It was his baby brother, Navid.
Navid was basically a miniature Farzan: a little shorter, a little less stocky, a little younger, but also way more of a know-it-all: he was an aerospace engineer, working for a company out in Lenexa.
All Iranian parents wanted their kids to be a doctor, a lawyer, or an engineer. Instead, the elder Alavis had wound up with a doctor, an engineer, and a homosexual. Farzan’s sister Maheen was an OB/GYN.
While Arya and Ramin registered Navid’s arrival with friendly waves, Farzan slid out of the booth to greet his brother, whose hands were linked with his girlfriend’s. Gina was a graphic designer at SNK, the same advertising firm where Ramin was an assistant vice president, whatever the fuck that meant. She was pretty, round-faced and round-hipped, with auburn hair and plentiful freckles.
“Hey, Navid.” Farzan pulled his baby brother into a hug. Ever sinceNavid moved in with Gina—to a new place south of the river—Farzan hardly ever saw him. When they were young, Navid had looked up to Farzan, and Farzan always wanted to make his baby brother proud. They’d hit a rough patch while Navid was in high school, but things got better once Navid got to college and they could relate to each other as adults. Farzan had talked Navid through quite a few breakups before he met Gina.
Farzan turned to embrace her. “Hey, Gina.”
She returned the hug. “Hi. Your parents around?”
“Back in the kitchen, like usual. What are you two doing here?”
Navid gave a nervous grin, and Farzan’s had the strangest sensation of his stomach both soaring and turning over. He glanced down to Gina’s hand. The new, simple platinum band stood out against her creamy skin.
“Oh my god,” Farzan said.
“Shhhh!” Navid glanced toward the kitchen, as if their mother might be hovering just out of earshot instead of buried behind mountains of paperwork in the tiny office. “We wanted to tell Mom and Dad first. But I’m glad you know.”
Farzan grinned and pulled his baby brother in for another hug, patting his back. “I’m so happy for you.”
“Really?” For all his know-it-all-ness, Navid could be strangely shy sometimes, especially when it came to Gina, who he clearly adored.
“Really really.” Farzan slung an arm over his brother’s shoulder and gave a quick wave and a silentbe back soonto Ramin and Arya. “Come on, let’s go tell Mom and Dad.”
twelve
Farzan
Shiraz Bistro’s kitchen was an exercise in controlled chaos.
All Iranian kitchens were, one way or another; his own small apartment was no exception. Though thankfully, at Shiraz Bistro, there were no burning onions, no dropped salmon fillets, no canceled dates or one-night stands.
After the renovation five years ago, the kitchen had gone from a strange eighties-beige paint to plain white tiles, one wall given over to grills and stoves, the other to sinks and dishwashers, and a central island—which was really more like a peninsula—for prep. The familiar smells of basmati rice steaming, of hearty kabobs grilling, of onion and turmeric and saffron filled the humid air.
Firouz Alavi, Farzan’s father, stood at the grill, his back slightly stooped with age—he had turned seventy-seven this past spring—but still attentive, rotating the skewers of kabob over the grill. He was bald, his remaining gray hair forming a fuzzy crescent from temple to temple.
Farzan’s own hair was still thick and dark and curly, and he shoved away memories of the way David had played with it, but even as he neared forty, it was still growing strong. He vainly hoped he wasn’t destined togo bald like his father. Arya looked fine with a bald head, but Farzan was terrified his would end up being weirdly shaped.
Firouz always joked that Iranian men could have either hair or brains, usually in earshot of Arya. But that was patently untrue, because Ramin had a full head of hair in addition to being the smartest person Farzan knew.
Still, there were days when Farzan looked over his bills, or rolled out of bed at five in the morning to fill in for a high school algebra teacher, or watched the most beautiful man he’d ever seen rush out of his apartment without looking back, and wondered if his dad had been a little bit right: if he’d gotten hair and not brains, and that was why his life was such a disaster.
And now his younger brother was engaged. Engaged, and in a stable job, and probably better off financially than Farzan, and Farzan was once again the gay fuckup of an older brother.
“Navid!” Firouz’s eyebrows shot up. His expansive forehead wrinkled as he smiled. “What are you doing here?”
Farzan stepped aside so his father could embrace his favorite son, and then his future daughter-in-law, kissing Gina on both cheeks.
“Where’s Maman?” Farzan asked. “Office?”
Firouz nodded absently and kept talking to Navid. “How’s work? Did you get that project?”
Farzan slid through the kitchen, past Sheena—one of the line cooks who was testing the pot of rice with a wet thumb—and knocked on the doorjamb of his mother’s office.
Firouz Alavi had always been the family chef, and Persis had been the family accountant. Farzan’s mom had been the one to keep the lights on, the fridges stocked, and the staff paid, all while finding time to attend soccer games and choir concerts and piano lessons and whatever else her children got up to.
