Holy fuck!
He leapt off the couch, sending his phone tumbling, did a quick happy dance he was grateful no one was around to see.
It was happening. It was really happening.
His dreams were finally coming true.
twenty-two
Farzan
And if you’ll just sign here…”
Farzan nodded and added his signature to the contract.
One good thing about being Iranian: you knew plenty of lawyers, even if your firstborn son didn’t end up being one.
Reza was about five years older than Farzan. They’d been friends in the sense that their parents had known each other back when there weren’t as many Iranian families in town, and so they’d been forced into friendship through sheer lack of options. Farzan had vague but happy memories of being seven years old and terminally impressed with Reza’s Power Rangers collection.
Along with memories of being terminally impressed with the boys in thePower Rangersshow, who had definitely captured Farzan’s attention in a way he wouldn’t understand for years.
“Great.” Reza grabbed the pages of the contract, straightened them out against the desk, and slipped them into a folder. A gold wedding band shone brightly against his brown skin. Farzan’s family didn’t really hang out with the Abbasis anymore—they lived out in Lenexa now—but Farzan had attended Reza’s wedding five or six years ago.
“You’re next!” Everyone kept telling him, but of course Maheen had beaten Farzan to it, and now Navid was going to as well.
“You’re all set. I guess congratulations are in order?” Reza extended his hand; Farzan gave it a firm shake.
It was official. He owned Shiraz Bistro now.
The business, not the building: his parents still owned that, and the bistro would be paying them rent, which would supplement their retirement. It wasn’t exactly ideal, but it was the only solution that really made sense. It wasn’t like Farzan had money floating around to just buy a building.
Well, half a building, the part with Shiraz Bistro. The other half of the building was owned by the Trans, who’d been running their nail salon even longer than Shiraz Bistro had been around. The Trans were friendly, and Farzan had fond memories of growing up exchanging pots of saffron rice and skewers of kabob for steaming pots of homemade pho around the holidays. Two immigrant families, celebrating that most American of traditions: ignoring the separation of church and state to take December 25 off.
Farzan shook himself when he realized his parents were still talking to Reza in Farsi.
“They haven’t set a date yet, but we think some time in the summer,” Persis was saying.
“Well, give him my congratulations,” Reza said, gently leading them toward the door, no doubt hoping to avoid a lengthy Persian goodbye.
If anything, his parents’ inherited Persian goodbyes had merged with their adopted Midwestern goodbyes into hours of taarofing.
“We will,” Farzan said, in English, ushering his parents out the door, but Firouz planted his feet and turned.
“Oh, tell your mom and dad hi,” he said, and Reza nodded. He caught Farzan’s eye for the briefest of moments, and Farzan stifled a laugh. One glance into the lobby told Farzan that Reza did, in fact, have other clients he needed to see, ones that probably paid him in money instead of pots of khoresh and guilt trips. “Khodahafes!”
“Khodahafes!” Farzan said for his parents, gently guiding them out the lobby and toward the elevator.
“Reza’s new office is nice,” Persis said as the elevator dinged. He’d relocated his practice to a new building in Overland Park. “He’s doing well for himself.”
“Mm,” Farzan agreed noncommittally. Thankfully he and his parents drove separately, so he wouldn’t have to hear them praising Reza on the drive home.
He walked his parents to their car and paused.
“Well,” he said. “It’s official.”
His mom pulled him into a tight hug, kissed him on his cheeks.
“You’re sure this is what you want?” she asked.
