Finding Joy: A Gay Romance Page 3

  “Oh, that’s great. Tell me about it,” I encouraged as I worked on my breakfast.

  He seemed unsure, like he couldn’t quite believe I wanted to hear about his degree, but after a second he conceded. “I’m interested in studying the psychological effects of colonization in Eastern Africa. Particularly masculinity, misogyny, and how that’s impacted our social constructs around gender.”

  Whoa.

  “What exactly are you looking at?” I asked, my food suspended in the air as I waited for his answer.

  “Are you sure you want hear about it?” He cocked his head to the side, again hitting me with a piercing look. He was sizing me up. Figuring out if I was really interested, or just humoring him.

  “Absolutely,” I said honestly, and boy, was I unprepared for what happened next.

  Elias leaned in, those brown eyes focused on my face, his body primed to unleash all the words he was holding inside. When he spoke, the passion there almost knocked me over.

  “Ethiopia was never colonized, although we were occupied by Italy in the 1930s,” he explained before continuing, “and even though East Africa wasn’t impacted by the transatlantic slave trade as West Africa was, the brutalities of colonization were felt far and wide here. It changed the course of our history in so many ways.”

  For an instant, I wondered if he was about to get loud and preachy. But instead he grabbed his cup again and spoke in a low but serious voice. “I’d like to look into how that collective trauma has impacted our concept of masculinity, and how it factors into violence against women and children. Along the lines of the work of Frantz Fanon.” He looked at me intensely, clearing his throat, then smiled ruefully. “Sorry, this is not exactly light conversation. It can be heavy.”

  “Not at all.” He gave me a look that clearly said yeah, right, but I insisted, “I’m serious. My best friend Lucía is a big fan of Fanon—she gave me The Wretched of the Earth to read in college, and it sort of blew my mind.”

  His face brightened at that, but he stood up after sipping the last of his tea. “We can talk more in the car.” This was not a man who let his responsibilities fall by the wayside just to hear himself talk, and of course that only made my infatuation go up a notch. “We should get on the road if we want to get to Awassa by early afternoon. We’ll stop for lunch in Lake Langano. There’s a nice place there. They have good fish—you can’t go to the Rift Valley and not eat Nile perch.”

  I stood up after making sure I drank every last drop of my macchiato. “Sounds great. I love fish, and I’m looking forward to seeing the lakes.”

  He gave me that grin I noticed came out whenever I showed excitement in the things I wanted to see or do while I was here. I had to be careful not to read into it too much, though. From my own experience with Ethiopian friends, and the hundreds of stories I had heard from my parents, I knew they were immensely proud of their homeland and their history. Maybe that was all this was, not some special thing going on between me and Elias.

  Once in the car, we navigated the roads heading out of Addis Ababa, which even at six thirty in the morning were starting to get pretty busy. Driving in Addis was a cacophony of color and sound. There were people everywhere: cars, blue-and-white taxi vans, eighteen-wheelers, SUVs of every make and year imaginable, and motorcycles going in all directions.

  Like many a developing country I’d been in, I noticed Ethiopians could get creative with their vehicle passengers. We drove past a motorcycle with three riders, except in between the first and second guy was what looked like a live sheep.

  “Nice,” I said, pointing to the threesome. “I’ve seen chickens on motorcycles before, but never a sheep.”

  Elias looked at me with amused eyes. “Farenjis are always surprised by that. How are they supposed to get the sheep home after buying it at the market?”

  “True.” He had a point. “So, remind me were farenji comes from? I mean, it sort of sounds like foreigner.”

  “It’s always been the word used to describe someone from outside of Ethiopia. I think it comes from the Arabic word ‘farenji.’ And you’re correct, it does mean ‘foreigner.’”

  I leaned back in my seat as we talked, already feeling way too comfortable with Elias. “I’m glad I’m fulfilling the expected behavior, at least so far. Anything else on the list I should make sure I do while I’m here? I don’t want to disappoint.”

