Sometimes I thought about what my Saturdays used to be like. I’d sleep in, maybe go shopping with my friends, or be dancing at a house party later on that evening. It felt like forever ago, but it was only eight months since the accident.
Now I had to wake up early so I could catch the bus on time to get to my job at Manijeh’s, my uncle’s Persian cuisine restaurant. No more sleeping in or partying for me. Still, I was grateful to have somewhere to go and something to do.
I brushed back the wisps of hair trying to escape my high ponytail as I looked at myself in my bathroom mirror. I used to fuss over every little detail of my outfit, make sure I looked better than my friend Stacey did, slay every look, and try to make it appear effortless. These days, I was just happy to have a clean work shirt that didn’t have ghormeh sabzi stains on it.
“Whoa, Laleh, slow down,” Mom said, drinking coffee at the kitchen table while Dad, dressed in his tech business-casual outfit, read Wired magazine. Sometimes he popped into the office on weekends, even though most of the employees were out enjoying their lives or working remotely. I think it was to get away from me. It didn’t used to be like that. We used to talk about everything. Now . . . well, I made it easier for him to avoid me and stayed out of his way.
“Sorry,” I said. I felt like all I ever did was apologize in their presence. I had messed up, real bad, and none of us had really gotten over it.
“It’s okay. Do you need a ride to work?” Mom asked even though she knew I was going to answer the way I always did. I could tell she worried about me. I didn’t even think Dad cared much about what I was up to.
“I’m taking the bus. Thanks,” I said, glancing at the empty fruit bowl by the fridge. “No bananas?”
“I’m going to the market today and can pick up some things. Is there anything else you need?” Mom smiled at me, but there was always this sad glaze coating her eyeballs, so it looked like she was going to start crying whenever she talked to me. I knew what she was thinking. Her only golden child, her once Ivy League–bound daughter, was now waiting tables for tips.
“What time will you be home?” Dad asked, still looking at his magazine. He didn’t even like Wired. He had always been a Popular Mechanics guy. God forbid he made eye contact with me while I was in my uniform. I bet he was thinking I should have been at Columbia, not in his brother’s kitchen.
“Whenever the last table finishes and we clean up,” I said. He looked up from his magazine.
“Call me when you’re done and let me know if I should come get you, or if your uncle will be dropping you off,” he said. But he was not going to come into the restaurant. He was not going to see all the stuff I did for Amu Mansour. He was not going to see that I was trying my best to be responsible now. Those days of my dad being proud of me were over.
“Okay,” I said before heading out the door. I kind of liked it better when they were lecturing me all the time.
* * *
“You’re late,” my cousin Arash said as I entered my uncle’s restaurant through the front door. I hated that he thought it was okay to say that to me, since he only worked on weekends, while I was here full-time. We mostly got our regulars for dinner, and it was slow during the day. I had a feeling today was going to be exceptionally slow.
It was the grand opening of the much-talked-about Zia Sofia Ristorante across the street. It was the first chain to grace Hungry Heart Row, and the mom-and-pop places around here weren’t too thrilled about it. Zia Sofia was only a regional chain, but it was big, it was glossy, it had appropriated Italian culture for profit, and it was very corporate. They had commercials on TV promoting their “That’s A-more Not A-less” pasta platters that only ran out when you couldn’t stuff your face any longer. The balloons on either side of Zia Sofia’s glass doors were swaying in the wind, almost waving at the twenty or so customers who were lined up outside.
“You couldn’t wait to see me? Did you miss me that much?” I asked him while I leaned over the table and pinched his cheek. He let me tug on his baby face for a moment without any protest. He had his pre-calc textbook open next to the phone and the reservation book. “How’s school?” I asked after I let him go.
“It’s brutal. I can’t wait for it to be over,” he said. I almost said, Be careful what you wish for, but it would have been pointless. He didn’t know how good he had it.
Zia Sofia had replaced the dry cleaners owned by the Arkanian family and the Salvadoran restaurant owned by the Flores family. When the new condo buildings came in, some places couldn’t keep up with the rising rents.
