A few weeks later, we headed to a party at Maziar’s friend Pasha’s house. He and Maziar had been friends since birth; their mothers were neighbors in Iran. As if that wasn’t nerve-wracking enough, Maziar’s sister Bita would also be there.
Despite being together for months, this would be the first time I was meeting her. I’d wanted to push the issue, urge him to introduce me to his family earlier, but I was terrified of the outcome. Instead, I pretended like I didn’t care, until I even believed it.
I sat in the car on the drive to Brentwood with my leg tapping furiously against the floor. I felt anxious and nauseated, wanting nothing more than to jump out at the next stoplight. I wasn’t given much time to put the plan in motion before we pulled into the driveway.
To say Pasha lived in a big house was an understatement. It looked more like a manor, taking up a quarter of the block, with tall white pillars and statues of lions at the entryway. The driveway was made of cobblestone, giving the impression that we were somewhere in Rome rather than Los Angeles.
The valet moved cars around the crowd as if we were stuck in a jigsaw puzzle. As I waited for the attendants to make their way over to us, I realized I was surrounded by girls who looked like models on a Nordstrom’s runway. I felt depressingly underdressed in my mint-green sundress. I suddenly had the urge to reach across the center console and punch Maziar for not preparing me properly for the event.
When we finally walked toward the massive front door, my anger was quickly replaced by panic. I felt way over my head, wanting to turn and run back out of the cast-iron gates, straight home. I didn’t get time to formulate an escape plan because as soon as we stepped onto the stoop the doors swung open and Pasha appeared as if from thin air.
“Hi,” he said, his melodic voice reminding me of wind chimes.
He stood over six feet tall, with a moderate build that showed off his statuesque figure from underneath his teal button-up shirt. His muscles bulged every which way, reminding me of the perfect distribution of hills and valleys. He had an air of confidence that just rolled off of him but didn’t hold a hint of arrogance. Something about him made you desperately want him to like you. When he smiled, he went from intimidating to gentle, making me feel more at ease.
Maziar took me in and introduced me to his friends. Everyone was nice and genuinely interested in meeting me. I was aware they were all Jewish, but they seemed to care very little that I wasn’t. One of the guys, Emanuel, had brought his girlfriend, Azi, with him. I felt a connection to her instantly, creating my first ally in the web we unknowingly were building.
Just as I started to forget my discomfort, Bita showed up. She walked in like a princess entering her debutante ball. She reeked of self-indulgence and arrogance. She came in with two of her friends. They stopped at the entryway, scanning the room, appearing like C-list actresses striking a pose for the paparazzi. I would like to say no one noticed them, but that wasn’t true. The room did take notice, everyone stopping to stare in their direction, whether in awe or disdain.
Bita was dressed from head to toe in name-brand attire, with her Birkin bag slung over her shoulder. Her friends looked like clones. My first thought was that she was the typical Persian girl I’d always found so ridiculous. My second thought was that I found her intimidating.
I wondered how it was possible she was even related to Maziar. I knew that he came from money, but to what extent, I wasn’t sure. We didn’t really talk about it. He was so down-to-earth and easygoing that it was easy to forget his family was wealthy.
She spotted him in the crowd and made her way over to us, stopping every few feet to say hello to one person or kiss the cheeks of another, the customary Iranian way for greeting friends. The closer she got, the more prominent her beauty became, until she stood in front of us in all her glory. Her dark green eyes reminded me of Kaa from The Jungle Book, hypnotizing me if I stared too long. Her cheekbones sat high on her face, contoured to perfection by her makeup. Her eyelashes were so long they swept her eyebrows every time she blinked.
I felt completely inferior.
“Hey,” she said to her brother as she gave him a hug, ignoring me at first. Then, as if she’d just noticed his arm wrapped around my waist, she casually swept her eyes across my dress. The inferiority just worsened.
“So this is the infamous Sara, I assume?” There was a patronizing tone to her voice as she said my name.
“Yes, this is Sara, my girlfriend,” Maziar said with more aggression than she seemed to appreciate, her eyes crinkling like she’d just tasted something bitter. She quickly regained her composure, allowing her emotions to linger only moments across her face.
Bita didn’t stay long, moving on to people she found more interesting. Regardless of where she was though, I was aware of her presence, making me feel uncomfortable again. Her novelty began to wear off, replaced by the irritation taking shape in the pit of my stomach.
Later in the evening, I happened to glance in her direction, catching her in a flirtatious conversation with a guy I hadn’t been introduced to. He was tall, skin browned by the sun, wavy blond hair nonchalantly falling around his face. He had piercing blue eyes that glowed from across the room. He looked like her personal Abercrombie model as she playfully drew circles on his chest while she spoke. He definitely wasn’t Iranian.
