He still had to make it to the bank. Sort out the payroll. Get through the night.
And then?
Well. He didn’t know what came next. If he couldn’t even cook tahdig, or get the paychecks done on time… if he couldn’t make the restaurant valuable enough to expand, then what was he doing running it?
He was a fuckup. He’d always been a fuckup.
This was just the final proof.
fifty-one
Farzan
Farzan groaned and rolled over. His head was pounding.
Upon reflection, it probably hadn’t been a good idea to drink an entire bottle of wine last night. But he’d gotten home after closing, anxious and frustrated, and when he was in a bad mood he liked to watchRatatouillefor some reason. But seeing all that French food made him want wine, so he’d opened a bottle of Chinon and ended up polishing it off by himself, crying when Remy’s family came together to support him, when Colette came back to help Linguini, when the ending credits rolled and some lady sang in French.
Farzan was a fucking mess. And now he was a dehydrated, hungover mess, too. The pounding in his head was getting worse.
No. Not in his head.
Well, yes, in his head, but not only in his head. Someone was at the door.
Farzan ran his tongue across his teeth, fuzzy from last night because he’d been too drunk to brush them, and if his breath smelled as bad as his mouth tasted, then whoever was at the door was in for a rude awakening.
Farzan pulled on a shirt—he was still in last night’s joggers,too—and scratched at the back of his neck, where his hair was prickly as it grew in.
Before he reached the door, though, the deadbolt unlocked and it swung open, admitting a bald, bronze head.
“Farzan?” Arya called. “You here? You decent? You having somealone time?”
“You asshole,” Farzan answered, stepping closer and pulling the door open.
It wasn’t just Arya: Ramin was right behind him, clutching a white box from Doze Nuts, their favorite donut shop in the Northland. How a queer-owned donut shop with an extremely obvious double entendre for a name had survived for twelve years in Gladstone, of all places, Farzan didn’t know, but he wouldn’t look a gift horse (or gift donut) in the mouth.
“Did we wake you?” Ramin asked.
“Did you even sleep?” Arya knelt to untie his boots.
“Yes, I slept,” Farzan said, taking the donuts so Ramin could deal with his own coat and shoes. “You’re the night owl.”
“Then why am I already dressed and you look a… you know. One of those wrinkly dogs. With purple teeth.”
Ramin made a noise in the back of his throat, the kind he always made when trying to stop himself from laughing at Arya.
“Ugh.” Farzan shoved the donut box back into Arya’s hands and retreated to the bathroom. He showered quickly—one advantage of his new short hair was that it took no time at all to wash and dry—brushed his teeth, and pulled on a clean shirt and a different pair of joggers.
When he emerged, Ramin and Arya were sitting around Farzan’s kitchen table, talking quietly. Ramin had a glass of amber tea in his hand—the pot was still steaming on the table—while Arya had a glass of reddish rooibos. The donut box still lay closed between them, though someone had pulled down three small plates.
“He lives!” Arya said as Farzan sat down. “And he doesn’t smell like hot dog water anymore.”
That time Ramin did laugh, nearly spitting his tea out.
“You do smell better,” he admitted.
Farzan rolled his eyes. “Whatever. What are you guys doing here?”
“This is an intervention,” Arya announced solemnly.