I was pretty sure the people who lived in those condos worked at the same company my dad did. I sometimes felt guilty about that, as though it were my fault. I was an interloper in a neighborhood that wasn’t really mine. Then I reminded myself there was no way I’d be able to afford a condo or apartment in this area or really anywhere, since all of my tips went to paying back my dad for the damages to his car.
I strolled to the back and swung open the kitchen door.
The smell of khoresht e gheihmeh immediately hit my nostrils: The combination of tomato paste, dried limes, cubes of lamb, turmeric, cumin, cinnamon, and split yellow lentils all hung sweetly in the air.
“Laleh! Tudo bem?” Claudio asked me from behind the sauté station. He was still putting all the prepped vegetables and spices where he needed them to be.
“Bem. Obrigado,” I said. This was about the extent of my Brazilian Portuguese so far. Claudio knew more words in Farsi than I knew in Portuguese, but he and his sister Camilla had been working at Manijeh’s for six years. (My uncle Mansour had named the restaurant after my grandmother. There was a photograph on the wall by table two of her and my uncle in front of his childhood home in Tehran when he was eight. I never met her. She passed away in Iran before I was born.) “How are you?”
“Good,” Claudio said with a smile. He took his phone out of his pocket, pushed a few buttons, and passed it to me. His chubby baby boy, Aurelio, was smiling at me from his phone.
“Awww, look at that smile!”
“He’s showing off his new teeth,” Claudio said. I handed the phone back to him. “Manny wants to see you. He’s in the office.”
“Thanks,” I said. I strolled past the walk-in fridge and ice machine and stood in the open doorway of my uncle’s tiny closet-size office, where he took care of day-to-day managerial stuff. My aunt Mariam would work in the office at night before closing.
Uncle Mansour hadn’t heard me creep up to his domain. His shoulders were hunched as he sat at his desk, and his face was so close to the paper he was reading from, because he refused to wear his glasses. It was amazing how much he looked like my dad. Uncle Mansour was about forty pounds heavier than my father, and he had more hair, but they had the same dark eyes, the same strong nose, though my uncle Mansour was the one always wearing a smile. I hadn’t seen my dad smile in a long time.
I knocked lightly on the wooden door. Uncle Mansour looked up, and, as soon as he saw me, he beamed.
“Hi, Laleh joon,” he said before he stood up. He kissed me on my cheek. “You ate already?”
“What?”
He pointed to the corner of his lips. I realized I had the remnants of the potato knish I had picked up at Pop’s Deli on my face. (Their knishes were phenomenal.) I wiped the crumbs off my face, and he looked at me warmly.
“I have a favor to ask you,” he said.
“Of course. Anything,” I said. I owed him so much.
“Well, the new restaurant is opening today, and I was going to go over before the dinner rush to welcome our neighbors,” he said. “I was wondering if you would like to go with me?”
“Me?” I asked.
“Mariam refuses to set foot in there out of respect for the Flores family. As for Arash, well he doesn’t have much interest in these things,” Uncle Mansour said wistfully. I knew Uncle Mansour wanted his son to pursue his dreams, but I think a big part of him also wanted to keep Manijeh’s in the family.
Why not visit the hyped eatery and see what we were up against? All we needed to bring with us was a sling and a stone, and we’d be fine.
* * *
After I’d done my side work and waited on the few lunchtime customers who had come in, Uncle Mansour, with a champagne bottle in hand, and I crossed Caper Street and entered the crowded restaurant. There was a line of people in front of the host table. We stood behind them and took in our surroundings.
The checkered black and white tiles on the floor seemed to go on forever. This place was so much bigger than we were. The back dining room looked like it had twenty tables; some were two-tops, and some could seat four. The front dining room had fifteen tables, mostly booths. There wasn’t one empty chair in the place.
The walls were painted to look like an Italian vineyard, with rows of red grapes hanging on vines and fluffy clouds painted up above them. I could faintly hear Rosemary Clooney’s “Mambo Italiano” playing on the speaker system. It was hard to hear over the noise of the many diners. Sometimes all you could hear was the Persian classical music at Manijeh’s when it was super dead.
