On Saturday, my carefully curated day of nothing is interrupted by heavy pounding on my door.
“Mom, what the hell?” I say as I open it, taking in her frustrated expression. She’s all dolled up with thick eyeliner and glowing pink lipstick.
She puts a hand on her hip. “It’s almost time for dinner. You’re in your pajamas?”
“It’s loungewear,” I say uselessly. “Why are you here?”
“We’re going to dinner with the Habibs,” she says, like I should have known this the whole time.
“What?” I sputter. “No, we’re not.”
I’ve been peppering her with little comments about Armin being annoying all week. How does that translate into unplanned group dinners?
“Yes, Armin’s mom and I arranged it. Get dressed, don’t keep them waiting. We’re not a rude family.”
She herds me toward my bedroom with shooing hands with the efficiency of a border collie. As soon as I’m inside, I grab my phone and text Armin: We’re having dinner?!
The reply comes almost instantly: They didn’t tell me either until a second ago!
When my mom ushers me into the car, my dad is sitting in the driver’s seat. He at least has the decency to look apologetic.
At the restaurant, the table holding our party shines like a beacon from the foyer. The Habibs are already sitting down, Armin looking miserable beside his parents.
My mom nudges me into the chair opposite Armin and then takes the seat beside him. He’s sandwiched between moms. I pull my phone out underneath the tablecloth. Shit. They have us separated.
Armin’s jaw clenches. His reply comes a moment later. It’s okay, just don’t say anything too specific. Then a second text: We can do this. Just keep chill.
My mom calls, “Isn’t it nice to be a big family together with the bride and groom!” And she and Armin’s dad stand up and clap, loud and hollow through the room. It’s like dominoes: the servers and some patrons build on to their claps, drumming a surprisingly loud vibration. Even the guy eating alone at a table in the corner smacks his thighs.
So far so chill.
My mom tugs at Armin’s sleeve and goes in to kiss both his cheeks while his mom grins widely. A drink is placed in his hand, and a giant pot of lamb stew is spooned onto his waiting plate, appearing as if by magic—only really it’s by fawning middle-aged mothers.
“So, baby, how is work going?” Armin’s mom asks him.
Armin’s eyes flash my way as he takes a long sip of his water. “Very good. We’re going to have one of the best Q2s I’ve ever seen and are forecasting a lot of returns on investments.”
I almost spit out my own water. Damn, that was believable.
The moms look at him with absolute glee. “Here,” his mom says, tearing a piece of bread and adding it to his plate, then pushing over the bowl of eggplant dip I was just eyeing for myself. “You need to eat.”
Holy shit, of course! How did I not realize before? Armin is a doodool tala. Direct translation: “golden penis” (because of course). Basically, he’s a mama’s boy who can do no wrong and must not lift a finger in the process.
Even worse, he’s a doodool tala who hasn’t become a doctor or lawyer—or accounting executive—even as his mom is ailing. It’s a wonder his bullshit isn’t wilder.
I smile toward Armin. “All the bosses ask Armin to lead their projects. He’s the most precise and efficient.” Two impressive buzzwords.
“Ahhh,” all the parents hum.
Armin shoots me a grateful smile. “Well, Jolene has the best ideas. I was talking to Gregory—my second-in-command—and apparently head office was so impressed by her suggestion at a recent meeting that they may implement it across Canada.”
My face flushes because Armin doesn’t sound like he’s lying this time.
“Jolene’s always been a very innovative thinker.” This comment comes from my dad, and it’s his proud grin that hits me the hardest. He continues: “When she was a kid, she helped design the shelves for her mom’s spice rack.”
Mom claps. “And I made so many good meals because of this.” She pats Armin’s hand that’s sitting on the table. “Don’t worry, I’ll teach Jolene to cook better. Is that the problem?”
Armin opens his mouth in surprise, but before he can respond his mom cuts in: “Jolene is so beautiful. Did you notice her right away?”
Armin grins. “Absolutely. I couldn’t help it. Tried asking her to go for poutine, but she shut me down.”
“Good girl,” they all chant. My gaze draws to Armin again. The poutine story really happened too. Was he actually doing that when we first met?
My skin flushes, and the room is suddenly warmer. Obviously, we’re not like that now, but how many things—how much—have I missed?
It’s an odd type of melancholy that washes over me as they all laugh around me. I think of the girl I was when I first started at the office, all the experiences and chances I’ve denied her. My throat dries.
“So why are you fighting?” my mother suddenly says. “You are very in love!”
