The kettle rings, signaling that the noodles I’d picked up from the convenience store near the bus drop-off are ready to be sous-cheffed by me. I’m pouring the steaming water out when my phone lights up, an unknown number ringing. I let it go to voicemail, but when it starts to ring again immediately, I decide to roll the dice by actually answering.
“Hey, Jolene, can you be a dear and get to the bakery right now?”
It’s Armin, and it sounds like he’s having a nervous breakdown. I’d forgotten I’d given him my number for the fake-fiancée dinner planning.
“What’s up?”
“We have a, um . . . situation. Please, just get here. Now!” He practically hisses the last word.
In the background, I hear a voice say, “I want a cake that will make Minoo cry in shame!”
Oh my god. My stomach plummets. My mom’s there.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” I say, and hang up. I button up my pants, speed down the stairwell, and race to the bus station at the end of the block at record speed.
One harrowing bus ride later, I make it inside the bakery. The sweet, calming smell of fresh tea leaves pairs terribly with my mom, who is sitting in a booth looking ready to burst as she waves her hands animatedly in front of Armin’s mom. Some poor bakery worker is standing in front of them with an iPad.
Both moms are screaming in Farsi, while Armin, my dad, and his dad sit facing them on the opposite side, hanging on to the edge of the table for dear life.
I’m backing away slowly, my ribs tightening around my chest, when Armin clocks my arrival and flies out of his seat to pounce on me. “Oh, hello, my dearest!” he says loudly. His eyes are wide, sweat glistening on his temples. Then he lowers his voice. “Our mothers have found each other’s contact info and we’re in shit.”
“Yes, I see that.” My insides fall to the ground as Armin’s mom slaps my mom square in the arm. She does look slightly livelier than when we last met. My mom yells again, and I’m about to step in to stop someone from getting seriously hurt, when they both throw their heads back, laughing.
I’m not witnessing a mom fight. No, this is two kindred spirits finding each other.
“Our moms are thrilled to be joining families, so we’re all having tea together,” Armin grits out. “My mom hasn’t been this energetic in a while.”
“That’s great?” But the look of horror on both our dads’ faces indicates otherwise.
“They’re already planning an engagement party for us. Your mom has decided she’d like a fifteen-layer cake.”
“I literally just talked to her about keeping this low-key—”
“Hello, Jolene!” Armin’s dad waves at me with both of his hands. “Please, come sit and have some tea. I’ve just met your father. He’s a very good man. We both cheer for Manchester United.”
My dad looks up from his lemon cake and gives me a tiny smile, a rare expression on him.
“Hi, Dad?” I say slowly as I slide into the booth, my fiancé scooting in next to me. “How’s it going?”
My dad winces, apologetic. “I tried to tell your mom to wait for you before contacting the Habibs, but you know her.”
Armin’s dad waves dismissively at Dad’s comment. “Nonsense. We’re so glad to meet you. Armin has been keeping Jolene away for too long as is.” He slides a cup of tea in front of me. “How are you? Have you been studying tonight?”
“Yes.” I nod naturally, because the lies come too easy now. But my dad gives me a puzzled look, so I am forced to elaborate. “I’m studying hard for my career.”
My dad narrows his eyes. “You were actually studying for your promotion?”
Armin’s dad tilts his head toward me, curious. Why must people whom you’ve told lies to meet the people who don’t know your other lies? I look at Armin, who is no help. He’s like a cartoon character being squeezed until his eyes pop out.
“Yes,” I croak, scrambling for words that will somehow cover both parents’ knowledge. “I’m hoping to use my degree to stay within the company but also level up, you know?”
Armin’s dad nods uncertainly. “Are there many options at Supershops for computer engi—”
“I’m going to go order at the counter!” I feel terrible cutting Armin’s dad off, but the alternative is surefire torture. I nudge at Armin for him to slide out of the booth so I can get up. “I need a danmarki, stat.”
Armin’s expression is stiff. “I’ll come help you, love.”
As we get up, I catch what the bakery worker is showing our moms on the iPad: pictures of the literal cake from the Meghan and Harry wedding. Armin sees it too and drops his face into his hands. “Why does it always end up replicating a royal wedding with our people?”
I shake my head, grabbing his sleeve and pulling him toward the front of the shop. “I’m not riding in a carriage with you. We need to stop this.”
“Uh, yeah! This is the reason I called you. They’re in a taarof-off.”