The guests ahead of us put their names in with the pretty young hostess. She handed them a beeper that would buzz when their table was ready. We didn’t have beepers at Manijeh’s, and even if we did, we wouldn’t have had much use for them.
She flashed us a plastered-on smile when it was our turn.
“Hi there! Table for two?” she asked us.
“Hello. We’re your neighbors across the street at Manijeh’s, and we wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood,” my uncle said as he handed her the champagne bottle.
“Oh, um, thank you,” she said, accepting the bottle, her smile now seemingly genuine as she snapped out of her routine. “That’s so nice of you! Let me get my manager,” she said. She turned her head to the right and waved at a short young man wearing a suit and tie. He strode over to us with brisk steps. He was in his midtwenties, white, and had wavy brown hair that was expertly coiffed with hair gel.
“Welcome to Zia Sofia! My name is Terrence. How may I help you?” Terrence asked before he looked me up and down. I was still wearing my uniform: a white T-shirt, black slacks, and a small black apron around my waist that held my order pad and corkscrew.
“Hello, Terrence. I’m Manny. I’m the owner of Manijeh’s across the street, and my niece Laleh and I wanted to congratulate you on your opening,” my uncle said, extending his hand to the slight man.
“Oh! Hello,” Terrence said, shaking my uncle’s hand. Briefly.
“They brought us a bottle of champagne,” the hostess said, handing Terrence the bottle. He looked at it. There was a flicker of a condescending smirk on his lips upon reading the label.
“That’s very generous,” Terrence said, handing the bottle back to the hostess. “Would you like a tour?” His smirk morphed into a fake smile the longer he spoke with us.
“Oh, that would be wonderful, but some other time. I can see how busy you are,” my uncle said, looking around the bustling restaurant. “If you ever need anything, we’re right across the street.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Terrence said. Our conversation was interrupted by a loud crash in the dining room. Terrence whipped his head in the direction of the noise. The whole restaurant became silent. A teenage waitress looked down at the family-style portion of fettuccine Alfredo at her feet, splattered all over the floor.
Terrence sped over to her table to speak with the upset guests while the waitress crouched down, picking up pieces of the shattered plate. I walked over to her and helped her clean up.
A busser came over with a plastic tub while another busser brought over a broom and dustpan. The waitress and I deposited the mess into it.
“Thanks,” she said. “Laleh?”
I finally looked at the flustered waitress in front of me. Her face was red like the grilled tomatoes we served with our kebab platters.
“Natalie,” I said, breathless.
“What are you doing here?”
“I ask myself that question every day,” I said. “I work at my uncle’s restaurant.”
“Oh,” she said. She wiped her hands on her apron and looked away from me.
“Natalie, why don’t you head back to the kitchen and let John and Rafa clean up your mess?” Terrence said as he stared down at us, before dashing off to the kitchen. I stood up and offered Natalie my hand to help her stand. She took it, and when her hand touched mine, I felt like I had the night of that stupid party that derailed my life. Confused, nervous, elated . . . Natalie Ribaldi was gorgeous, and I hadn’t been able to handle it. So I drank. I drank a lot.
“I’m really sorry,” she said to the annoyed couple at her table. “It’s my first day.”
“We can tell,” the lady with the sour expression said. The guy with her was taking a photo of the spill on his phone. I bet he couldn’t wait to post up a Served review, the jerk. Natalie bit her lower lip and retreated to the kitchen.
* * *
It had been a week since we visited Zia Sofia. My uncle remained in good spirits, but I was feeling a little demoralized, watching customers go to the new restaurant while many of our tables stayed empty. I was happy to see that customers were still frequenting the Manzano panadería. That place wasn’t going anywhere. Lila was amazing, and so was her family’s food. When I waved to her in the mornings on my way to work, she always smiled and seemed like she enjoyed what she was doing. I was a little envious of that.
Arash was playing a game on his phone when Natalie entered. I wanted to play it cool, but the closer I got to her, I knew that was going to be impossible. She always made me feel anxious. The good kind of anxious, like right before I got on stage to accept my diploma. I was worrying about tripping or having an awkward handshake with our principal, but elated to accept something I’d worked so hard for.
