Nineteen Arya
nineteen
Arya
Soon ended up being a few weeks later, when Arya’s mom asked him to go to the doctor with her and Afshin.
Arya tried to get out of it. He really did.
Until Farah called and reminded him it was his turn.
“I did the last two because you had shows you couldn’t get out of,” she said, voice tight. Arya couldn’t see her, but he could just picture her lips pursed together in frustration, though her eyebrows would remain placid.
“You’re right.” He’d have to see if Carley could cover for him at the site visit he had scheduled, though he hated asking. She already did way too much, and he’d been planning on pushing through a raise for her before all their budget woes started.
After all these weeks, he still had no prospects. All he could do was cling to the hope that Ben would come through. And that the Holbrooks would actually bite.
“I’ll take care of it. Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” She sighed. “I don’t know why Maman is so insistent on one of us being there. Her English is fine.”
“Maybe she just needs help wrangling Baba.”
“Hah! Good luck, Arya-joon.”
“Thanks. I’ll need it.”
Arya met his parents at their doctor’s office in Gladstone. Despite being whatever they were—estranged? separated?—they still saw the same doctor.
Arya’s dad had driven them, in his mom’s car, and only parked over the line a little bit.
“Hi, Maman. Hi, Baba,” Arya said, air-kissing his parents one after the other. The parking lot wasn’t too full, so he ignored the car rather than trying to get his dad to let him repark it.
They found spots in the corner of the waiting room.
Arya did his best to avoid it, but somehow he still got stuck sitting between his parents.
His mom pulled an e-reader out of her purse and started reading, while his dad pulled out his phone and tried to watch YouTube videos.
Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately) the signal in the office was too weak, and the videos kept cutting out.
Which Arya knew, because his dad wouldn’t mute them or put in headphones.
He wanted to crawl out of his skin. The only thing worse than being in a room with his parents was being between them, feeling the ice wafting off them, the prickly spikes that silence crafted. Had his parents ever loved each other?
Or had it always been bad?
That question haunted him more than he cared to admit. It had followed him all through college, as his furtive attempts at relationships had fallen apart almost as quickly as they began. It followed him into his adult life, as he avoided getting entangled with anyone, because what was the point?
And now here he was, getting smacked in the face with it. His parents were miserable whenever they saw each other. Miserable and awkward and making it his problem.
Fuck.
Finally—blessedly—the doctor called them back for Afshin’s checkup.
It turned out Arya’s dad was in excellent health for a man of seventy-eight.
He still had to get some lab work done to check his cholesterol, but all his other markers were decent, his mind was sharp, he had no major complaints other than a bit of arthritis in the knees, and—to Arya’s horror—an active and fulfilling sex life.
He didn’t mention that it wasn’t with his wife.
Arya didn’t know if he could eat the rest of the day, his stomach was so sour.
Shohreh asked a few questions in Farsi, which Arya translated, even though his parents both spoke fluent English. It was like she had some sort of weird learned helplessness that only came out when Arya’s dad was around.
“Want to have some lunch, azizam?” Shohreh asked when they stepped out into the sunny parking lot thirty minutes later.
She stuffed a page of notes into her purse: prescriptions to fill, supplements to pick up, over-the-counter meds to grab while Afshin was in the States, because they would be hard—if not impossible—to find back in Iran. “I have shooli at home.”
Shooli was a Yazdi soup of lentils and beets. Arya had never met any non-Yazdi Iranians who liked it. Hell, half the Yazdis he knew didn’t like it either. (Ramin in particular hated it.) Arya loved it, though.
It would’ve been tempting on any other day. If Arya’s dad wasn’t around. And if Arya didn’t already have plans.
“I can’t, sorry. I’ve got a date.”
Shohreh’s eyes widened. “A date?”
“Yep. He’s a cellist.”
“Oooo. A musician.” Shohreh fanned herself. “He can come for shooli, too.”
Arya smiled but shook his head. Shooli was a lot to throw at someone this early in a relationship, and they weren’t even in a real relationship to begin with. The whole point of these fake dates was to be seen in public, anyway.
“Maybe next time, Maman. Love you.”
“That sounds… messy,” Ben said.
Arya had tried, he’d really tried, not to unburden himself on Ben.
After all, this whole thing was make-believe. They weren’t really together.
But Ben was so easy to talk to. And he didn’t know Arya’s parents, the way Farzan and Ramin did, so he was a safe person to just vent to.
“It really is,” Arya sighed, rubbing his head. He’d missed a tiny spot on his occipital ridge, a bit of fuzz his thumb kept catching on. He normally kept a razor in his glove box for emergencies, but he’d thrown out his old one and every time he’d gone to grab a new one, he’d gotten distracted.