“Shit. That’s why our dads have freshly shined foreheads.” Taarof is the Persian social custom of one-upping each other’s politeness and generosity. It’s super complex and hard to summarize and even harder to learn if it’s not embedded inside you from a young age. My dad and me still don’t fully understand all the nuances. Things like: You decline any payment three times minimum before accepting. If someone compliments your bracelet, you give it to them there and then, even if it’s worth the price of a reliable used car. And you better think twice before walking through a door before the person behind you, especially if they’re older. Basically, you need them to envy how courteous of a person you are.
But two Persian moms in a taarof-off while planning a party . . . Things are going to get out of hand. Our families will politely go broke.
We watch the shopkeeper’s eyes morph into little money symbols as he tells the worker to pull up an image of a ten-tier fruit platter, and both moms actually cheer as they lean in to get a closer look. Only Armin’s mom has to use the table for support. The platter is filled with so many exotic and out-of-season fruits that it’s obviously not for guests to enjoy as much as it is a status symbol—the ultimate Persian party grail.
Armin’s pupils dilate. “Jolene, my parents can’t afford to start putting money down on an extravagant event. Not with everything going on with my mom.”
“Of course.” I nod. My mom must have been the one to start this. “I’ll see what I can do.”
I march back to the moms, my most polite smile plastered on, prepared to use calm reasoning to fix this situation. But before I can even say anything, my mom grabs my upper arm and pulls me down into the booth, pointing at my face while yelling in rapid Farsi. Whatever she says causes the shop worker to actually bow slightly. Armin’s mom leans over and kisses the air near my cheek. There’s a rosiness in her complexion, but her voice strains. “Jolene joon, I’m so glad to meet your mom. She is a very kind person.”
“Yes.” She does give off that impression at first.
Mom pats my shoulder. “Jolene, drink your tea. We will pick a cake for the engagement party we’re throwing you.”
“No, Mom,” I hiss quietly. “I told you. We don’t want a big party.”
Mom shakes her head. “I told you it’s no problem.” She turns her back to me and speaks in Farsi to Armin’s mom. I don’t know all the words, but the gist is she’s telling her not to listen to me.
The impossible task of stopping my mom from doing this lies in my hands alone. “Mom, please listen! I’m serious. Armin and I are low-key, we don’t want this. I don’t even have people to invite!”
She throws her hands up like I’ve said something ridiculous. “You think that it will be a problem? Don’t worry, I will fill the place up so it’s bursting.”
I stand up and return to Armin, who is looking up fruit platter prices from Costco on his phone and likely multiplying the total to the power of twenty. “I tried, but right now I don’t think they can hear us. They’re lost in full Persian party-planning mode.”
We both share identical expressions of doom.
Armin whispers, “I think, for everyone’s sake, we need to call off this wedding right now.”
I cringe, because this is going to be horrible, but Armin’s right. “Will your mom be okay?”
He sighs. “I don’t know.” He blinks several times rapidly. “Her lab results came back this week. She doesn’t have much time left.”
My heart pinches painfully. “I’m so sorry.”
He nods, his eyes going glassy. “This is going to break her heart.”
At the booth, our moms are cackling again, clutching each other’s shoulders. His mom really does look happy. Even our dads are slightly smiling. But my mom—I haven’t seen her face so lit up in years. It won’t just be Armin’s mother who’s heartbroken. Will my mom ever forgive me for lying to her like this?
I look toward Armin, and he’s watching them too, shoulders hunched like a soldier who knows he’s about to be sent into a battle he won’t survive.
“Maybe we shouldn’t do this right now,” I suggest. “If we can keep them from making any deposits, we can break the news gently? Build up to it. You know, fake a few arguments.”
Armin knits his eyebrows together. “What would we argue about?”
“Obviously, you’re too focused on your executive career. And I’m too busy studying for my promotion. It could never work.”
Armin cracks a tiny smile, his shoulders sagging. “Yeah. That’s probably a better idea.”
“I’ll talk to my mom when she’s away from all this and tell her to cool it, make her feel really bad for overexciting your mom.”
Armin nods. “But please, I beg of you, make her feel terrible. She needs to stop. I never would have lied if I’d known this would happen.”
“Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath. “So we agree, we can’t do anything right now. We might as well buy them a few sweets.”
The color is starting to return to Armin’s face. “I’m getting a plate of latifeh, but just for me.”
“I don’t blame you.” I smile.
“And some danmarkis too, before you buy them out. What did you order last time, like two dozen?”
I shove him in the side, and he cracks a smile. After securing our pastries, Armin and I join our dads, where we temporarily shovel all our anxieties away with tea. And I get to navigate three more awkward questions about what it is that I’m studying. And why.