“Hi,” she said, still in her Zia Sofia uniform, which consisted of a tucked-in collared white shirt, a black tie, long slacks with a long, black apron tied around her waist, and black shoes.
“Hi,” I said back with a smile. Arash looked up from his phone, and his mouth dropped open a little. His reaction was warranted, albeit embarrassing. She was beautiful, even in her uniform and even though her brown hair was a little wet from the rain outside.
“I wanted to thank you for helping me out last week,” Natalie said. “Is this a bad time?”
I looked around our empty dining room. I had completed all of my side work, set up all the tables, and made sure the bar was fully stocked with glassware.
“Your timing is perfect. I was just going to have a bite before the dinner shift. Please, have a seat,” I said, leading her to a booth by the window. She slid into her seat, and I asked Arash to bring us two bowls of ash-e-reshte. When he stopped gawking at our guest, he walked to the back and into the kitchen.
I sat across from Natalie. I normally wouldn’t sit and eat in the main dining room, but I didn’t think Uncle Mansour would mind, seeing as no one was coming in on this rainy day.
“It’s been a while,” I said.
“How have you been?” Her light brown eyes were taking me in.
“Since the accident?”
She nodded.
“Well, I’m here full-time,” I said. I hated when customers sometimes asked me if I was a student to make small talk. Sometimes I thought I should just lie and say I went to a nearby university. “I’m sorry I didn’t call after . . . uh . . . after we—”
“Made out?” she asked in a normal tone of voice. She didn’t whisper, which I took as a good sign.
“Yes. That. I hadn’t expected that at Stacey’s graduation party. I mean, I thought it was cool! You’re good at the kissing stuff,” I said. The name Stacey felt so foreign coming out of my mouth. I hadn’t really talked to one of my “friends” in months. I’d seen pictures of her on social media, enjoying college life, and she’d sent me a text or two, but other than that, Stacey and my other friends were all but a memory.
“I didn’t think one of the most popular girls at Rowbury High would be interested in—”
“Women?” I asked.
“Theater-club nerds,” she said with a slight grin. My stomach flipped like a snowboarder on the half-pipe at the Olympics.
“How’s senior year?” I asked after clearing my throat. She was still grinning.
“Fine. I work at Zia’s on weekends, and I’m waiting to hear back from colleges.”
“They’ll be lucky to have you. Wherever you decide to go,” I said. I felt a pang of jealousy. It wasn’t her fault. It was mine for needing a crutch like booze and then running away from her.
“I tried to get in contact with you. . . .”
How was I supposed to answer that? I had a long secret crush on you, I had to drink a ton of beer to tell you before I graduated, we kissed a lot in Stacey’s bathroom, and then I panicked and smashed my dad’s fancy car into a telephone pole?
“I had a lot to deal with after the accident. I was embarrassed,” I said honestly, with a shrug. My DUI had derailed everything, especially my pending romance. “I thank God every day that no one was hurt.”
She took my hand from across the table. I didn’t panic this time.
“I’m glad you’re okay.”
Arash came back, and Natalie let go of my hand. He served us two bowls of ash-e-reshte and gave me a not-at-all-subtle eyebrow waggle.
Natalie looked at the green soup a little warily.
“Just smell it,” I said, picking up my spoon. Natalie took a whiff, and her eyes widened.
“What is it?” Her interest piqued by the heavenly aroma.
“Delicious,” I said. I could have told her it was soup made up of parsley, spinach, dill, sautéed onions, thin noodles, chickpeas, kidney beans, dried yogurt, dried mint, garlic, oil, and salt, but why spoil the surprise?
She dipped her spoon in the thick soup gingerly before giving it a taste. Her eyes closed as she swallowed. She might as well have been in a Campbell’s soup commercial.
“Wow,” she said as she opened her eyes. “That’s amazing!” She dunked her spoon in the bowl fully and began to lap up the soup quickly. “I’m working a double, and I haven’t had anything all day.”
“Don’t they feed you over there?” I asked.