  My tone was teasing, and from the way his mouth turned up, I could tell Elias totally got my joke. “Well, lots of farenji want to go and eat kitfo—it’s raw beef with spices, like steak tartare. They always say if they take medicine, they won’t get sick from eating it. They take the medicine and still get sick. That happens a lot.” He shook his head in amused confusion as I chuckled.

  “I can assure you that won’t be me. I don’t eat beef. I guess I’ll just get drunk and try to speak in bad Amharic.”

  He let out a laugh at that, his deep voice full of humor when he spoke. “This also happens a lot.”

  Oh man, he was so sexy.

  Elias drove us through a particularly tricky intersection, and I used the quiet moment to take him in. He was wearing a gray fleece with the Aid USA logo on the breast pocket, and a thick leather bracelet watch that made his hands look like a warrior’s or something. He was also perfectly groomed. The nails of his strong hands were clipped and buffed, like he’d had a manicure. He was clean-shaven, but his hair was long enough that he needed to pull it back with an elastic band. It looked like a halo of tight curls around his head.

  I realized that I’d been staring for way longer than could be considered polite, and turned my attention to looking out the window and getting familiar with the place I’d been tied to from before birth. Addis had seen an economic boom in the last fifteen years and the city was expanding, but as we got farther out, we saw less concrete.

  An hour into the drive, we began passing mountains and green hills, each stretching as far as the eye could see. We also passed vendors by the side of the road. Women with babies strapped to their backs sat by tables full of huge honeycombs or bottles of water. I even spotted a few roadside artists.

  It was beautiful, all of it. The sky was so big here. Huge boulders dotted the landscape, and occasionally we would see patches of flowering cacti lining the road.

  Once it looked like we had gotten past the heavier traffic, Elias turned to me. “Do you want to put on some music? I have a cord here if you have your phone.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked, not wanting to subject him to my music. “We can play what you like, since you’re the one driving. I’m pretty open—I’ll listen to anything. If it’s good.” I winked.

  He chuckled at my attempt at humor. “I have very particular music taste. You may not like it.”

  “Uh-huh. So tell me, what do you listen to?”

  He gave me a look, and I knew he was a messing with me when he burst out laughing, “Actually, I can’t stop listening to Beyoncé lately!”

  For some reason that made laugh too, “Hey, nothing wrong with Queen Bey. Lemonade is epic.”

  At my words he turned serious and said, “I usually listen to a lot of blues and jazz, but that album is amazing. I think she tells a beautiful story.” He shook his head as I stared at him, once again bowled over by him. “Now I’ve made the whole thing too serious. No way will it live up to this introduction. Let’s hear some music you like.”

  “Okay, but for the record, I could listen to Lemonade anytime,” I said as I got my iPhone out.

  Knowing I’d be offline a lot during my trips outside of Addis, I’d downloaded a ton of music, podcasts, and audiobooks on my phone, so I had lots of choices. For some reason, being on this open road with what seemed like a never-ending range of mountains made me want to listen to something a bit melancholy.

  I hit play and “Poison & Wine” came in through the speakers. I immediately felt the music affect me. The contrasting pulse of the guitar and light piano, like two heartbeats skittering in unison, wreake
d havoc on my recently bruised heart. This playlist was one of my favorites to listen to while driving. But today, I felt exposed listening to it with Elias. Like he’d somehow figure out my sad love story.

  Next to me, he grunted approval of the music. “I like this song,” he said, tapping the steering wheel. “Their voices are so perfect together.”

  I smiled and turned to look at him. “The Civil Wars.”

  He made another sound of approval at the name of the band, and we listened to the rest of the song in silence.

  When it was over, I saw his jaw clench for a second, clearly thinking hard on whatever he was about to say. When he spoke, his voice was low, like he wasn’t totally sure it was a good idea. “The love in that song is the kind which can only survive if it’s tearing you apart or putting you back together.”

