Chapter Five
“Well, well, well. Look who finally decided to show up.”
I walk—honestly, more like saunter—into Kabobs ’n’ Bits on Sunday night to find Nico and Oliver huddled in a corner, talking about sports or politics or whatever else guys talk about when they’re alone.
The former barely looks up to heckle me for being late.
While it’s true that I’m tardy by American standards (fifteen minutes, give or take), I’m actually early according to Persian Standard Time (PST).
Nico just needs to hate on me regularly.
You know, the same way other people need to drink water and shit regularly to survive.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. I know how hard it is for you to socialize without me.”
I pull up a chair and take off my jacket, haphazardly slinging it across the back. Nico takes in my colorful seventies-inspired printed pants and matching cropped cardigan and scowls. As if the explosion of patterns and sliver of exposed midriff personally offends him.
“What was it your sixth-grade teacher told your parents again?” I ask. “That you lacked interpersonal skills? Or was it an active imagination? I believe the terms he used were underdeveloped and pathetic.”
“Loving the bags, Joonie,” Nico replies.
I narrow my eyes, waiting for the catch. Yes, my micro purse and ironic boat tote embroidered with I LIKE TO READ, BUT I’M ALSO HOT are objectively adorable. But the day Nico compliments me is the day hell freezes over. Or the Swifties forgive Jake Gyllenhaal.
“The ones under your eyes?” he clarifies. “I had no idea the sleep-deprived conspiracy theorist look was in this season. What did you do, spend all night debunking the moon landing? Oh, wait, I know! Zooming in on photos of Harry Styles, searching for signs of Dunamis?”
I smile sweetly. “No, actually. I had that dream again. Well, nightmare. Terrible nightmare. You know, the one where you’re singing ABBA, covered in whipped cream, butt-ass—”
“Behave, children!” Tey calls out from behind the counter.
“Oh, God,” Oliver murmurs under his breath.
“How funny! That’s exactly what Nico kept saying last night in my nightmare. Over and over and over…” I singsong with glee, watching his face flush crimson.
Just as Nico opens his mouth to sling another insult my way, Tey arrives at our table with red plastic trays overflowing with Persian goodies: polo, khoresht, and joojeh, and kubideh Kabob.
Oliver immediately shovels a piece of chicken into his mouth while it’s still hot and practically moans with appreciation.
He looks up at my brother, his eyes wide with admiration and affection.
My stomach drops an iota.
I hate being jealous of my brother, but I’m brave enough to say it.
Nobody has ever looked at me like that.
“Morg. Khoob,” Oliver says proudly.
He’s been learning Farsi using Duolingo, to minor success. As in, he knows about five words. And three of them are food items. Roughly translated, his statement means, Chicken. Good.
“Well done, Ollie!” I tease. “Next, why don’t you try saying tokhmeh sag—”
“Do not listen to my delinquent sister,” Tey says, shaking his head and taking the seat next to me. “If she isn’t the center of attention twenty-four seven, she deflates like a flat tire.”
I laugh and stick out my tongue but don’t bother to argue. Because, like…yeah. He’s not wrong. But that doesn’t stop me from grabbing a piece of tadik off of his plate while he protests. In our family, vengeance is a plastic dish best served piping hot.
Oliver smiles, taking our dynamic in stride.
He’s a good fucking egg. He and Tey met a couple of years ago, when Ollie was overseeing a discrimination dispute a town over and dropped by the restaurant for lunch.
Oliver tried to order Kabob without rice, claiming to be on a cleanse or some shit.
Tey told him he was crazy and gave him a side of rice anyway, on the house.
And Ollie practically licked the plate. It was love at first bite.
When he was done eating, he realized that Tey had written his phone number on the bottom of the basket.
They’ve been together ever since. Long distance, though—Oliver is from right outside of Chicago.
A very nice Midwestern boy. If I’m being honest, a bit too buttoned-up for my taste.
But perfect for my control freak brother.
“Have you heard from Maman and Baba lately?” I ask mid-bite, my mouth full.