What? Armin and I lock eyes, twin looks of horror creeping onto our faces.
This isn’t a celebratory dinner. This is an intervention.
“You are both very busy,” Armin’s mom says, “but once you are married you will see each other every day.”
“We’re fine, Mom,” Armin says. “Work has been very hard lately, but we’re still in love.”
I widen my eyes at Armin. What happened to letting them down gently?
“Good!” my mother says, clapping her hands in delight. “Now drink some tea!”
As the teacups are passed around, I can’t help but admire the way my mom glows, the joy she’s taking in serving Mr. and Mrs. Habib. There’s a world where she’s completely made for this—if I’d just given her daughter a chance.
The conversation across the table shifts as my mom starts to comment on how the food at this restaurant compares with others’. She starts to break down her recipe for ashe reshteh and promises to cook it for Armin. “Of course, I can make you best stuff just like your mom.”
Armin smiles. “Only if it’s not too much trouble.”
“No trouble. I’ll send with Jolene for you at work.”
Armin seems to relax into the idea. And there is a part of me that would really love for it to all be true. I mean, obviously not the Armin part—the ship that was my ability to find him even remotely attractive sailed away a long time ago. But it’s the way our families are meshing, the comfort of being with a group of people who all like one another. My mom’s high shoulders, the rare softness in my dad’s expressions. I haven’t thought about the mess at the office once since I sat down.
If this were real, it would be kind of . . . wonderful.
I swallow over the lump in my throat as more food is served family style, and we all attack it, but politely. No tense questions arise like they normally do when it’s just me and my parents. They cling to Armin’s every word, but I even get the golden treatment of a second helping without having to do it myself.
Maybe I can live in this world just a little bit longer.
I’m a liar, my brain reminds me.
“Now, kids,” Mom says, looking between us at each end of the table. “Our families have made very good friends in a short time, and we are both very proud you found each other.”
Armin and I smile, the unease cracking our grins.
“It’s fast because when you get older you know time is less,” she says. “It’s sad that Armin’s mom is sick, but she has a good idea.”
Armin’s mom nods. Her husband puts a supportive hand on her thin shoulder. “I know you don’t want to plan a party now, but I’m afraid I might not be around for the wedding if it takes too long.”
Crap. My chest tightens as Armin’s eyes flash toward me, his lips downturned.
My mom shakes her head, her expression overly sad.
His mom takes a big breath, struggling to speak at full volume. “Because I’m so sick, would you please have the party early? Maybe in two weeks?”
Armin’s eyes nearly pop out of his skull.
We absolutely can’t do this.
“Armin’s busy with tax season,” I start to say, at the same time he begins, “Jolene’s working for her promotion.”
Armin’s mom nods. It’s quiet and small, and what the hell am I doing to this lady?
I stare at Armin—he needs to be the one. But his face is too crushed.
“We can do it.” Armin smiles in my direction, his lips so stiff it looks painful. “Jolene’s just being conservative. She knows how much these things cost.” He squeezes his mom’s hand. “Please, Mom, you have to let me help with the expenses.”
“Good man,” my dad says.
But the cost is not what we should be focusing on. This can’t actually happen!
Armin is looking absolutely everywhere except me.
When the bill arrives with all the mints, a wrestling match between the dads threatens to ensue. Armin snatches it away, insisting that his executive salary can cover the cost.
With the bill taken care of, Armin’s dad begins to help his wife out of her seat. My parents come around to help too, my dad pushing over the wheelchair and my mom making sure the Habibs have plenty of to-go containers with the extra sauces.
I slide into the empty chair next to Armin. Before I can speak, he says, “I know, I know. But she’s so happy.”
We both look toward our parents, who are now moving toward the door together, laughing at something Armin’s mom said.
Without really thinking, I say, “Is this really what she needs?”
My heartbeat picks up when Armin’s eyes lock on me. “What do you mean?”
And truthfully, I’m not exactly sure. I get what he’s doing. And I’m not exactly in a position to judge. But I shake my head, and it’s like I’m not connected to my body. “I guess . . . I just think your mom loves you no matter what. Like, to her, you’re Carl. To my mom, I’m Carl. You know?”
“Fuck you.”
His laugh has a manic tinge. A wave of relief hits as the laughter pulls through me too.
He gets up. “Okay. Yeah, I get your point a little. Even though I could’ve lived without the Carl comparison.” He looks toward his mom again. “Just give me a little more time. I just want her to know I’m okay.”
I smile.
At least his lies are for someone else.