Farzan laughed and yanked his hand away.
And if he missed the warmth of David’s hand, well. It was a little chilly out.
“You have to double-check every time,” Firouz said, pushing hard against the refrigerator door. “It likes to stick mostly closed.”
Farzan nodded, popping the door open and closing it again. It did stick about an inch before closing. Farzan wondered if the door not closing was in any way connected to the enormous (though thankfully shallow) dent on the front, made several years ago after an unfortunate “tahdig incident” his parents had refused to elaborate on.
Once Farzan finished helping his dad sort and put away the latest produce order, he ducked into his mom’s office.
“Hey, Maman. How’re you feeling?”
Persis glanced at Farzan over the top of her glasses. “See, this is why I didn’t tell you about the heart attack. I’m feeling fine! Besides, I’m the one who’s supposed to worry about you.”
“You don’t have to worry about me, Maman.”
“You’re my son. Of course I do.”
“You’ve got two sons. But I’ve only got one mom.”
Persis waved him off, but she had a little smile, too.
“Anything I can do to help?”
“No, just sorting things.”
Farzan’s mother seemed to follow the “everything where I can see it” school of organization. The office was a well-ordered maze of stacks of paper, files that needed to be sorted, empty cups of tea, piles of receipts. It gave Farzan hives every time he stepped inside. There was a reason his apartment was minimally decorated, and it had everything to do with dreams of being buried alive under an avalanche of paper.
Which, come to think of it, probably had to do with the time hehadgotten buried under an avalanche of files when he was eight years old, playing with his Transformers in the corner of the office as his mom worked.
Regardless, the office would have to be sorted before Farzan could take it over, but his mother refused any help on that front. Even though Farzan would be the one who needed to know where things went.
“Actually, Farzan-joon, can you get me some tea?”
“Sure.”
Farzan delivered said cup of tea, then joined Elmira, one of their servers, out front, wiping down tables to get ready for opening.
“So you’re gonna be the new boss, huh?”
“Yup. I’m Mister Manager.”
Elmira blinked at him behind owlish black plastic glasses. Maybe she was too young to have seenArrested Development. At least he hadn’t made a joke about blue-ing himself.
“Never mind.”
As they wiped down the tables, and leveled one that had gotten a little wonky, there was a knock on the front door.
“We’re still closed.” Elmira sighed, but Farzan ignored her and let Arya in. It was pouring outside, their first proper fall thunderstorm, and raindrops dotted Arya’s bald head. He never bothered with an umbrella.
“Hey. Thanks,” Arya said, pulling Farzan into a very wet one-armed hug. “How goes the peaceful transfer of power?”
Farzan snorted. “Oh, you know.”
“That well, huh?”
“You’ve met my parents, right?”
Arya arched his eyebrows. “Mm-hmm.”