“Ever heard of chewing?” Nico mutters.
“Ever heard of fucking yourself?” I retort.
He looks at me with twisted lips and slowly shakes his head.
“Oh, wait. Of course you have. That’s what you do every night. Alone. With a bottle of lotion for extra-dry skin. While watching anime—”
“Big words from the girl who apparently just broke off her hundredth relationship in six months,” he smirks.
I snap my head around to glare at Tey. “You told him?”
Tey shakes his head slowly, like he can’t believe the hand he’s been dealt. “No, Joon. I didn’t tell him. The whole town saw Job Pesce crying into his ice cream on Main Street this week. Apparently, you really did a number on him.”
I frown. Job couldn’t be a little more discreet?
“And to answer your earlier question, Mom FaceTimed me this morning. They just reached Cape Cod last night.”
I nod, but my dinner churns in my stomach. Why didn’t they call me? Are they disappointed that yet another one of my relationships was a failure?
In a sense, I’ve long since accepted that Tey is the favorite, the kid my parents trust. I’m the baby of the family, the child they always worry about.
But sometimes I worry that they see me as more of a burden than an adult.
They’ve never gotten over the childhood bullying, the unflappable optimism as a coping method, so they sort of coddle me.
If Tey knew I felt this way, he’d tell me I’m being ridiculous.
So I keep that intrusive thought locked deep inside my brain in that box I only tap occasionally, when I need writing inspo.
It’s nestled between body-snatching narwhals and High School Musical, but everyone’s gay.
“So, Nico. What’s new with you? Still making money off of hurricane survivors and tragic house fires?” I ask, my voice casual. “Hey, when we enter hurricane season, do you cream your pants? Or just hear cha-ching?”
Nico works in crisis insurance, which Tey has repeatedly told me mostly involves crunching numbers in Excel and making conversation with geriatric men.
But I still like to make fun of him for it, mostly because it’s so him.
I’ve never met anyone as cynical as he is, as anxious, as disaster-obsessed.
Forget glass half-empty. In Nico’s head, the glass has shattered on the carpet and he has stepped on it with bare feet.
He’s been that way ever since we were kids.
I call him a pessimist; he calls himself a realist. One time, when we were in middle school and high school, I told him that our parents were considering letting us get a puppy.
He informed me that most dogs have lifespans of ten to thirteen years and that I should avoid getting too attached.
Naturally, I started to cry.
“And you, Joonie? Still LARPing inside a romance novel day in and day out?”
I clench my fists. He has successfully struck a nerve.
“First of all, it’s a fantasy romance series.
Romantasy. Big difference. Second of all, romance is a billion-dollar industry.
Publishing relies on romance readers to make ends meet.
But sure, make fun of romance because the majority of its readers are women.
Everyone loves a misogynist, right? Hey, I have an idea! You should join my book club!”
“Sure thing. Do you guys actually read books or just drink wine and scroll on Reddit?”
“All three! Plus, I bet the genre could teach you a few useful skills. Like open and honest communication. Boundary setting. Empathy. How to please a woman.”
His eyes narrow. “Believe me, I don’t need an instruction manual for that.”
Once again, my stomach stirs. But this time, I don’t think it’s the food.
Why am I suddenly picturing Nico in a very compromising position?
Tearing my gaze away from his, I desperately try to change the subject. Anything to take attention off of Nico, his nighttime activities, the color spreading up my neck.
“Tey, I need to borrow your truck,” I blurt out. “I mean, please. Please may I borrow your truck?”
“Wow. Nice attempt at manners!” Tey cocks his head. “And why is that?”
“I have to drive to New York next week, and my car isn’t going to make it. You were right. I should’ve asked that Craigslist guy who sold it to me more questions. You remember the dude with the top hat? Anyway, it’ll never survive the trip. So, pretty please, can we car swap? Just for a few days?”
“Sure.” Tey shovels another spoonful of khoresht into his mouth. “Why do you have to go to New York?”
I freeze.