“We only get a ten percent discount on food,” she said in between slurps. “I don’t really feel like spending ten bucks on lousy spaghetti. Trust me—my dad’s side of the family is Italian American. Olive Garden is Michelin-rated gourmet compared to Zia’s.”
“Well people seem to like it,” I said. “You guys are always packed.”
“Tips are okay,” Natalie said, wiping the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “But the management is so strict. It feels like you can’t breathe in there. Terrence is always hovering, making sure our name tags are on straight, instead of helping us run food.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said.
“How much is the soup? Table twelve screwed me over with a two-dollar tip on a thirty-five-dollar bill,” she said, taking her notepad that held her tips out of her apron pocket.
“Lunch is on me today,” I replied. I probably owed a lot of students at Rowbury High lunch. My friends and I hadn’t exactly made it to the top rung of the social ladder by being kind to others. I thought about that a lot during my court-mandated community-service hours.
“You’re turning out to be my food service guardian angel,” Natalie said.
“It’s the least I can do for not calling you after, uh . . .”
“Smooching?”
She was so damn cute.
“Yes. That.”
Natalie and I spent our time in the booth talking about our favorite teachers at Rowbury High, songs that we liked, movies we were thinking about seeing but would wait until they showed up on cable television, and our favorite foods. Natalie had decided that ash-e-reshte was definitely a new favorite. She was so easy to talk to. I forgot why I had been so scared to approach her. I wished my parents were as easy to talk to.
The following week, Natalie came back during her lunch break. She brought the two bussers, John and Rafa, and they all ordered the “green soup.” My uncle came out to greet our new guests when I served them.
“Welcome! Thank you for coming,” Uncle Mansour said, shaking everyone’s hands, delighted to have young blood in at three p.m.
“I told the guys I was coming here for the best soup I’ve ever had, and they just had to try it,” Natalie said to my uncle. “I’m Natalie! I’m a friend of Laleh’s.” I supposed now she kind of was a friend.
“Any friend of Laleh’s is a friend of mine,” Uncle Mansour said. I think he was surprised to find I had any, since all I ever did was work. “I don’t know what we’d do without Laleh.” I could feel my face get hot.
“Natalie wasn’t kidding! This is delicious,” Rafa said, enjoying every spoonful. “I’m going to tell everybody about this place.”
“Yes! Please do!” Uncle Mansour said. He was giddy like a kid trick-or-treating on Halloween. “Laleh, come help me bring our guests some more food.” I followed my uncle into the kitchen. Claudio was cooking the stew for the next day as well as ash-e-reshte.
“Can you heat up some joojeh kebab with rice? Three small dishes, please,” my uncle asked Claudio.
“They didn’t order that,” I said to my uncle, not understanding how he was willing to give away free food. I knew Aunt Mariam wouldn’t be too pleased about that. She was the realist between the two of them, and she knew as well as I did that Manijeh’s was barely getting by. They never said that to me, but I could sometimes overhear them arguing in the office during a slow dinner shift.
Uncle Mansour turned to me and put his hand on my shoulder. He looked at me with pride, the way my dad used to when I handed in my report card. It almost made me want to cry.
“Your grandmother always said ‘a guest is a gift from God,’ and she was right. It’s true, we’re running a business, but guests always remember the way you treated them. They might not remember what they ordered or who they shared a meal with, but they’ll remember how they felt being here. If you want to run this restaurant someday, you should remember that.”
He said if I wanted to run this restaurant someday? It hadn’t occurred to me that he was grooming me for that responsibility.
“I-I don’t know if, um . . . You really think I could run this place?”
“With your hands tied behind your back,” Uncle Mansour said. “Only if you want to. And after you pursue a higher education.”
I rolled my eyes. I didn’t know what school would want me now. It didn’t hurt to think about the future again, though.
* * *
“Why is there so much soup?” Aunt Mariam asked Claudio the next day as I was rolling up silverware in linen napkins.
“You have to ask Manny about that,” Claudio said. He was chopping onions, and his eyes were a little watery.
“Do we have a take-out order that I don’t know about?” Aunt Mariam asked us. Claudio and I looked at each other for a moment.
“I guess Manny had a good feeling about today. He asked me to make more,” Claudio said with a shrug.
