“Hey, boys,” he said. He leaned down to kiss my forehead. “Wow. Your hair looks great.”
“Thanks.”
“Hey, Stephen,” Landon said.
“Sorry for surprising you.”
“It’s all good.” Landon rummaged through the spice cabinet and pulled out the bag of bay leaves sitting in the back.
I didn’t know how he could be so cool about everything.
I couldn’t meet Dad’s eyes.
“Is Laleh okay?”
“I hope it’s not strep again. Be sure to wash your hands plenty.”
“Okay.”
“And thanks for making soup, Landon. It smells good.”
“Sure thing.”
Laleh eventually made her way downstairs in her green pajamas and poured herself into her seat at the kitchen table.
I kissed her head. “Hey, Laleh.”
She made the kind of dramatic groan I usually associated with adults who hadn’t had their coffee in the morning.
Sometimes it was hard to tell if my sister was nine or thirty-nine.
“Sorry you’re not feeling well.”
“Thanks,” she said. Her voice was hoarse and throaty.
“Landon’s making soup for you.”
“Yum,” she said, but with none of her usual manic enthusiasm for Landon’s cooking.
By eight o’clock, the soup was done, and Mom was finally home from work. She and Dad had been working a lot more hours since our trip to Iran.
Mom looked so tired, it was hard to decide who needed soup more, her or Laleh. But as soon as she tasted it, she smiled.
“This is good, Landon,” she said. “You made it in an hour?”
“Yeah. Well, you had good chicken for it.”
Like I said, Landon was a great cook. I think that’s the main reason he won Mom over.
It’s not like Shirin Kellner was mad or upset when I told her I was gay.
And it’s not like she was weird about me and Landon hanging out.
But sometimes there was this tension between us, someperturbation in the gravity of our orbits, that I couldn’t figure out.
At least Landon could cook.
Every Persian mother wants her son to marry someone who can cook.
