“Pies.”
Farzan gestured to the small folding table against the dining room wall.
“Got it. What happened to your hair? Was Jarrod Pancake drunk or something?”
“I think it looks nice,” Ramin said diplomatically as he held the door for Todd. “It’ll take some getting used to, though.”
While Arya put out the pies, Todd took Ramin’s coat to hang, and Ramin thanked him with a little kiss on the cheek. Farzan tamped down his annoyance. It wasn’t fair to be jealous or annoyed with Ramin, just because he was in a stable relationship and Farzan’s had imploded.
No, not imploded. Farzan had taken it out back and shot it, like a rabid dog from one of those horrible books they’d had to read in elementary school.
Farzan grabbed a spoon to sample the gravy; it was his signature Spanish chorizo and sage gravy, smoky, with just a little bit of heat, and the sweetness of fresh sage running through it. It needed a bit more salt, though.
As he stirred, Ramin squeezed into the kitchen to give him a side hug, careful not to disturb the stove. They’d been doing Friendsgiving dinner for half their lives, now—ever since they all went away to college, really—butFarzan does the cookingwas still one of the cardinal rules.
“How’re you doing?” Ramin asked, voice low.
“I’m fine,” Farzan said, careful to keep his voice neutral.
When Farzan finally told the group chat about the breakup, Ramin and Arya (and Todd) had come over with wine and pizza. And they’d both checked on him over the two weeks since.
But he was fine.
He and David had always had an expiration date. He’d known that going in. So really, he was okay. He’d been ready for it. It was better he’d ended it now, rather than waiting, when it would’ve hurt more.
And the loan had been a long shot, really. Ramin and Arya had offered to help Farzan find other banks, take another look at his numbers, see what he could change to make him a “more attractive candidate,” whatever that meant, but Farzan was so tired of dealing with it.
“Hey.” Ramin kept his hand on Farzan’s back, leaning over the stove to smell the dressing: more chorizo and sage, plus apples and celery and parsnip and breadcrumbs made from his mom’s noon-e barbari. “You know you can be honest with me.”
“If this is about the haircut, don’t worry. I just needed a change. I’m okay. Promise. Go worry about your boyfriend.”
Farzan didn’t mean to spit out the last word, but Ramin definitely caught it. His winter-green eyes softened.
“Okay.” He gave Farzan another side hug before retreating back to the dining room. Soon Arya replaced him, holding two glasses of wine.
Farzan accepted his and took a sip.
“Mm.”
“Smells good,” Arya said. “Anything we can do?”
“Nah. We’re almost ready.”
“Uh-huh.” Arya grabbed a spoon from the drawer and stole a taste of the dressing. “Mmmm.”
“Hey! No samples.”
“I was just making sure it wasn’t burnt.”
Farzan elbowed Arya away from the stove and faced him, taking another long sip of his wine. It was a good bottle: Domaine de la Vieux Telegraph La Crau. He’d been cellaring it for a few years—well, as much as you could call a little wooden wine rack in the back of his closet cellaring—waiting for a holiday to share it with his friends.
It was smooth, deep ruby in color, with hints of… was that Cherry Coke on the nose?
Farzan wondered what David would’ve made of it. But he wouldn’t get to compare notes later. Share the other bottle still in his cellar.
He and David were done.
He bit his lip and turned back to the stove, blinking fast.