Aunt Mariam pursed her lips as she tied an apron around her waist. Uncle Mansour came out of the office and smiled at his wife. She did not smile back.
“I hope you realize you’re going to be eating ash-e-reshte for dinner all week,” Aunt Mariam said to my uncle as she joined Claudio by the stove.
“That’s fine. I love ash-e-reshte,” Uncle Mansour said.
“So do I,” I said, voicing support for my uncle in my own way. “But there won’t be any left over.”
“Oh?” Aunt Mariam said, quirking an eyebrow up at me. “You’re sure about that?”
Well . . . not exactly. But I didn’t see anything wrong with remaining hopeful. Arash walked into the kitchen from the dining room.
“Arash, I already told you, I can’t take you home until Camilla gets here at four. I know you want to go to the movies with your friends, but—” Aunt Mariam began.
“No. It’s not that. I need some help up front,” Arash said.
“I thought we went over your math homework already?” I asked him.
“No! Guys! I mean I need help with customers,” Arash shouted. “We have some.”
I rushed out of the kitchen with my uncle close behind. Natalie stood at the front of the restaurant and waved at me. She was joined by seven of her coworkers, all of whom were still in their Zia Sofia uniforms.
“Soup’s on,” I whispered to my uncle. He chuckled before he went to the front of the house to accommodate everyone.
Arash seated Natalie’s coworkers at the booths by the window looking out at Zia Sofia. Natalie lingered at the host stand, waiting for me.
“John and Rafa kept telling everybody at work about the food here,” Natalie explained.
“You didn’t rave about the food?” I asked, a little concerned.
“I’m more interested in the great service,” she said gently.
“We’re flirting, aren’t we?”
“I think so! How am I doing?”
“Perfect. I need to step up my skill set, though. Give me time.”
“I’m a waitress. I’m learning all about being patient,” she said over her shoulder before sitting at a two-top in my section. I swallowed and took a breath before going to get the Zia Sofia staff water and take their drink orders. After I put in their orders, I made my way back to Natalie’s table, and Uncle Mansour was talking with her.
“Laleh! I was telling the lovely Natalie about how I started Manijeh’s with the help of your father,” Uncle Mansour said.
“Dad never worked here,” I said, a little puzzled.
“No, but he invested in the restaurant. He didn’t tell you about that? When I first started, he gave so much to this place and used to come here all the time. Then he got busier with work and his family, but he used to come a lot more. He hasn’t seen some of the changes we’ve made to the décor. You should ask him to come!”
I blushed and cleared my throat. Natalie’s smile faded a little as she noticed my discomfort.
“Uh, yeah, I’ll think about it,” I said. I figured it was better than lying and saying I’d ask my dad. Uncle Mansour put his meaty hand on my shoulder.
“He must be so proud of you,” he said before kissing the top of my head. “I’m going to bring Natalie khaskh-e-bademjan. I’ll be right back!” He went to check in on the other guests before heading back to the kitchen.
“He’s planning to feed me the whole menu, isn’t he?” Natalie asked as I inched closer to her.
“He’s all about hospitality. Do you like eggplant? He’s bringing you an eggplant dip.”
“I like the vegetable but not the emoji.”
“We’re in agreement there,” I said, getting my scratch pad out of my apron pocket.
“That’s cool about your dad helping bring this place to life,” Natalie said. I bit the inside of my cheek and didn’t make eye contact with her. “Isn’t it?”
“Yeah. It is, I guess.” She didn’t press me any further. “What else can I get you, miss?”
“Gosh, I do need another moment with the menu,” she said, furrowing her brow, feigning indecision so I could stay at her table longer. “What do you recommend?”
“Everything except doogh. It’s a yogurt soda I just can’t get behind,” I answered.
“Oh! That actually sounds kind of cool! I’ll start with that, please,” she said, shimmying her shoulders in excitement. “Then I’d like to ask to drive you home after work some night? That’s not a tall order is it?”
“I think we can accommodate that request,” I said, writing it down on my notepad.