  Damn. Drag me, Elias.

  I had no idea how to respond to that. I sat there in silence, thinking of what he’d said, how exposed it made me feel, when I noticed Elias bopping his head, his dark brown curls bouncing as he sang around a big grin on his face. I turned my attention to the music and noticed the Civil Wars cover of “Billie Jean” was playing. I’d forgotten about that one. But I was extremely charmed by Elias’s obvious delight.

  “MJ!” he crowed, his shoulders now moving to the music.

  He swiveled his head, emulating Michael, and started singing along a bit faster than the version from the Civil Wars. Before I could overthink it, I started to sing along too, the intensity of the previous moment left behind.

  We belted out the lyrics as we drove through the Ethiopian countryside, and for the first time since I’d landed, I thought this trip might have been exactly what I needed.

  Chapter 3

  We listened to the rest of the playlist, singing along when the inspiration hit us, and when it finished, Elias turned to me for a second. “You’re our official DJ now. Do you have more music from them?”

  I shook my head regretfully, already finding it hard to deny Elias anything. “Nope, they stopped making music together a few years ago. Sounds like they didn’t get along.”

  His face turned serious again. “Sometimes, creating something so beautiful it ends up using up all the joy you get from it.”

  “Yeah,” I said with a sigh, feeling once again like everything Elias said seemed to come from some deep and wise place. Every word deliberate. It was unnerving. I didn’t think I could handle that level of depth if the conversation veered toward me. I sank into the seat of the car, considering what he’d said, and it hurt a little.

  I’d never made anything beautiful with someone else. I was always so eager to “make a connection.” So busy finding ways to be noticed or liked by others that I forgot to think about whether we were even a good match. Exhibit A was the disaster with my ex, Miguel.

  We’d met at a bar in DC just a few weeks after he’d started a master’s program at American University. I’d been working at Aid USA headquarters. He was smart, funny, and sexy as hell, and I fell fast. But it wasn’t just the sex. Not for me, at least. He was also Dominican, and we’d talked for hours on end about our common roots.

  Being born and raised all over the world, I’d always been fascinated by mother’s homeland. She had a complicated relationship with her country. We never really visited, and she wasn’t very close to her family, but she loved it, and spoke of it passionately. Even now, almost forty years after leaving the DR to go the States for school, she’d still cry when certain songs that reminded her of home came on the radio.

  Miguel, on the other hand, did not do complicated. He’d come to the States for school, but loved his life in the DR. I never stopped to think that meant he was just having a bit of fun with me, and never planned to stick around. When I asked him what we’d been doing for the past two years, he’d looked at me in astonishment and said, “Fucking.”

  And in the end, he was right. He’d never promised me anything. He constantly talked about how much he missed his comfortable upper-middle-class life in the DR. How he could go back to a job that paid him enough to live like a king, while in the States he would have to do the grind like everyone else.

  I mean, yeah, he was a two-timing bastard who kept his girlfriend in the DR on the side the whole time we dated. But I’d had every opportunity to see the writing on the wall. To notice he just nodded distractedly whenever I talked about the future. I’d ignored all of it and pressed on. I didn’t even have the strength to hate him now. I was too fucking exhausted from carrying our relationship single-handedly for two years.

  That train of thought put me back in a funk, and to make things worse, I started feeling guilty about not emailing Lucía to let her know I got in okay. I had to call her tonight or tomorrow morning because she was probably ready to roll out the search party.

  I tried to get out of my head and turned to Elias, who’d been driving and listening to the Bob Marley playlist I’d switched to while I’d brooded. “Hey? Is it seven or eight hours’ difference to the East Coast? I know there’s a change during Daylight Savings Time, but I can’t remember how it goes.”

  “We’re eight hours ahead of DC. We always have to keep that straight, since we have so many people travelling through here from headquarters. Sometimes they’ve been to so many countries in a single trip they have no idea what time zone they’re in when they arrive.”