He needed to make a reminder, but he couldn’t pull out his phone and do it right now in front of Ben. Their date might be fake, but Arya wasn’t going to be rude.
“Anyway. Sorry. I’ve talked about nothing but myself.”
Ben waved the worry away. “We haven’t even gotten our food yet. It’s fine. And I’m happy to listen. My parents are…” Ben frowned. “Well, nothing like yours, but still, I get it. I mean, I don’t get it, but I get it. Parents are weird. And they fuck us up.”
Arya chuckled and reached for his herbal tea. “They do.”
“Here you go!” A slim, androgynous server in a tie-dyed shirt approached their table, arms laden with their meals.
Despite it being lunchtime, Arya had invited Ben to his favorite breakfast place, this eclectic, queer, artsy diner on Hospital Hill. Arya had ordered a scramble, and Ben their pigs in blankets, little breakfast sausages wrapped in thin pancakes.
“Thanks!” Arya said as their waiter withdrew, but then he looked at Ben’s plate.
It had three perfect pieces of French toast on it.
“Didn’t you get the pigs in blankets?”
Ben shrugged. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”
“What? I’m sure it’s just a mix-up.”
Ben shook his head, but Arya flagged down their server.
“Hi, sorry, I think my boyfriend ordered the pigs in blankets?”
Their server blushed. “Oh gosh, sorry, lemme go see.” They grabbed the French toast and disappeared into the back.
“You didn’t have to do that. It’s fine,” Ben said, a small frown creasing his face. “It’s not that big a deal.”
Arya studied Ben. He hadn’t been rude, and he always tipped well. Mistakes happened. It wasn’t a big deal. Why was Ben making it one?
“I just want you to get what you ordered,” Arya said, wary. “Sorry.”
Ben shook his head again. “It’s fine. Thank you. I just…”
He folded his bottom lip under for a second, then released it with a little pop.
“They’re already working hard. I don’t want to make it worse.”
Before Arya could argue, their server was back—with Ben’s plate.
“Sorry about that, grabbed the wrong dish! You all need anything else?”
Ben shook his head. Arya glanced at their table. Three kinds of hot sauce, but no syrup.
“Could we get a little syrup?”
“Sure thing. Be right back.”
Ben watched them retreat, but Arya watched Ben, one eyebrow cocked.
Ben shrugged, blushing a bit.
“Thanks,” he muttered.
“What are fake boyfriends for?”
“You got anything going on this afternoon?” Ben’s voice had a weight to it Arya hadn’t heard before.
He did have about five dozen things he could be doing, but something told him he’d be better off saying yes to whatever Ben had in mind.
“Nothing pressing.”
Ben pushed his glasses up his nose. “Good. Want to come with me to have drinks with the Holbrooks?”
Arya’s jaw dropped.
Holy shit. Ben came through.
“Seriously?”
“Yup.” Ben held up the tote bag he’d kept next to him at lunch. “They’re back in town, and my parents sent me a couple early bottles of our newest release.”
Arya wasn’t one for day drinking. In fact, though no one had ever said it, he was fairly certain day drinking with clients is how Mitchell got into such a sorry state.
The production industry was one built on relationships, and Mitchell had grown his business in the age of the three-martini lunch.
Nearly all Arya’s clients expected folks to drink with them, too.
Arya always limited himself to a single glass of wine, if that; sometimes, he just had club soda with a lime wedge and pretended it was something stronger if anyone asked him about it.
But he’d do whatever it took to get the Holbrooks to sign.
“Where are we going?”
The Holbrooks lived in a mansion—a literal mansion—off Wornall Road, less than a mile from Ben’s totally normal-sized house.
“Holy shit,” Ben said as Arya drove south. They’d left Ben’s car back at his house and carpooled. “I didn’t know all these were here.”
Brookside was one of the wealthiest parts of Kansas City, and the stretch along Wornall Road had a bunch of mansions, both historic and new.
“Yup. You can blame J. C. Nichols.”
“Who?”
“This horrible racist who redlined Kansas City. He planned a bunch of the neighborhoods around here. And the Plaza.”
“Oof,” Ben said.
“Yup. Kansas City’s got a complicated history.”
“I’m starting to get that,” Ben said. “You know what’s weird? I kind of love it here anyway.”
Arya glanced at Ben, his brows furrowed, before turning back to the road. “Why’s that weird?”
“I don’t know. I never expected to. I thought I’d just sort of muddle through, like I did in Detroit. But it’s just… kind of great.”
“I’m glad you think so.” Arya wouldn’t say he had a ton of hometown pride or shit like that, but he did like Kansas City, and he was glad Ben appreciated it.
