“So what?” Ramin asked around a sniffle. He reached for his napkin—a black fabric one. It was going to be super gross when he was done emptying his tear ducts and sinuses into it. He’d have to make sure to leave an extra-large tip. And what was he supposed to do with all this champagne they weren’t going to drink? Did they have to split the bill now?
Ramin blew his nose, wiped at his eyes.
“So what?” he asked again.
Todd sighed and looked down at his hands for a second before meeting Ramin’s gaze.
“Boring.”
Ramin swiped away his tears with the back of his hand before he opened the door.
“Hey,” Farzan said, squeezing past the storm door.
“We come bearing wine,” his boyfriend David said behind him. “And cheese.”
Farzan held up a plastic Hy-Vee bag. “And peanut butter cookies.”
Farzan Alavi was Ramin’s best friend. They’d known each other nearly all their lives, ever since elementary school, when they’d been the only Persian kids in second grade. And then Arya, their other best friend, had come along in fifth grade, and they’d been inseparable ever since.
Farzan was handsome, with an elegant Persian nose, rich sepia skin, and warm brown eyes. He took in Ramin’s sorry state—red nose, swollen eyes, untucked shirt—and pulled him into a hug.
As soon as Ramin had left the restaurant—alone, since Todd called a Lyft and went to go stay with his brother until they could figure out how to disentangle their lives—he’d texted the group chat.
It had taken his friends all of thirty minutes to rearrange their evenings. He needed them, so they were here.
David Curtis, Farzan’s boyfriend of nine months, was a new addition to the group (and the chat—he’d finally been added). He was a handsome Black man with impeccable fashion, impeccable taste in wine, and—since he loved Farzan—impeccable taste in men.
Much better taste than Ramin’s, it turned out.
Farzan let Ramin out of the hug and steered him toward the kitchen.
“Babe, can you open the wine?” he asked David.
“On it.”
Ramin’s eyes burned.Babe.Ramin didn’t have anyone to call babe anymore. Or honey. Or sweetie. Or love. Or pumpkin.
Not that he’d ever called Toddpumpkin.
“You like Barolo, right?” David asked, quirking a slitted eyebrow.
Ramin cleared his throat. Crying always made him hoarse. “Love it.”
“Good.” With practiced hands—David was a master sommelier,after all—he opened the bottle, pulled down four of Ramin’s glasses, and poured four perfectly equal servings.
Farzan pressed a glass into Ramin’s hand, but Ramin didn’t drink.
“We have to wait for Arya. I don’t want to tell this twice.”
As if on cue, Ramin’s doorbell rang again—only for Arya to jiggle the handle and let himself in.
“Sorry. There was traffic on the Broadway bridge. I thought the new one was supposed to make it better.”
Arya was still dressed in a black power suit, his nails painted gold, his head freshly shaved (not that there was muchtoshave, since he’d gone bald at twenty-five), though he’d loosened his tie. When Ramin texted, Arya had thanked Ramin for giving him an excuse to duck out of the charity gala he was working. And then immediately apologized and promised to be there in thirty minutes.
Arya kicked his shoes off and pulled Ramin into a hug with one arm, while the other stretched toward David for a glass of Barolo. Ramin choked out half a laugh.
“Okay. Tell us everything.”
