“But he’s leaving!” Farzan said, heart hammering its way up toward his throat. “He’s got big dreams to pursue. He’s going somewhere. And what have I got to offer him? I can’t even get a fucking small business loan.”
“You only tried the once,” Ramin said. “There are other ways—”
“Can we justnot?” Farzan snapped.
He’d tried and he’d failed. It was like he was only allowed to wantso much, and every time he reached for more—for a bigger Shiraz Bistro, for a life with David—the universe came along and smacked his hands.
David was wrong. He wasn’t allergic to happiness.
But maybe happiness was allergic to him.
forty-eight
David
David was sweating in his jacket. Whose idea was it for the temperature to reach sixty-five degrees on Thanksgiving Day? Fucking climate change.
Growing up, David and his family would have Thanksgiving dinner, sleep off the food coma, do the dishes, and then head down to the Plaza to enjoy the Lighting Ceremony, when they’d throw the big switch and turn on the miles of Christmas lights lining the roofs of the shops and offices in Kansas City’s fanciest shopping district.
David had always dreamed of getting to throw the big switch himself, and truth be told, there was still a tiny part of him that thought it would be fun.
After his parents divorced, Thanksgivings got a little more complicated, as he was juggled between families each year. And as his grandparents had passed away, as aunts and uncles and cousins moved—as David himself had moved—the day got smaller and smaller.
Now he was back, but his mom had found a new tradition, enjoying the meal with her church friends. David had gone along with her this year, a brittle smile pasted on his face as his mom’s friends teased himabout being too handsome to be single. His mom had given him a few sympathetic glances, but honestly? He was fine.
No Farzan meant no distractions. He was back on top of his flash cards and his tastings. The test was two weeks away.
He could taste it now. He was thirsty for it. Thirsty to prove himself, to pass this final hurdle, to show he had what it took. To finally hold his dream in his hands.
After the meal, David had gone home, spent a couple hours with his flash cards—today it was the seven valleys of Rioja—then met his dad and Deb for the Plaza lights.
“David?” Deb tugged him gently; the walk sign was on, and David had just been standing, thinking.
“Sorry. Just admiring the lights.”
And they were beautiful: twinkling lines outlining the rooftops, highlighting the Plaza’s Spanish-inspired architecture. Yeah, J. C. Nichols had been a racist piece of shit, but the man knew how to build neighborhoods. Besides, he was long dead, yet David and his dad and Deb were here, strolling along and enjoying the lights for Christmas.
Deb smiled as they crossed Wyandotte, her arm nestled in the crook of Christopher’s elbow. Both were dressed in their holiday finest, which meant that sweat beaded along their brows, too.
“Let’s go see the fountain,” David’s dad said as they approached Mill Creek Park, the narrow strip of green at the Plaza’s eastern edge. The huge fountain with its four horses and dolphin was still splashing merrily, not a single bit of ice built up along any of the spouts. A few parents had to keep their kids from splashing in it, the night was so warm.
“Let’s take a picture!” Christopher pulled his phone out and turned to take a group selfie with the fountain in the background.
He snapped the picture—another terrible photo, slightly blurry from his hand shaking as he tapped the shutter, because no matter how many times David told his dad, he still wouldn’t use the side buttons to trigger it.
“Perfect,” he pronounced nonetheless.
“Lemme get one too, Dad.” David snapped another picture with them actually smiling, though his dad was looking at the screen instead of the lens, as usual.
“How come yours always turn out better?” he grumbled, examining David’s phone, but then he pressed his lips together. He pulled David away a few steps, so they could talk without Deb hearing.
Deb quirked an eyebrow, but just smiled and let them go.
“You doing okay, son?”
“What? Yeah. I’m good.”
“Hmm.” He stuffed his phone back into his pocket and stared at David.