The GPS finally led them to a long, gated drive. Ben pulled out his phone to double-check the instructions. “It says it should open for us automatically once we get close.”
Arya inched his Subaru forward. Sure enough, the gate swung open in a long arc.
The Holbrooks’ mansion was a Cape Cod style (Arya thought—he wasn’t super knowledgeable about architecture), white and stately, on a sprawling, immaculately kept lawn.
Ben let out a low whistle.
“You’ve met them before, right?”
Ben shrugged. “A few times. It’s been a while, though.”
“Right.” Arya bit his lip. “Well, we can share some wine and get to know them better.”
“You’re not going to pitch them?”
Arya shook his head as he parked. “Not at a first meeting. This is just… getting to know you time. It’s business, but it can’t feel transactional. No one likes being used.”
A short white woman opened the door before they could even ring the bell. If there was a bell. Arya hadn’t even had time to look.
“Ben! It’s been too long,” she said. “And you must be Arya.”
Diane Holbrook barely came up to Arya’s chest. She was thin, with dyed brown hair, a lined face, and a blouse and pants combo that managed to look both casual and immaculately tailored.
She took them both by the elbows and pulled them inside.
“How are your parents, Ben?”
“They’re good. They say hello. And they sent me some gifts for you.” He pulled out a bottle of Cabernet. Rather than the usual Phoenix Mountain label, it had several strips of masking tape on it with a scrawl of Sharpie.
“Holbrook!” she shouted deeper into the house, revealing just the barest hint of twang in her voice. “Grab some glasses!”
Mr. Holbrook—Diane kept calling him Holbrook, and Ben kept calling him Mr. Holbrook, so Arya hadn’t been able to get a first name out of him—was a portly man in his sixties. His round face was sunburnt; his thinning white hair managed to look windswept, despite them being indoors.
“This is fantastic,” he said, swirling his Cabernet and taking another sip. “I can’t wait to see how it ages.”
“Mom and Dad think this one won’t hit its peak for fifteen years, minimum.”
Mr. Holbrook whistled and took another sip.
Arya took a much smaller sip of his own. He needed his wits about him. Especially when Mr. Holbrook turned to him and asked, “So, Arya, how do you know Ben?”
“Met him out at Phoenix Mountain when my company was doing an event there.”
“What’s your company?”
Arya swallowed. Talk about an opening. But he had to play this slowly.
“I’m a partner at Mitchell Murphy Events.
We do audio, video, and lighting for corporate events, performing arts, conventions…
you name it. We’re actually doing the Philharmonic Ball, too.
Imagine my surprise when I walked into a meeting and saw Ben sitting there, fifteen hundred miles from where I’d left him! ”
Ben shot Arya a tiny smile. That was all technically true, but it certainly left out most of the fun bits.
“Oh, you’re working on the ball this year, Ben?” Diane asked. “We go every year.”
“Then we’ll see you there,” Ben said with a smile. “It’s a lot of work, but Arya and his team make it look easy.”
Arya could’ve kissed Ben. Right there, in front of the Holbrooks.
He reined himself in. Barely.
Instead he smiled as Mr. Holbrook turned the conversation to the Royals. Arya didn’t follow baseball—didn’t follow any sports, really, other than his queer leagues—but he had enough clients who cared about various sports that he’d learned how to fake his way through.
This had gone better than he could’ve hoped.
“Thank you,” Arya told Ben when he pulled up in Ben’s driveway. Simon’s head was just visible in the window as she perched there, waiting for Ben to come inside. “That was perfect.”
“You didn’t even ask them about working together.”
Arya shook his head. “This was just getting to know them. But don’t worry. I’ll ask them. I really appreciate this, you know. Even if nothing comes of it.”
“That was the deal, right? You help me, I help you.”
“Yeah.” It was a deal. Arya needed to remember that. He and Ben weren’t really together. They just played boyfriends on TV. “I’ve got to head out, but should we practice?”
Practice is what they called it when they kissed. Just to make sure that if they were called to do some PDA in public, it would look believable. Arya could never tell Ben, but he probably enjoyed the practicing a little too much.
“It never hurts to practice,” Ben said. He leaned across the console and rested a hand on Arya’s jaw, curling his fingers behind Arya’s ear.
Arya leaned into the touch, eyelids fluttering closed. He sensed Ben’s lips before he felt them, a hot, tingly burst of anticipation.
And then they were kissing again. Steady, slow. Familiar.
Simon started barking, and they broke apart with a laugh.
“She must want out,” Ben said, glancing at the car’s clock. “She’s overdue.”
“Go take care of her. Give her some love from me.”
Ben beamed. “Will do. See you.”