“You are the best daughters a woman could ask for. I’m so blessed to be your mother. Always be this close, okay? Take care of each other.” She sounds like she’s saying goodbye. I’m at a loss for words as Niloo and I exchange sad glances from across the bed. Maman pats my cheek one more time, then nestles lower beneath the covers. “I’m so tired. I need to sleep.” With that her eyelids flutter shut and her breath becomes heavy with exhaustion. Despair claws at my insides because I have no idea what to do to rectify this horrible situation.
Truth is, I don’t have the power to do anything.
Chapter Twenty-One
Darya
There’s a soft knock at my hotel door. I glance at the clock: Nine thirty at night. I’m not expecting anyone. I’ve been back for only an hour, my suitcase left open and messy in the corner of the room. My hair’s piled high in an untamed, wet bun. My face makeup-less and pale. I lift up on my tiptoes and spy Anthony on the other side, waiting for me to answer. What is he doing here?
Normally, I’d be appalled at my current appearance, but the past few days have taken it out of me. Mundane things are no longer consequential. I have bigger issues to worry about than whether a man, despite how smoking hot he is, thinks I look ridiculous in my kitten pajamas. I swing the door open.
Anthony raises both hands, each carrying an offering. In one, he’s got a pint of chocolate chip ice cream; in the other, he holds a medium sized vodka bottle.
“I come bearing gifts,” he announces. The edge of his lip is curled up in a sheepish grin.
“I can see that.”
“I wasn’t sure what you’d be in the mood for after your trip.” His eyes become somber at the indirect mention of Maman’s chemo, but his tone stays lighthearted and playful. “Figured we could either eat your feelings,” he says, raising the pint of ice cream, “or drink them.” He taps on the vodka bottle with his finger, patiently waiting for my move.
I cock my head to the side. “How do you know so much about women?”
“I spend a lot of time with my mom when I’m not on the road. She’s taught me everything I know.”
“Well, she’s done a fabulous job.”
He beams and eagerly waves his offerings. “So, which will it be?”
His onyx hair and perfectly cropped beard add to the graceful chisel of his features. He’s in a pair of blue Nike fitted sweats and a black tank, the images scrawled across his skin on full display. A clock with roman numerals, dates positioned every which way, a portrait of an older man, “Mom” trapped in a nest of roses, “Forever Family” written across his forearm. They cover him up in solid sleeves, dark and distinct, leaving his skin peeking through the spaces like rays of a sunset. There are letters etched across his fingers that I’ve never quite been able to make out.
I want to run my fingers across them all. His badass exterior makes my chest burn with longing. It’s so intense, I almost reach out to steady myself against the doorframe. Instead, I grab the pint of ice cream.
“Can we do both?”
His grin stretches into a smile and he chuckles with pleasure. “Absolutely.”
I push the door open wider, letting him inside. There’s a small table to the right, two chairs positioned across from each other, but I don’t sit there, heading toward the bed instead. Anthony follows.
I think of Maman and wonder if she’d still be appalled that I’m allowing a man access to my bed, even though we’re only sitting on it. Especially a man covered in tattoos and leader of a famous rock band. In my youth, she’d label it as “improper Iranian girl behavior.” No boys were allowed in my room, let alone on my bed. If I had a project partner or a study group, she’d set us up at the dining room table. Putting out snacks and cut-up fruit to disguise her true intentions of keeping an eye on us. I have a feeling that, despite my age, her rules would probably still stand. The thought makes me want to laugh.
He whips out two spoons, handing one over to me as I pull the lid off the ice cream.
I take a large scoop and shovel it into my mouth with little regard for how he may perceive me. I groan at the cold, sweet amazingness. “Yum.”
The knot of worry I carry loosens just a little. For a beat in time, I think of nothing other than how wonderful the ice cream tastes.
Anthony scoops out a mouthful as well, eating it with the same enthusiasm I have. “What’s your favorite ice cream flavor?” he asks.