Fuck.
I totally forgot to come up with a good excuse for my New York trip.
There’s no way I can tell my brother, Oh, so you know that fictional character I’m obsessed with?
Well, as it turns out, he’s based on a real person.
His name is Ryan, and he lives in New York, and I’m curious about whether or not he’s my soul mate.
So I’m going to drive to the city, track him down, and try to seduce him. I promise I’ll pay for gas!
Yeah, I don’t think that’ll work.
Instead of committing, I’ll get committed.
“I got into a creative writing workshop,” I lie. “Yup, a prestigious one. Run by NYU. It’s a three-day intensive course. Full of lectures and workshops. I’m finally going to take a stab at writing that novel. You know, turning my fanfic side hustle into something legit.”
“Really? That’s awesome, Joon!”
Tey beams, and I swallow the acidic bile of guilt in my throat.
My brother is always encouraging me to take my writing to the next level, to put myself out there more.
It’s not that I don’t want to. But between my copywriting gig, my Salty Girls community, keeping up with ATOSAS, and dating a few times a week, my schedule is pretty packed. But I hate lying to him about this.
Nico, on the other hand, doesn’t look convinced. “What’s the course called?” he asks, an eyebrow raised.
“Um…Write Guy, Wrong Time,” I fib like it’s my calling. “It’s specifically for aspiring romance authors.”
“Is that so?” he says. “Well, if you’re headed in that direction, I might as well join you. I was planning on going into the city that week anyway. Now I can avoid fighting tooth and nail for a seat on the train.”
I try and fail to hide my panic. “What? No!”
“That’s a great idea.” Tey nods. “Nico can keep you company. And, um, make sure you stay alert on the road.”
Jesus Christ. “I checked my phone at the wheel one time for a quarter of a second!”
“And almost swerved off the highway.”
“Emphasis on almost. That was the day advanced reader copies of A Tale Of Sand and Cannon Fire were released. I got the shipping notification from the publisher!”
Nico stares blankly at me. “The fact that you think that’s a reasonable excuse is seriously concerning.”
“What do you even have to do in New York? Planning to cut the cord at the Empire State Building?”
“Americans will do that themselves, given the direction the energy crisis is headed…”
“Or, wait, I know. You’re going to kidnap Eloise.”
“If you must know, I have to see about a woman,” he says, silencing me.
Woman? What woman? Nico doesn’t date. He hasn’t dated since…
Since the incident. In fact, he famously believes starting a relationship is irresponsible when the future of the planet is at risk.
“And for the last time, I’m not the villain in some story, so stop making me into one, okay? Get your head out of your ass and join the rest of us in the real world, Joonie.”
The real world. Whatever that means.
You’re living in a fantasy.
His words push on a broken bone that never healed quite right. One that brings back the sound of a squeaking shoes on a dirty gym floor. Thumping bass. Quiet laughter and pointed looks. Nico’s glazed eyes—
I blink rapidly, pulling myself out of the memory.
This is why I avoid Nico at all costs.
“Why is he here again?” I whine to my brother. “Doesn’t he have adoptions of orphans to stop or something?”
“He’s just helping me out with some business stuff.” Teymoor scratches his ear, exchanging a look with Oliver, then Nico, before dropping his gaze to the ground. “I needed to get his opinion on some projections. You know. Crunching numbers.”
“Right.”
The second someone says the word numbers, I basically black out.
Oliver gives Tey a stern look, which he very obviously avoids meeting.
Weird.
I clock the silent conversation and make a mental note to return to it later.
“So, what do you say, kid?” says Nico. “Meet here tomorrow at eight?”
Kid.
I absolutely detest being called a kid.
The word reeks of condescension.
I’m a grown woman, goddamn it.
“Maybe I’ll get here at seven fifty-five and hit you with his car,” I mumble.
“Oh, Joonie,” he says, getting irritatingly close to me. Determined to have the last word. “It’s adorable that you think you’ll be the one behind the wheel.”
I groan.
This is going to be a long fucking trip.