“Is that so bad?”
“Yes!” Lili exclaims, throwing her hands up. “Of course, it’s bad—Jesus, do you even hear yourself? Fuck, like some Machiavelli fanboy—stop smiling, Aleksandr! What, do you find it entertaining, arguing with me?”
“I find it enjoyable, speaking with you,” he corrects. “I find you extremely thoughtful.”
Lili’s cheeks go hot, and sudden warmth blooms in her chest—even though they’re arguing, somehow especially when they’re arguing—inconvenient and intense, but their next course arrives then: seared eggplant, pine buds, pistachios, honey.
“You know, if you ever get tired of fine dining, there’s a great Lebanese place down the block,” she tells Aleksandr. “But I don’t think I could convince you to eat with your hands.”
He grins. “Next time. I do love that place, too.”
“Oh. Have you—have you had much Middle Eastern food?”
“I’ve spent time in the region for work.”
“Beyond the Gulf?” she counters.
He raises a brow. “Yes—I have lived outside of America for most of my life, you know.”
“Right,” she says. “Asia, too, when you started at BlackRiver. Private equity.”
“Careful, or I might interpret your knowledge as interest.”
Lili rolls her eyes, scooping up a honey-laden bite. “Have you been to Lebanon before?”
“Yes,” he says. “Yourself?”
It would be easy enough to wave at an answer, move on. To find comfort in the familiar fear, retreat at the prospect of letting someone in, scared of the damage they could find.
Instead, Lili clears her throat. “My, um, my mother was from there. Beirut. I mean, ethnically Armenian and Lebanese. Came to California for school.”
“Stanford?”
“For her undergrad, yeah. She was doing her PhD at Berkeley.”
Glancing up, Lili finds Aleksandr watching her. Curious, intent, butnot—not demanding. Like he’s waiting for her to tell him what she wants to share.
She hesitates; then takes a breath and trusts—herself, she thinks. “I never visited,” Lili says quietly. “Lebanon, I mean. I was young when they died. My parents.”
“Was your father from Lebanon, too?”
She shakes her head, grasping for her wine again: uncomfortable, this feels uncomfortable, telling him. But not unsafe. “No, American. Why?”
“Your last name.”
Lili snorts. “How patriarchal. No, my last name is my mother’s. Her parents died in the war, she didn’t have any surviving siblings. Only a bit of extended family. She wanted her family’s name to go on, you know? It was actually my dad’s idea.”
“How did they meet?”
“At school. Undergrad.” Lili smiles, soft with the borrowed memory. “My mom made him read Said before she agreed to go out with him. He came back with it annotated.”
Aleksandr laughs, shaking his head. “I’ve already read Said.”
Her stomach twists; she takes a deeper drink of wine.
“You mentioned you grew up in San Francisco?” he asks.
“Yeah, then Marin. My foster family lives in Mill Valley.”