“Rocky Road.”
“Damn. I wouldn’t have guessed that.”
“What would you guess?” There’s a delicious sparkle in his eye that makes me warm and fuzzy.
“Well, obviously chocolate chip.” He waves his spoon around for emphasis. “It was between that and strawberry cheesecake.”
“That’s an odd guess,” I tease.
“Maybe it’s because that one’s my favorite.” He grins.
“I don’t know if Rocky Road is my favorite because of how it tastes or just the memory I tie to it.”
He dips his spoon into the ice cream. “What’s the memory?”
“It reminds me of my grandfather. Remember back when Thrifty ice cream cost something ridiculous, like fifty cents?”
“Yes! That was the best.” His excitement makes me smile.
“There was one a few blocks from our house, so every Saturday when Maman was at work, he’d treat us to ice cream. After lunch, Niloo and I would walk down to the store with him and he’d let us get a double scoop. He loved Rocky Road. I’d always make sure to get a scoop of it as well because it used to make him so happy to think I loved it, too. Over time, it ended up becoming one of my favorites.”
“Sounds like you guys were close.”
“We were. He was one of my best friends, actually. Gave the best advice even though he was an older Iranian man. He wasn’t old-fashioned like you’d expect. He believed girls could do anything boys could do. And he was an exceptional cook, even though most men of his generation never stepped foot into a kitchen. Really modern for his age.”
“He sounds pretty cool,” he says. He drops his spoon on the nearby table and pushes the rest of the pint in my direction. “You can have the rest.”
“What? Watching your figure?”
“Big dinner, that’s all.” He laughs, scooting up on the bed until his back rests against the headboard. Then his expression becomes thoughtful. “How was it at home?”
“You’re going to want to pour me a drink if we’re getting all sad and weepy.”
“That bad?” He hops off the bed and grabs the two mugs sitting beside the coffeemaker and pours us each some vodka. He opens an empty takeout cup I brought from the airport and tops them off with the remaining ice. Despite not being an on-the-rocks fan, I welcome the medicinal tang of the alcohol, hoping it will dull my pounding headache.
“Yeah, that bad. I don’t know what was worse, how sick my mom was or the multiple panic attacks my sister had before I left.”
The playfulness in his eyes quickly dissipates, replaced by concern. “I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.” I take a long sip of my drink and feel the alcohol tingle in my fingertips. No longer wanting to harp on the topic of Maman and my current sad story, I change the subject. “What are you doing here on a Saturday night? Shouldn’t you be out partying with the groupies?”
“Nah. That gets old. Plus, I knew you’d be coming back tonight and I wanted to see you.”
His admission causes a ridiculous grin to claim my lips, one I’m aware I should hide but am incapable of doing so. “The lead singer of Ternura passed up a night of fun to wait for me?”
I’m both shocked and thoroughly amused. Despite knowing I shouldn’t be flirting with him, I can’t help myself. This superstar just admitted he wanted to see me. He could be with any woman he wants. Yet, here he is sitting on my bed.
“Is that so unbelievable?” He
raises a brow, that twinkle he wears onstage flashing in his eyes. It’s like a beacon in a storm, reaching out to guide me through the fog.
“Actually, yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re a superstar. And I’m just…me.”
Maman would be not be happy if she heard me say that. She’s always said, “Gadretoh bedoon.” And I do know my worth. But Anthony is a fancy rock star with this loud and glamorous life. I’m an ER doctor who works too much and prefers Saturday nights watching movies in my sweats to heels and fancy dresses. My life seems too quiet and normal in comparison to his.
His brows scrunch together and he frowns. “You’re not just anything.”
That might be the sexiest thing a man has ever said to me. My breath lodges in my throat, and the air around us stills. For a second I think he might kiss me. And the most terrifying part is that I think I want him to. He drifts a bit closer, his eyes not leaving mine. Anticipation sets my skin on fire. But before I have a chance to make a mistake I might regret, I look down at the mug gripped between my fingers.
