I don’t know that I actually liked running.
It wasn’t so bad when we ran at practice, and the guys were there, and we could shout and laugh and egg each other on. But there was something about being all alone with my thoughts, in the rosy morning light, that made me kind of sad.
Still, I wanted to improve my speed.
And, if I’m being completely honest, I hoped it would help me lose weight, so maybe I could look more like the rest of the guys on the team, who were pretty much all lean and long-limbed and flat-stomached.
Maybe then I wouldn’t have to suck in my stomach when Landon touched me.
The house was quiet when I got home. Mom’s car was already gone, Laleh was still in bed, and Dad’s door was closed.
It was weird, taking a shower with so much less hair. Way quicker. When I was dry, I rubbed in some of the curl cream Mikaela had recommended.
My hair looked nice. Really nice.
I got dressed and sat at my computer to call Sohrab.
It rang and rang—well, it made that weirddoot-doot-dootmusic—and then:
“Hello, Darioush!”
I heard Sohrab’s heavily compressed voice before I saw his face, which emerged from the Pixelated Black Void.
“Hey.”
Sohrab Rezaei was my best friend in the whole world.
I hated that he lived half a world away.
Iran was eleven and a half hours ahead of Portland (I still didn’t get the point and purpose of a half-hour time difference), so it was evening in Yazd.
“Are you eating dinner? Can you talk?”
“I can talk. Dinner is not ready yet. We’re having ash-e reshteh.”
Ash-e reshteh is Persian noodle soup.
“Oh good. We had soup last night. Laleh was sick.”
“Is she okay?”
“I think so. She’s going to the doctor today.”
“Good.” Sohrab studied me for a second. “Eh! You cut your hairs!”
I grinned.
“Do you like it?”
“It looks good, Darioush. Very stylish.”
My cheeks burned.
“How does Landon like it?”
Sohrab was the first person I told about Landon.
Actually, Sohrab was the first person I told I was gay.
