Forty Arya
forty
Arya
Happy birthday, Arya-jan,” Persis said, pulling Arya down to kiss his cheeks.
“Thank you, Khaleh.” Arya plastered on a smile as she made him pose for a photograph.
“You’ve only gotten more handsome over the years. I’m so proud of you.”
“Thank you.”
Arya kept his fake smile on, but that was what it was: fake.
It was his fortieth birthday, and he was miserable, and nothing was going to cheer him up. Not even Farzan’s mom fawning over him.
He was single (for the first time in forever, not entirely by choice), and he was unemployed (that one was his choice, but he hadn’t seen any other option), and, as of this morning, he had a sprained meniscus, too. Fucking Gryphons.
At least it wasn’t a full tear.
One good thing about being Iranian: He had no shortage of doctors among his friends and family to reach out to. In his case, Badi had called a friend who specialized in joints.
So now he was wearing one of those bionic-looking knee braces outside his jeans, and explaining to everyone how he hurt himself chasing down one of the Gryphons trying to steal second.
At least the Lions won. It was the only bright spot in an impressively shitty week.
And, honestly, an impressively shitty start to his forty-first time around the sun.
Shiraz Bistro’s front door opened, and Ramin, Noah, and Jake stepped in. Jake spotted Arya and dashed right for him. Arya braced for Jake to throw himself at his waist, but instead, Jake came up short and leaned in for a gentle side hug.
“How’s your knee, Uncle Arya?”
Arya laughed and mussed Jake’s hair. “Better. I got this cool brace.”
“You’re like a Transformer now!” Jake made the chk-chk-chk sound of a Transformer transforming, then looked back at Noah. “Can I have some qottab?”
He pronounced it more like gotab, but Arya could hardly blame Jake for not having perfected the glottal gh sound so common in Persian.
Arya’s favorite dessert (excluding all forms of ice cream) was qottab, an almond-filled pastry that his mom always made for holidays and special occasions. A mountain of them sat on one of the tables, dusted with powdered sugar and ground cardamom.
Despite how Arya had left things with his mom, she’d still made them, and Arya didn’t know what to feel about that.
Arya was about to tell Jake to go wild on them when Noah stepped up, resting his hand on Jake’s shoulder. “You can have one, buddy, but that’s it until after dinner. Don’t you want to save room for kabob?”
“That goes to a separate stomach,” Jake said seriously. “You know that.”
Ramin met Arya’s eyes, holding in a laugh. Arya didn’t hold his in, though. He let out a snort.
Even an epic funk like Arya’s couldn’t quite hold up to the whirlwind of chaos that was Jake Bartlett.
“Seriously, though,” Ramin said, pulling Arya in for a hug. “How is the knee?”
“It’s fine. Just sprained. Doesn’t bother me when I’m standing or walking, but sitting on the toilet is a bitch.”
Ramin snorted.
“Knee stuff is the worst,” Noah agreed, going in for his own hug. “Is there anything I can do to help? I should’ve been paying more attention.”
“It was not your fault,” Arya said. “You were doing what you were supposed to do. I’m just not as nimble as I used to be.”
“You’re still our captain,” Noah said solemnly, and Arya felt a wave of affection for Ramin’s boyfriend. No, fiancé. Ramin had picked a keeper.
Arya thought he’d picked a keeper, too. And it had all blown up in his face anyway.
Everything had blown up in his face. His love life. His work life. Even his meniscus.
How had this become his life?
Ramin held up a small two-bottle wine tote; his other hand held a gift bag with black and blue tissue paper spilling out.
“I brought the good stuff for the after-party. I hope David won’t be offended.”
Arya peeked into the tote; in it sat two bottles of Ornellaia.
“Ooooh, the special wine,” Arya said.
Ramin grinned. He and Noah had shared a bottle on their first date (though neither had admitted it was a date at the time), and every server at the restaurant had commented on what a special wine it was, a story Ramin and Noah loved to tell anyone (and everyone) who asked them how they met.
Or met again, since they had known each other in high school.
“The special wine,” Ramin agreed. “The Wine Seller managed to get us some.”