“Thanks.”
“It’s the truth. You’re pretty amazing, Darya.” He reaches out with his mug and clinks it against mine. The moment is lost, but the kindness that still consumes his features lessens the blow.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Anthony
While we finished off the ice cream and put a serious dent in the vodka, Darya told me all about Niloo—the teenage years. “She and Carlos deserve their own reality show,” I tease. “They’d be thoroughly entertaining.”
“They totally do! And she’s obsessed with your brother, by the way.” Darya lights up as she laughs, hugging the pillow to her chest.
She lies across the end of the bed, her head propped up on her hand. I’m leaning against the headboard, empty glass in my hand, swirling the remaining ice in circles as I watch her. She’s laughing so hard she snorts. Her hand flies to her mouth, covering it up as her eyes widen with shock. Now I’m the one laughing.
“Oh my God, how embarrassing.”
“Nah,” I reply. “It’s kind of cute, actually.”
Her cheeks go pink and she bats her eyes, then looks away. That kind of innocence is refreshing in my world.
She sits up and grabs the vodka off the floor. I hold out my glass and she pours some in mine, then in hers. She settles back, pulling the pillow onto her lap. “What’s your mom like?”
“My mom is amazing,” I answer. “She’s what you’d expect from a badass Mexican mother who never puts up with any of our shit. She’s a fierce five-foot-two. It doesn’t matter how big we are, there’s no messing with that lady. And she has no problem telling us when we’re being idiots. Oh, and her aim is on point when it comes to throwing her shoe at us.” Darya laughs and I grin. “She’s also one of the hardest workers I’ve ever known. She always made sure that Carlos and I had what we needed, even if that meant she’d have to go without.”
“She sounds like Maman.”
“I bet they’re a lot alike.”
“Tell me more.”
“She worked a lot, even when my father was alive.” Just thinking about him fills me with rage, and I have to swallow hard past the bitter taste in my mouth. “He was useless and she refused to depend on him. So that left me to take care of Carlos when she wasn’t around. When I finally got my license, I’d get him ready and take him to school so she could work the early shift and be home once he got out for the day. Neither of us wanted to leave him alone with my dad.” I clear my throat, rubbing the back of my neck where tension has clamped on tight.
“What does she do?”
“She’s retired now but she used to work for a cosmetics company. She started out in the packaging department but she moved up quickly and ended up doing all the administrative stuff.”
“Too bad she didn’t have daughters. I would have loved it if Maman could bring home makeup for us.”
“What does your mom do?”
“She runs a jewelry shop. You know, Persians and jewelry stores…?”
I blink. “Is that a thing?”
She shrugs. “It’s a stereotype. Lots of Iranians do own jewelry stores, though. If you go to the jewelry district downtown, almost every shop is Iranian-owned. My mom actually works in one.” She laughs. “Anyway, continue. Didn’t mean to sidetrack. You were telling me about your mom’s work?”
The easy flow of conversation makes me feel like we’ve known each other forever. It’s both strange and amazing at the same time. The only thing that’d make it better is if she were curled up against my chest.
“I used to get up and make Mamá coffee and breakfast before she went to work. It was really early so it was still dark and cold. But those were some of the best conversations we’d ever had. No one to bother us, just me and my mom. I think it’s why we’re so close now.”
“That sounds incredible.”
“It was. And that’s also why I’m so good with the ladies.” I wink.
She chuckles. “You’re all right,” she toys. “Maman worked really hard, too, and I had to step in and be Niloo’s pseudo mom to some extent.” She tugs on one of her curls, twisting it absentmindedly in circles. “It’s surprising how similar our lives are, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” Another sip, another struggle with my need to drag her into my arms. “Tell me about your dad.”
