Farzan’s parents blinked at him.
“Are you sure?” Persis asked. “You know it’s a lot of work.”
“I know,” Farzan said, fighting the urge to grit his teeth. She always asked that question:are you sure?She asked it when he wanted to become a teacher, and again when he decided to quit, and every other time Farzan made a decision she didn’t like.
Why couldn’t she just believe in him?
“But you always hated working here,” Firouz said. “Any time we asked for help…”
“That was different,” Farzan said. Yeah, he didn’t like working for his parents. They’d always try to pay him more, or slip extra money into his pockets, and the constant well-meaning questions about the direction his life was taking were exhausting.
But he loved the bistro itself. He loved the smell of the kitchen, loved the quiet hours spent rinsing rice or marinating kabobs before opening, loved the way all the other Iranian families like his could come find a piece of home.
The more he thought about it, the more sure he felt.
“Maman. Baba. I can do this.”
He didn’t know how, but he would figure it out.
He’d prove his parents wrong.
fifteen
David
Anything I can help with?” David asked his mom as she stood at the stove, simmering gravy.
His mom’s kitchen was cramped, with the stove right next to the fridge. She had lived in the small house in Hyde Park ever since she and his dad got divorced, and though he’d been offering to bankroll a kitchen renovation for the last decade—the green Formica countertops had to go—she’d always said no, insisting David needed to save his money.
She wouldn’t even let him help cook.
“I’ve got it, baby. You just relax. You look tired.”
David laughed but left his mom to her cooking. His mom always thought he looked tired. Granted, Sunday mornings were rough, following as they did on the heels of Saturday service. But David was used to that.
The problem was, he hadn’t gone to bed when he got home. He’d spent thirty minutes unwinding, reviewing his note cards, blind tasting a red wine from his stash (turned out to be a 2021 Languedoc). And then, instead of going to bed after, he’d found himself thinking about a pair of bowed lips, a set of soulful eyes, silky black curls of hair that felt so goodbetween his fingers, and before he knew it, he’d had his dick in hand, his vibrating prostate massager fully charged and ready to go, and memories of Farzan’s warm mouth to tip him over the edge.
And then he had to clean up and shower, too.
So yeah, he was tired. Tired of being horny, which was a weird feeling to have, but after going so long without sex, it was like his night with Farzan had unleashed months of pent-up desire. He hadn’t felt like this since he was a teenager.
It was getting so bad, he’d been thinking about calling one of his old friends with benefits back in Chicago, just for some phone sex. Either that or giving in and downloading Grindr again.
At this point, David would do just about anything to get Farzan out of his mind. If only Farzan had been down for something casual. They’d had great chemistry. Amazing sex. Why did Farzan have to make it complicated?
“Baby?”
“Hm?” David shook his head. “Yeah, Momma?”
“Didn’t you say there were mimosas?”
David laughed and poured his mom a drink. When it came to brunch, Kathleen Curtis was in charge of the food, but David was in charge of the booze. He could cook, yeah, but not nearly as well as his mom, who could’ve given Brayan a run for his money, and Brayan had gone to culinary school.
When brunch was ready—fluffy scrambled eggs, buttery biscuits with creamy, spicy gravy, bacon, and his mom’s latest obsession, fried brussels sprouts—David pulled his mom’s seat out for her as she sat at the table.
“Oh, stop,” she said, swatting at him with a napkin, but smiling all the same. David’s mom had beautifully high cheekbones, warm brown skin—David got his cool undertones from his dad—and large upturned eyes of the richest brown. David might’ve gotten his dad’s skin, but he had his mom’s eyes. And her nose, too.
As David sat, he raised his glass, clinked it with his mom’s.
