“Hit on waiters?”
Farzan choked on his wine; when he finished coughing, he looked back at David with rosy cheeks. “That makes it sound like I harassed you.”
“All right, sorry. Here.” David raised his glass, and after only a moment, Farzan clinked. David took a long sip.
“So. Farzan Alavi. Greek?”
“Iranian.”
“But you said your family—”
“There aren’t a lot of movies about Iranian families, and I swear, the aunts and uncles inMy Big Fat Greek Weddinghave literally said some of the same things mine do.”
“Huh.” David’s own aunties had said some truly wild things to him over the years. Always well-meaning, and always cringeworthy.
“You’ve really never seen it?”
David shook his head.
“Here.” Farzan leaned forward and grabbed the remote off the coffee table. In seconds he had the movie queued up, but then he looked back at David, a tentative smile gracing his lips. “You want to?”
David looked around the apartment, but there was no clock on the walls (not that he had any either). Still, it had to be getting late. Past midnight. And though this hookup had been fun, he didn’t want to give Farzan the wrong idea. They’d already chilled, so what was the point of the Netflix?
Then again, the Malbec was good, and the streetcar had already stopped running, and also, David wouldn’t exactly say no to another orgasm before going home. So he loosened his tie, stretched out, and slung his arm over the back of the couch.
“Sure.”
nine
Farzan
Farzan was grateful for the distraction of the movie. With the TV as their only light source, David couldn’t see the red flare of embarrassment that kept creeping up and down Farzan’s neck and face.
Frank Allen. He should’ve remembered. But it was such a basic name, and it had the same initials, and he’d been using Frank as his White Person Name for as long as he could remember. At least since third grade, when one of their substitute teachers had bungled Farzan so badly, so repeatedly, that Farzan had given up and lied: “Frank is fine.”
It wasn’t fine, but it was better than giving his classmates more fodder for laughter. Ramin hadn’t come out unscathed, either, though at least his was closer: the sub just read his name as “Ramón” and called it good.
Farzan sipped his wine and suppressed a sigh. What a fucking disaster.
The thing was, he really liked David. He liked their flirting at the restaurant, he liked David’s sexy voice and beautiful smile, and he definitely liked the sex. But David had thought he was someone else, someone impressive. A food critic.
Not a substitute teacher who needed to pick up shifts at his parents’ restaurant to make ends meet. Not the family fuckup.
Except, once David had gotten over his initial confusion, he hadn’t seemed to mind that Farzan wasn’t Frank Allen. He’d stayed.
And when Farzan kept a handspan between them, David scooted closer so their shoulders touched. His free arm, resting on the back of the couch, reached down to gently knead at Farzan’s shoulders, before sliding up to glide through his hair. Farzan melted a little. David really seemed to like his hair, and Farzan loved the tender touch.
He sighed and settled in, half watching the movie, half watching David’s reactions: the way he’d bite his lip to hold in a laugh, the way his whole chest moved when he couldn’t anymore, the way his eyes shone as Toula fell in love with Ian.
Farzan had never told anyone, but John Corbett was one of his first crushes. He’d been a freshman in high school when the movie came out, and his parents took the whole family to see it three times in the theater. Not that Farzan was out then, even to himself, but looking back? Yeah. Total crush.
That was probably the start of his desire to be a teacher, for all the good that had done. He only lasted two years at the job before he burned out, hard. It had been a miserable couple years after that, too, going from job to job, doing his damnedest to avoid working for his parents. He’d spent enough of his childhood in that restaurant. And though he loved Shiraz Bistro, and he loved his parents, he didn’t loveworkingfor his parents, much less needing their indirect help to pay his bills.
Fuck. He’d grown up wanting to be Ian, and now he was a Toula, wasn’t he? No prospects, curly hair, and all.
Well. At least David liked his curly hair. But his wineglass was empty, and so was Farzan’s.
“Want a refill?”
