I’m leaned against a brick wall in an alleyway across from Shiraz Bakery—the front door of the café is perfectly centered in my view. I’ve stuffed my nest of hair into a messy bun and covered my wrinkled blouse with an oversized hoodie I found in the office. The hoodie smells about as musty as I’d expected; it had been hanging on a random coat rack in the hallway that leads to the copy room for years without anyone putting it out of its misery. Its owner has likely long abandoned Supershops Incorporated. And even though I may look sketchy AF in it, especially while I’m skulking in an alleyway, it’s perfect for the incognito aesthetic I need right now.
My phone clock confirms the meeting with his parents starts in two minutes, and as soon as I stuff it in my pocket, I clock Armin rounding the corner. My heart jumps as I duck behind a car. It’s almost comical that he’s perfectly on time for this meeting, when his usual MO at work is to arrive as close to the end of the workday as possible.
He disappears inside the café’s door. I wait a whole seven minutes—just me, the sound of my heavy breathing, and the stinky hoodie that, in natural light, shows a few crusty stains that I don’t want to know more about.
Did I really stalk Armin all the way to this place? I am being a weirdo. Then again, this can’t be any worse than using a colleague to create a whole fake life without her knowing. I’m just here to do some light reconnaissance and figure out what the heck is going on.
Finally, I head toward the bakery, take a deep breath, and pull the door open.
The little chime from the bell on the door sends a jolt through me. The place is crowded with mostly Iranian people. Nobody seems to notice me as I take my place in the back of the line, swept up by the hum of conversations and laughter and waving hands. The sweet scent of chai fills my soul with warmth.
I glance around the room and spot a mini version of myself staring back from a warped security mirror. But it’s not as warped as one would hope—more that over the course of this afternoon and one bus ride, I’ve devolved into a weary troll. The hoodie just carries the vibe further.
My eyes skim over the tables in the back of the room, and I finally spot Armin. He’s in a corner booth, a small golden samovar in the center of the table.
It’s like he can feel my stare land on him. He looks sharply toward me and visibly jolts. He’s sitting with an older man, but I can see only the back of his head as he talks animatedly with his hands. That must be his father.
Armin’s forehead wrinkles as he sinks lower in the booth, crouching behind the bulkiest part of the samovar. Even from across the room, I can tell his complexion is paling at a considerable speed.
But Armin doesn’t know that I know anything is up. In his mind, this is just a coincidental meeting of two colleagues out in the wild.
I wave and gesture for him to come over. I just want to know what’s going on. Maybe I can even make some kind of truce with him here?
But his eyes shift away from me, and he shakes his head once before crouching even farther down into his seat, jaw set.
I do my best impression of an innocent, confused person and take a step back into his line of sight, raising my eyebrows in silent question.
He doesn’t quite look at me, but his lips start to tremble. I halt in my tracks. The fear etched in his expression hits me like a flash of boiling water, and I’m back to feeling like a monster. Everything inside of me is heavy as lead.
I give him a tiny, apologetic wince and turn my attention away from him. No matter what, our personal lives need to stay personal, or society doesn’t have a chance.
As I back away, the proprietor behind the counter calls out to me. “Yes, miss, what would you like?”
“Twelve danmarkis, please,” I blurt out automatically. Since they’re each the size of a hamburger, it’s a huge order for one person, but also reasonable, if I’m being real. The guy nods, face neutral, as he pulls a sheet of wax paper out to gather my request. When he hands me my box, I thank him as quietly as possible and tap my card, bracing for this financial blow.
I’m heading for the door, danmarki box cradled against my chest—
“Isn’t that Jolene?” a Persian-accented man calls behind me. I flinch at my name, at who must’ve said it. Armin’s dad calls, “Jolene!” The gazes of the other customers crawl to me. I take a breath and turn around. Armin’s dad smiles and nods in confirmation. This guy might be a spy if he can recognize me from the low-quality Christmas party picture.
I make my way to the table, arms rattling my oversized box of pastries, while Armin’s jaw makes its way to the floor. This situation may be the most unprecedented moment in human history; all the words that exist have disappeared from my brain. It doesn’t matter because Armin takes over as if on autopilot. “Dad, I’d like you to officially meet Jolene.” He locks my gaze, a plea in his eyes. “My fiancée.”
“Hello! Ah, Jolene, nice to meet you!” His dad seems to light up from deep inside. He’s got the same smile as Armin’s, though Armin hasn’t been using his much lately. I put out my hand, but he grabs it and pulls me in for a hug.
A squeal creaks from the hinges of the little bathroom door at the back. I sense her energy before I see her. “Nice to meet you, Jolene joon!” Armin’s mom’s voice is airy and delicate. My chest lightens at the universal nickname of affection. That unconditional yet fully judgmental feeling of love that I get from my aunties sharpens into effect.
I turn and everything stops when I see her. Her bones jut out of thin, sallow skin. She looks like my grandma when she was undergoing cancer treatment. She embraces me, and her skin is cool and firm, her rosewater scent mixed with something medicinal like a lozenge.
Over her shoulder, I spot Armin looking as though he might break in half. And as the realization hits—I might do the same.
I break the pregnant pause. “Oh, salam! It’s nice to meet you. Armin has said so many wonderful things about you.”
Armin’s lips curl into an uncertain smile, but he still looks like he’s contemplating running through the wall next to him.
His dad’s grin creases into his cheeks. “Armin had just told us you couldn’t make it after all. But we’re very glad you took a break from studying—even though we understand how important your exams are.”
My lips wobble. “I wanted to meet you. I was starting to think Armin was making you up.”
Armin’s temples twitch, his gaze turning manic as it bores into me. But his parents both laugh.
I continue: “I needed a break anyway.” Then I remember myself—how I look. What kind of person would dress like this to meet her future in-laws for the first time? “I’m just popping in for a few moments.”
His mom nods weakly as Armin jumps up to steady her into her seat slowly. “What are you studying for this week?”
I clock Armin’s look, but that tells me nothing, which means I have to say, “Human anatomy.”
His dad’s eyebrows weave together. “Why are you studying that if your degree is computer engineering?”
Shit. I nod, somehow maintaining composure. “Ah, yes, this confuses so many people, but it’s because we are . . . the original computer system. We’re basically living hard drives.”
They both giggle uncertainly and stare at me, assessing.
His mom’s eyes glint. “So you’re Persian too? That’s so wonderful . . .” She finishes her statement in Farsi. I only understand every second word; she could be asking either where my parents live or if I’m going to move. I’m going to have to come clean that I’m an imposter.
“Well, I am Persian, but unfortunately I only know the bad words and insul—”
“Jolene doesn’t have a lot of time for her break.” Armin puts his hand over his mother’s gently. Then he shoots me the most wild, wide-eyed expression.
It’s time to put him out of his misery.
“Bye, guys—hopefully will see you soon. Excited to join the family.”
Armin shakes his head infinitesimally, like he can’t believe I said this. Frankly, I can’t either. My anxiety is spiraling from lying to a Persian aunty so hard. A sick Persian aunty.
I turn and rush toward the door. As soon as I’m out, I round the corner to a playground, find the nearest bench, sit ugly, and stuff a danmarki into my face, ignoring the parents who are pulling their children protectively closer at the sight of me.
And the creamy comforting treat pairs terribly with my racing mind as the realization hits: Armin has a bigger house of cards to protect than me.