing in the world, but it was most effective at chewing up large amounts of time, something I had in abundance at the moment.
The first few images were ads for books. Why did authors feel the need to advertise so much? They were everywhere.
Then a friend posted photos of a drunken night out. The men were all half naked, and a few had eyes dilated wider than the women in the maternity ward.
The next image stopped my scrolling.
It was a boy, well, a young man about my age with narrow shoulders and massive wire-rimmed glasses. Standing beside him with one arm draped about his shoulders was a stout man with graying hair and identical spectacles. The similarity between the pair was uncanny. Curious, I read the caption.
Dog park, lunch, now a movie. Best dad day ever.
My heart jumped into my throat.
My father and I had never had days like that. When I was a child, he might take me to the office or read to me when he got home after a long day of work, but outside play or sporting together were never part of our routine. He wasn’t that kind of father, and, I supposed, I wasn’t that kind of son.
Could we have been?
If we’d tried harder?
If he hadn’t been so married to his religion?
That one was unfair. I respected his beliefs, the way he lived his faith and treated others with care and respect. He was a good, decent, honorable man I was proud to call my father. His faith made him even more so. It made me even more proud. We just did not share those beliefs.
What if he hadn’t been a diplomat desperate to save his country at every turn? If he’d been more present or concerned or . . . interested?
I hated thinking that, questioning his desire to be a father, to be my father. I knew he loved me. He said as much in both word and deed; but he was also a servant of our people. Egypt called him long before I was born, and he had answered. He would always answer her call. She was our home. I couldn’t blame him for doing what he thought was right or what he believed would protect and honor our people. No, that would have also been unfair.
What if I hadn’t been gay?
Now that was a fair question. It was also an impossible one to answer.
He loved me.
I had to believe it. I needed to believe it.
Did I believe it?
He would say my attraction to men had driven a wedge between us, that it was a sin he could never forgive. I might argue his religion was the wedge that he prized over his own blood. Which of us was right? Was there even a right answer?
I had no answers. Only more questions.
And questions were funny things.
Especially where the past was concerned. Answering them rarely offered understanding or deeper meaning. Most of the time, at least from my experience, they deepened wounds and added regrets, and I desired neither of those. I had more than my share already.
Still, closing my eyes and resting my head against the leather chair back, I couldn’t help but see my father’s smiling face as he spun about a small, laughing boy. My hair was longer when I was little, almost to a curly-haired hippie’s length. It flowed as my tiny body swung in a wide arc. My eyes were so bright, so filled with unbridled joy.
His were, too.
To the side, Mother sat with her legs crossed, palms atop one another, in the perfect politician’s pose. No one was around. There were no crowds or staffers watching. None of our house servants paid us any mind. Mother preferred to be regal, to hold herself to the standards of a queen, both in bearing and thought.
She expected no less of her husband.
She demanded no less from her son.
But on that day, I somehow recalled, despite her ramrod posture and imperious gaze, a smile parted her lips, and I swore I could hear laughter spilling out.
It was an oddly perfect moment.
We were happy, unburdened, cheerful.
We were a family.
I didn’t know when the tears began or how long they fell. I’d been so lost in my recollection that I hadn’t noticed the moisture on my cheeks.
“Here ya go, hon.” The flight attendant kneeled beside me, a stack of cocktail napkins reaching toward me. Her Atlanta accent was thick, a blanket of warmth in the cold cabin. “You doing okay? Can I get you anything?”
I took the napkins and wiped my face, then tried to smile. “No, thank you. I just . . . I’m okay.”
“All right, I’ll leave you be, but if you need anything, just call for me, all right?”
I nodded and thanked her again before pulling the sleep mask over my eyes and falling into a fitful, restless sleep.