“Nice.” The Wine Seller was the wine shop downtown that David had turned them all on to; it got all sorts of great stuff, at all sorts of price points. Which was good for Arya, since he was sort of unemployed now.
Granted, it wasn’t as simple as just walking away and not collecting a paycheck.
There would be lawyers and notaries and bankers and all sorts of shit involved in divesting from MME, and even more shit to deal with selling his chunk of the building itself.
Could he just sell his shares back to Mitchell?
Was there anyone else at MME who could buy him out?
Was there anyone he hated enough to do that to? Not really.
The thought of poor Carley having to deal with Mitchell (well, more than she’d already have to, now that Arya was gone) made him sick to his stomach.
But Arya couldn’t do it anymore. He just couldn’t. He’d done everything in his power to save the company—to save Mitchell—and been met with a slap in the face.
He was so over it.
So, no, he didn’t regret things.
His only problem was, what the hell was he supposed to do now?
“Azizam?” Arya’s mom asked. Her voice was soft, tentative.
“Yeah, Maman?”
“Can I talk to you for a moment?”
“Sure.”
Arya’s stomach did a flip. He supposed there was no putting this off any longer.
Arya settled with his mom in one of the booths.
“How are you, azizam?” she asked.
“I’m okay.”
“I heard you broke up with your boyfriend.”
Arya couldn’t believe his mom knew that.
“Yeah.”
She nodded, pressed her lips together. She had the finest lines around her mouth. Arya wanted to trace them. He wondered if he’d get those lines when he got older. Fuck, he was older now. Forty. He felt at his lips. Was he already getting decrepit?
Shohreh opened her mouth like she wanted to say something, but then stopped. She blinked a few times, nodded to herself, and said, “I’m sorry, Arya-joon.”
Arya stared at his mother.
That was honestly the last thing he expected to hear.
Iranian parents—well, Iranian parents of his mom’s generation—tended to be allergic to apologizing. Arya couldn’t remember a single time his mother had said sorry to him for anything.
“What?” he finally stammered.
“What you said last time you came over…” She sighed. “I never realized how me and your dad were affecting you.”
Arya huffed and crossed his arms.
Why did they have to have this discussion now? Couldn’t he just wallow in peace?
“I know Afshin and I aren’t… traditional,” she said. “We found something that worked for us. Let us raise you and Farah. But we’ve made choices, too. Selfish choices.”
That was putting it mildly.
“Arya-joon…” She reached across the table for Arya’s hands. After a long moment, he uncrossed his arms and let her take them.
“My son.” She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. We’re sorry. We only want you to be happy. And I think we’ve done a bad job showing you what that looks like. Whether it’s by yourself or with a partner or with multiple partners or whatever. We did a bad job.”
Arya shrugged.
Yeah, they did.
Shohreh took a deep breath. “You are so handsome. And so full of love. Don’t let us stop you from pursuing it.”
Arya pulled his hands back. “I can’t help it, Maman! I don’t even know what it means to be with someone. You and Dad were never together together, not really. How was I supposed to learn?”
“You don’t learn.” Sadness tinged her voice. “You just do it. You try and you fail and you try again.”
His mom took his hand again.
“I love you, joonam,” she said softly. “I only want the best for you. If that means keeping me away from the ones you love, I understand. Just promise me you’ll find a way to be happy.”
Arya’s heart squeezed.
His mom wasn’t perfect. But she did love him. Had raised him well.
Arya wasn’t perfect, either. He was allergic to vulnerability. He took the easy way out more often than he should have. He was impulsive. He compartmentalized his life, never letting the people he cared about the most know all of him.
But maybe it wasn’t too late to start.
“To Arya,” Farzan said, raising his glass of Ornellaia.
Shiraz Bistro had emptied out from the madness of Arya’s party: A few tables had diners lingering over their desserts and tea; in the corner, Farzan’s dad was, as usual, entertaining his card-playing friends; Jake had passed out in one of the booths; but Arya and his friends had crowded into their usual Thursday night booth, with their wineglasses and a few more qottab.
