On warmer days, Mina painted in Riverside Park. The open air and the sun and the sounds of the river were so welcome after all the cold days of winter. She staked out a spot on the grass by the river. She leaned against a huge oak tree there and did her work.
She adjusted the canvas and tried to remember the People’s Park. She mixed the oil paints on a separate palette, trying to get just the right shade of green. It had been weeks since her final dismal conversation with Ramin. She needed to forget him, move on. What they had experienced on their trip did not remotely apply to their real-world lives. She struggled to push him out of her mind, but no matter what she did, she couldn’t forget the place. It helped to try and paint that scene, if nothing else to get the details of the sheer physical beauty of People’s Park. She’d worked for weeks at getting the tree on canvas.
She had been painting for almost half an hour, lost in her work, when she heard rustling, and someone said, “You’ve managed to capture it perfectly. Amazing.”
Mina’s hand froze. The voice from behind the tree had the deep timbre that had once warmed her, even as she stood in the cold against a rough tree. She whipped her head around but stopped herself from looking all the way around the tree. She just felt her heart pound and had to grip the paintbrush in order to keep it from falling to the ground.
“I hope it’s okay that I came here.”
“I never expected . . . how are you?” she said finally.
“Oh, Mina. This shouldn’t have taken me so long. I finally just had to see you. To tell you in person.”
“Tell me what?” she asked.
“That—I am so sorry, Mina. I blew it on the phone, I know.”
“There’s no need to apologize—” she began, but he interrupted.
“Mina, please . . .” He came around the trunk then and stood in front of her. If a moment ago she had despaired over their stilted phone calls and his not coming sooner, she was now rooted to where she sat in the grass. Because one look at him standing there, his feet apart and the way he crossed his arms across his chest like a teenage boy, made her melt again. She did not want to come undone. Then she looked into his eyes and saw the sadness.
“What’s wrong, Ramin?”
“My grandmother passed away a few weeks ago.”
His face was raw with pain. Mina knew the look of grief all too well, could recognize it in a person’s eyes. She felt again that sinking, sick-to-the-stomach feeling of loss. It was something that was accessible to her within a second, a taste that came back as if it had never left. “I am so sorry,” was all she could say.
Mina looked up at the branches of the tree, at the leaves that looked like a canopy. She remembered the other tree they’d stood under, in that other world—the flame-colored leaves and the cold air on her cheek. The guards that stood by, waiting. “It’s good you got to see her, at least. It was worth all the risks.”
“Let’s just . . . let’s sit, Mina.”
He came to her side and slid down the trunk till he was sitting right by her. He smelled of mint and she wondered if she smelled like paint and turpentine. She tightened her ponytail in an attempt to look less scruffy. He leaned against the tree, his knees drawn up to his chest. He smiled at her. “You’re painting.”
“What about my painting?”
“No, you’re painting. I know you told me you were, but it’s different to actually see your work. You’re so talented. Quite frankly, I love that you are painting our tree.”
She felt her face burn a little. “Yes, the tree.” She wanted to say “our” but couldn’t just yet. She sat straight up. “How did you even know to find me here?”
“I called your parents’ house. I spoke to your dad, by the way. We had a nice chat about my brother and how he’s doing . . .”
Mina cringed. “Oh no.”
“No, it was fine,” Ramin said. “And then your dad gave the phone to your mom, who told me where you go every morning. Took me a while to find you, though. Lots of trees here.”
Mina smiled. “My mom likes to know my routine. Even if it involves art.”
“Oh, she sounded very proud of you.”
“She did?”
“Yes.”
Mina looked out at the park in front of them. An older couple walked their dog. The air smelled of freshly cut grass and jasmine. Spring with all its renewal and new possibilities hung in every tree, from every leaf. She wanted to hug him. To tell him again that she was sorry about his grandmother and that it would get easier with time. She wanted to hold his hand again.
“It is just so great to see you again,” he said quietly.
The bark dug into her back and the sleeve of his shirt almost touched her arm. “It’s great to see you too,” she said. She pulled her knees in and cocked her head and looked at him. “I don’t like the phone,” she suddenly blurted out.
He laughed. “I’m not a huge fan either.”
“You never know if it’s a good time to call, if the other person is in the middle of something . . .”
“If they really want to talk . . .”
“If they’re busy . . .”
“And we’re both so busy, right?” He looked at her sideways with a grin.
They both laughed then. Mina leaned her head back against the tree and felt the rough bark through her hair.
“Mina, I’ve missed you. Look, I know we saw each other, what, three times? On a trip halfway across the world. But I can’t stop thinking about any of it. I know it sounds strange, but every time I was with you in Tehran, it was just so comfortable . . .”
“Comfortable? Like an old sofa?”
“Yes. No. I mean comfortable in a really good way.” He bit his lip, a little flustered. “You know, Mina,” he said, his voice quiet. “People always say I’m so lucky because I can fit in anywhere. I’ve lived in such different places. In California, in Tehran, in Connecticut. But the truth is, to this day, I feel like an outsider in America. Then when I went to Iran, even though it was great to be back, I was an outsider, a foreigner there now. Sometimes I think to belong everywhere is to really belong nowhere. Which is maybe why, so far”—he sighed—“I’ve been reluctant to put down real roots. But then I met you.” He looked at her, and his face was no longer sad.
Mina stretched her legs over the bulky, bumpy roots of the tree. How long had she floated precariously on that hyphen that separated the place where she had her childhood and the place where she now lived? How long had she hovered, never feeling at home on either side of that hyphen? Now she remembered what Ramin had given her. What had made that day under the tree in the People’s Park feel so timeless, so otherworldly. With him, she finally belonged. “I know,” she said.
“How about we start again? In person? Do you think maybe we could pick up where we left off at the park?”
“We are in person . . . now.” Mina looked at him.
He inched a little closer. His arm felt solid and strong next to hers.
“I missed you too,” she said. She slowly rested her head on his shoulder. “It feels so . . .” She looked up at him and winked. “Comfortable.”
He just smiled, looking relieved.
They sat like that under the tree. After a few minutes, he found her hand and held it. It felt as if she’d come home.
“Let’s try again,” he said.
The leaves in the branches trembled in the breeze. Her canvas teetered on the easel. Oil paints lay strewn around their feet.
“Let’s . . .” she started to say.
But before she could finish her sentence, he drew her in and held her face in both his hands. Then he kissed her—a long, slow kiss in the park, under the tree, for all the world to see.