  I nodded, relating strongly to that feeling. “I’ve been there, and thanks.” I grabbed my phone, ready to switch up the music if he wanted something different. “Are you okay with this, or do you want me to change it?”

  He shook his head and smiled, facing the road. “I can always listen to Bob.”

  I could not argue with that. “Me too.”

  After a moment he spoke again. “We’ll stop for lunch at Lake Langano soon. It’s one of the bigger lakes in the Rift Valley, and there are a few hotels around it with nice restaurants.”

  I nodded excitedly, grateful for the distraction. “I can’t wait. I’ve been reading about the lakes. What kind of Nile perch should I get at the restaurant?”

  “Fish goulash,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument. Elias certainly knew what he liked.

  “Like the soup?” I asked in surprise.

  He lifted a shoulder, his face amused. “It’s more like fried fish in a tomato-based sauce, which you eat with injera.” The of course was left unsaid, and I found myself grinning again.

  “Naturally, it would involve injera,” I deadpanned, eliciting a sexy laugh. “But why goulash? That isn’t an Amharic word. Also, more injera is fine with me. I could eat it all day, every day.”

  He laughed again, still focused on the road. “I’m not sure where goulash came from, but that’s what it’s been called since I can remember.” He took his eyes off the road for a second and turned to me, that teasing expression on his face. “If you can eat that much injera, then you really are a Habesha baby.”

  “I told you I am,” I said. He winked again, then took his hand off the wheel to move the gearshift. I could do was stare. A limb fixation was definitely a cry for help, and yet here we were.

  In an effort not to embarrass myself further, I attempted more small talk. “So does your family miss you when you’re out of town working in the field? Or do you live alone?”

  He shook his head. “No, most young people here live with their parents and family until they get married. I’m twenty-eight, and technically could afford to be on my own, but I live with my parents, and my sister and her family.” He cleared his throat like he was considering what else to say. “That way I can save and help with the house expenses. But they’re used to my schedule.”

  He used that same tone from before, like there was more to the story, but I was not going to get pushy. Well, pushier. “How about a girlfriend? Does she mind your schedule?”

  Totally not pushy. Was I intentionally trying to get to the point where he asked me about my girlfriend, and I’d have to lie or say something that could make this trip
incredibly uncomfortable? Did my shame at being an intrusive shit keep me from staring at him like I needed an answer ASAP?

  Nope.

  Elias just shook his head and simply said, “No girlfriend to worry about.”

  The way his throat moved and shoulders tensed when he answered made me veer off from my line of questioning. I decided to just let that shit go and not plant any more conversational bombs for now.

  We got to Awassa in the midafternoon, and after a quick check-in at the hotel, we went to our rooms with the plan to meet with the others for dinner.

  The hotel had great internet, and though it was early morning in New York, I decided to try Luce. She would probably be getting home from a shift at the hospital and be around for a quick chat. I video-Skyped her and she connected after only a couple of rings. I grinned as soon as I saw her pissed-off face filling up my laptop screen.

  “You little fucker! I thought you were dead!” she yelled, then sucked her teeth as I sat there cheesing. Acting like she was so pissed she wanted to snatch me right through the screen was my best friend’s love language.

  I wasn’t stupid enough to say it, though. So I teased her instead. “I love you too, Luce.”

  That got me an epic eye roll. “Would it have killed you to send a two-word text? ‘I’m fucking alive’ would’ve worked.”

  “Uh, that’s three words, genius,” I said, certain that would just set her off on another rant about how I was going to be the death of her.

  God, it was good to see her face.

  From where she was sitting I could see the back of her leather couch, which she’d saved for like, six months to buy. Behind her were rows and rows of books in white bookshelves. Her curls were an unruly mess, and she was wearing a T-shirt that said Flexin’ in my Complexion. I could see her Kindle and a huge cup of coffee, probably decaf, sitting in front on the table.