All five of them raised their glasses, bugging their eyes out to make intense eye contact with each other before clinking. Not that Arya needed to worry about being cursed with seven years’ bad sex; he was forty now. It was probably going to be all bad sex from now on. If he ever even had it again.
He knew he’d get over Ben eventually. Broken hearts healed over time, didn’t they? If only he could get one of those knee braces for his heart.
But he didn’t want to get over Ben. Every time he thought about downloading Grindr or Scruff or any of the other apps he’d deleted when he and Ben had started fake dating, he felt sick to his stomach. He didn’t want other men.
He wanted Ben.
He barely tasted the wine as he sipped.
No, that was a lie. He tasted every note: blackberries and black currants and black cherries, plus hints of rosemary and even a little tickle of juniper on the tip of his tongue. The tannins were so powerful he puckered, hard.
“Oh shit,” Arya said.
Ramin caught his eye and winked.
“It’s a special wine,” Noah said.
“It’s a special wine,” David agreed. “Thanks for sharing this with us. Can’t think of a better way to celebrate.”
Arya rolled his eyes. “Come on, guys.”
“Let us love on you,” Farzan said, elbowing Arya. “You can mope later.”
“Fine,” Arya moped.
Farzan snorted. “Seriously, man. Life’s only getting better.”
“Right. Unemployed and single. A great start to my forties.”
“You know, we need a new event coordinator at SNK,” Ramin said. SNK was the marketing company he’d worked at since college. He’d done so well there, he was a senior vice president now. “I could see about getting you an interview.”
“And we could always use you here,” Farzan added, gesturing around at Shiraz Bistro. “You don’t have to be a silent partner if you don’t want to.”
“Thank you. Both of you. But no. I love you, but I don’t want to work together. I’ll figure out my work shit on my own. I’ve always been able to take care of myself, and I’m not going to stop now.”
“Okay,” Farzan said. “Point taken.”
Arya rubbed at his head. He’d been in such a funk, he hadn’t even bothered to shave it this morning, and peach fuzz was growing out in a crescent.
“I just…” He sighed. “I thought things would be different.”
“Things? With Ben?” David asked, a knowing look in his eye. Arya frowned, but David shrugged. He sipped his wine and said, “I saw him at Aspire the other day. He looked… a little miserable, to be honest.”
Arya huffed. He didn’t want Ben to be miserable. In a way, he wished he did. That would make everything easier. Yet every time Arya thought of Ben being sad, he felt sad, too. His heart clenched. His lungs squeezed. His stomach twisted.
He wanted Ben to be happy. He wanted Ben to be happy with him, but at the end of the day, even that didn’t matter. Not as long as Ben was happy.
“Ugh. Being in love is the worst!”
The table went silent around him.
Arya blinked. “What?”
Farzan was the first to recover. “Dude. Did you just say being in love?”
Arya’s ears burned. Shit, there was no getting out of this conversation, was there?
“Maybe,” he admitted.
Ramin’s whole face lit up. He grabbed Noah’s hand and squeezed. Shit, were those tears in his eyes? Wine really did make him sentimental.
“You love him?” Ramin asked.
Arya sighed. “Fine. Yes. Okay? Are you happy?”
“Beyond happy,” David said with a laugh. “Being in love is the best.”
Arya shook his head. “Ugh. I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Why?” Noah asked. “We’re your friends. We’re happy for you.”
“I’m not supposed to be in love. I’m supposed to be the slut! The fun one!”
“You’re Arya Fucking Nazeri,” Ramin said. “You can be whoever you want.”
Farzan nodded, his brown eyes locked on Arya’s. “You can do whatever you want.”
“And if that means being with Ben, you should go for it,” David said.
Noah nodded. “If you need help winning him back, we’re here for you. All of us. Seriously.”
Arya screwed his eyes shut against the swell of emotions threatening to burst out of his chest.
He loved his friends. He loved them so much he thought his heart might explode from it.
And he loved Ben, too. He did want him back.
He thought about what his mom said. (He loved her, too. Even when he was mad at her.)
Try and fail and try again.
Arya had tried and failed. But he wanted to try again.
He sat up and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, then blinked at his friends. He had the beginnings of a plan.
Or maybe it was a scheme.
“I have an idea.”