“Not much to tell,” she admits. “My earliest memories are filled with my parents arguing. I don’t think they were ever happy.” She takes a sip from her glass. “That’s the problem with the way things were done back then in my culture.”
“What do you mean?”
“Back in Iran, there wasn’t any real dating when my parents were young. You got introduced by some family friend, hung out a few times with your parents around or in the other room, listening. And maybe, if you were lucky, you’d go on a few group outings with a handful of your cousins or siblings, always an older male relative present to make sure no one got out of line. How is anyone supposed to fall in love like that?”
“That’s sounds… Yeah, I don’t think I could do it.” I consider everything she’s told me. “I honestly don’t know much about Iranian culture.”
“Well, there’s your first lesson.” Her eyes are starting to become glassy from the alcohol. “Have you ever been in love?”
Her question catches me off guard and I almost choke on my drink. “Once,” I answer.
“When?”
Unease settles over me. Naturally, I deflect. “Aren’t you full of questions?”
“What? We can talk about our families, but old relationships are off-limits?” The intensity in her stare makes me think she may be fighting the same feelings I am. She’s right, though. It’s just something I don’t like talking about.
I sigh. “I was twenty. We met through some friends. We were together for two years. She broke my heart.” I give her the bullet points hoping she doesn’t push for more details. It’s no surprise when she does.
“How?”
I hesitate. I’ve already said too much, more than I tell anyone outside my circle. The voice in my head is saying I should make up an excuse and head to my room. Too much information can be dangerous. It makes me vulnerable and an easy target to hurt, not to mention how persuasive the paparazzi can be if they think they can get a story out of a person. But as her big brown eyes wait for me to explain, my gut tells me I can trust her. Something about Darya makes me believe that what I tell her stays only with her. For the first time, I feel safe.
“She cheated on me. More than once,” I admit. “I felt so stupid when I finally found out because I was the only one who didn’t see it.” Before she has a chance to feel pity for me for being the sad chump who got cheated on, I smirk and say, “Now your turn.”
“Have I ever been in love?”
“Yup.”
“No, I haven’t. I never had time for it. I was too busy focusing on school and taking care of my mom and sister.” She shrugs. “And then it kind of just got too late.”
“Too late?”
“I’m almost thirty. It’s not like I’m the cream of the crop anymore.”
“That’s bullshit.” She doesn’t look convinced. “You really have no clue how amazing you are, do you?” I get a smile. I scoot closer to her and grab her hand. My thumb rubs small circles across her skin. “Any man would be lucky to be with you. Even at almost thirty.”
What I don’t say is that I’ve never met a woman who lights up a room like she does. I don’t tell her that what I love most about her is her confidence to let the world see her just as she is. And that I wish I could be more like her.
Emotions I refuse to name settle deep in my bones. This isn’t the time or the place, and I know it. No matter how good whatever is happening between us feels. No matter how many times I’ve already thought about kissing her.
But those emotions? They just dig in deeper.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Darya
The next day, we take a pause in the tour to fly to New York. Ternura has been booked as the musical guest on Wake Up Live, the most sought-after morning show appearance in the business.
“The Saturday Night Live of the a.m.,” Emmanuel announced when he got the call, bouncing back and forth on his toes. Now, as we make our way over to the studio, I can appreciate his excitement.
I stare out the window, feeling as though the skyscrapers have swallowed our taxi whole. We’re lost in a sea of vehicles speeding toward their destinations. I lean back in my seat, trying to take in the tips of the buildings as they sweep across the skyline. I inhale in fascination, always a fan of the hustle and bustle of the city. But just as quickly as the serenity comes, it’s lost to memories of the past.
It was the summer I’d just turned ten. My parents’ strife had already begun, or maybe it had always existed, but I was finally old enough to notice. I felt sick to my stomach every moment I spent with the two of them together, as their volatility and vindictiveness consumed our lives. Even now, at twenty-nine, I can still feel the fear that gnawed at my ten-year-old insides.
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