“Who’s that with Bita?” I asked, leaning in toward Azi.
“That’s Scott. She’s dating him.”
“Huh, interesting,” I mumbled to myself, filing the information away in my mind.
I felt Maziar tap my shoulder. “I’m going to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back. You good?”
“Yes,” I said, apprehensively watching him walk away. Something about being alone in a room with his sister screamed danger to me.
“I need to go find Emanuel,” Azi said as soon as Maziar turned the corner. “He’s been playing pool for hours. Knowing him, he’s gambling away his inheritance.” She smiled. “I’ll be right back.”
I suddenly found myself utterly alone. My heart began to race and my hands became clammy. I walked to the bar to get a drink, hoping the alcohol would calm my nerves. I chastised myself for acting so ridiculous. I could do this; I could be alone in this crowd for a few minutes.
As I grabbed my drink, I turned to find Bita standing behind me. Gone was her placid expression of earlier, replace by venom burning in her eyes. I was certain she’d waited all night for Maziar to leave long enough for her to get me alone. She reminded me of a scorpion, her tail swaying as she got ready to strike. I refused to let her know she made me nervous, so I passively stared back at her.
“I hear you’re not Jewish,” she said.
“You heard right,” I responded, not missing a beat even though her comment caught me off-guard.
“You’re wasting your time, you know that right? You must not be very bright,” she said, an evil smirk plastered across her face.
“I beg your pardon?”
She actually laughed then. It reminded me of Maleficent in Sleeping Beauty, the laugh of someone teetering on insanity. “Being with my brother is pointless. It’s not like it’s going anywhere.”
“And why is that?” I replied, consumed by a veil of anger so thick I could barely see straight.
“Because you’re not Jewish.” She said it in a very matter-of-fact tone, as if that were explanation enough.
I was fuming, my entire body beginning to shake. I was about to launch myself at her to scratch up her pretty Botox-filled face when Maziar appeared beside me. He knew something had just happened between us, even if he didn’t know the details. He placed his hand on my arm to steady me, then turned icily toward his sister. First shock, then fear flashed across Bita’s face.
“What are you two talking about?” he asked, his eyes intently focused on her.
“Nothing,” she said. “Sara and I were just getting acquainted, that’s all.” Then she flashed her smile at him before making her way over to her friends.
“Are you okay?” Maziar asked, once she was gone. I was so angry I couldn’t even answer, which was explanation enough for him. He grabbed my hand. “We’re leaving.”
“No,” I said, yanking it away. “We’re staying.” I refused to let Bita win.
An hour later, he dragged me out of the door.
“Okay, talk to me,” he said, once we were in the car.
I shook my head, more at myself than at him. “I…” I said, but didn’t continue.
He waited patiently beside me, keeping me in the corner of his eye. I knew I needed to give him an answer, but I just couldn’t find the words. The anger was still burning through my veins, the despair in quiet pursuit.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I finally said, and to my surprise, he didn’t press any further. He just drove me home in the silence the night had created.
I was full of hatred toward his sister, but more so than that, I was encompassed with the fear of knowing that I had been right about us. We were doomed, a cliché ending just as I’d expected.
When he pulled up to the house, I opened the door before he’d fully stopped, needing to put distance between us. I didn’t glance over my shoulder as I muttered, “Goodbye.”
I heard the faint sound of his response, but I was halfway up the drive and couldn’t make it out. I didn’t turn to look at him as I put the key in the lock or after I walked through the door, but I knew he waited in the darkness of his car. I was too overwhelmed to worry about his feelings, at a loss for the words or energy needed to deal.
Hours later, when I still lay staring at my ceiling, I kept replaying the conversation I’d had with Bita in my head, all the while coming up with witty comments I wished I had made.
The next day, Maziar insisted I tell him what had happened with his sister. I briefly gave him the Cliff Notes of our conversation, not allowing him to push me any further. He apologized for Bita’s behavior and tried to assure me she was of very little concern. I didn’t believe him, but I desperately wanted to, because the alternative was too much to bear. That little nagging voice had made its way back, with the pressing dedication of a Persian mother. At times, I wanted to resort to banging my head against the wall just to shut her up.
I couldn’t help but let Maziar convince me that I had it all wrong, that in fact his family was only a minor blip in our story. I hung onto his words as if they were my life jacket, with the strength of sheer desperation. I knew better, but for once I didn’t want to be right.
Life, however, had different plans. It would teach me that ignoring my intuition would only lead to disaster.