Farzan directed David to the row of shoes by the door; David had worn his newest pair of sneakers, shining birds of paradise against a deep green field, with white soles and toecaps, and he had to set down his wine and fight to get them off, because they were high-tops and needed a tiny bit of breaking in.
He had a feeling going into this that Farzan’s sister’s house was shoes-off, but he couldn’t resist showing them off, and was gratified when Farzan said “I love those.”
David beamed at him, kissed him on his nose. “Thanks for inviting me.”
“Are you kidding? It was either that or flee the country, change my name, and go work in an oil field in Manitoba.”
“Why Manitoba?”
Farzan shrugged. “I don’t know. Sounds gay.”
“You…”
Before David could tease Farzan anymore, a woman appeared at the end of the hall. She looked a bit younger than Farzan, but they shared the same chin and nose and endlessly kind brown eyes.
And when she smiled, it was Farzan’s smile.
“Farzan!” She pulled her brother into a hug. “And you must be David.”
“Nice to meet you,” David said, offering a hand, but she pulled him into a hug and kissed both his cheeks. She smelled like jasmine and strawberries. “Maheen, right?”
She nodded, backing away but holding onto his arm as she looked him up and down. She turned to Farzan and stage whispered, “He’s handsome.”
“I know.” Farzan linked his arm through David’s. “You need help in the kitchen?”
“God, yes.” She practically dragged Farzan into the house; David kept close, because meeting Farzan’s family had seemed like a fine idea—Farzan had met his parents, after all—but now, meeting all of them at once, David wondered what exactly he’d gotten himself into.
The kitchen was huge and modern, anchored by a granite-topped island with a sink and ample prep space. An induction stovetop, convection oven, and slate gray cabinetry lined the walls. Farzan’s father, who had a severe-looking nose but a friendly smile, was already at the stove, stirring a pot of something that smelled sweet and savory and sour.
“Baba, this is David. David, my father, Firouz.”
“Nice to meet you, David. Farzan, can you check the rice? And the kufteh?”
Farzan licked his thumb and tapped it against one of the pots on the stove, frowned and turned the heat up a tad, then pulled the lid off a sauté pan filled with enormous meatballs. He dipped a spoon into the simmering sauce, puckered his lips as he tasted, and rummaged through the spice cabinet.
It was like seeing double: Farzan and his dad moved the exact same way in the kitchen, from the little head bobs as they stirred, to the way they pursed their lips, and even the way they banged the spoon against the edge of a pot.
Farzan was in his element. David had gotten glimpses of Farzan cooking before, when he’d made soup, but David had been sick and foggy. Now, though, well. His mom always said there was nothing sexier than a man who could cook, and she was right.
He wasn’t just sexy, though. Farzan was freer, somehow. Confident and poised and happy. It was beautiful to witness.
Farzan caught David smiling.
“What?”
“Nothing.” No need to get all mushy in front of Farzan’s family. “Where should I put the wine? And should your sho… your rice pudding go in the fridge?”
“Sholezard, and yes please. You can leave the wine on the counter next to the doogh. Open one if you like. Gimme a second.”
“Doog?” David couldn’t quite make the sound Farzan had made, an unfamiliar consonant that sounded alarmingly like Farzan was choking.
David shook the thought off.
“Doogh,” Farzan repeated, emphasizing the sound, but that just made David’s dick twinge in his pants, remembering when Farzan made that sound around him. “The big white bottles.”
“Gotcha.”
David put away the sholezard, stood up the wine where Farzan indicated, next to a pair of two-liter bottles filled with a fizzy white liquid.