* * *
“Thanks for the ride,” I said to Natalie as I unbuckled my seat belt. She was kind enough to stop by after her shift and wait for me to close the restaurant. Then we grabbed a bite at the diner across the street from Mallow Park that was open, mostly for restaurant workers getting out late at night.
“Nice digs,” Natalie said, looking at my parent’s house. The lights were still on, which I thought was weird.
“It feels like limbo,” I said. “But yes, it’s very nice.” I realized how stupid that sounded, since I was lucky to have a roof over my head. Residents in the neighborhood we worked in were being forced to move out, and no one seemed to be doing anything about that. “My roommates are still up.”
“You don’t talk about them much,” Natalie said. “Your roommates.”
I didn’t think it was fair to have this gorgeous girl drive me home after a double shift and then have me emotionally unload on her.
“Well, none of us really talk a lot to one another. I didn’t turn out the way they wanted me to, so we’re . . . polite and quiet.”
Natalie touches the tip of my ponytail lightly.
“I don’t know. I think you turned out fine. Better than fine.”
That feeling of nervousness Natalie gave me? Maybe it was something else. Maybe it was hope.
“You’re going to be a heartbreaker at college,” I said. Why couldn’t I enjoy a nice moment? Why did I have to think about her leaving already?
“You could be too. Though I kind of like the idea of neither of us breaking each other’s hearts next year,” she said as she let go of my hair.
“I don’t know where I’ll be next year,” I muttered.
“Well, I hope you’ll let me know where you end up. Then I can come find you. Don’t disappear on me again. Okay?”
I nodded. Whatever the future had in store for me, I’d make sure I’d let Natalie Ribaldi, the most wonderful girl in the world, know.
“I’d invite you in, but maybe when the roomies are more chatty,” I said.
“Yes, you’ll have to give me a grand tour of your home sometime,” Natalie said a little suggestively. I was annoyed that a high school senior had more game than I did.
“I think I’d have to take you out first,” I responded. “If you’d want to go out sometime.”
“So long as it’s at a restaurant neither of us work at,” she said. She kissed me on my cheek. “I’ll pick you up in the morning, and we can ride in together.”
We smiled at each other. I couldn’t remember why liking her had scared me so much. I’m glad I was still here to learn that.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said before I exited her car.
I unlocked my front door, and as soon as I entered, Mom and Dad rushed over to me.
“Why didn’t you answer your phone?” Mom yelled.
“What?” I asked. I patted my jacket pockets, and my phone wasn’t in there. “I’m sorry—I must have left it in my apron at work.”
“We’ve been worried sick!” Mom said, holding me by my shoulders. Dad stood behind her, stoic and with an expression I couldn’t read. “You know to text when you’re going to be late! Do you even think about us?”
I took a breath to calm myself down. Yeah, maybe I should have texted them. But I finally had a nice night, and they knew my schedule was unpredictable. Why couldn’t they let me enjoy myself? When were they ever going to trust me?
“I’m sorry. I am here. A friend of mine gave me a ride,” I answered. This time I looked at Dad. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he was pacing a little. “If you were worried, you could have come to the restaurant. Why don’t you come to see me there, Dad? Are you embarrassed that I’m working there?”
“Laleh! What kind of question is that?” Mom asked.
“He barely talks to me anymore,” I said to Mom, but I was still looking at Dad. “How long do you want me to apologize for? I’m trying to be better. I really am. You’d see that if you came to the restaurant. Amu Mansour sees it, and I’ve really helped turn the restaurant around. The one you helped start. He trusts me. Why can’t you?” When are you going to love me again?
Dad walked toward me, and my mom backed away from me a little to give him some room.
“You scared me,” Dad murmured. “Do you understand that? You scared me, and I didn’t want to think about what could have happened.”
He looked like a little boy. My father, a man of industry who sacrificed so much and worked so hard, he looked like a frightened child. I did that to him. My stupid decision did that to him. Dad put his hands on his chest.
“You’re my whole life,” he said, and his voice trembled. “Everything I do, every ounce of what I have to give is for our family. That night, those weeks after, you broke me, Laleh. The only reason I’m still standing is because you’re still standing.”
Mom put her hand on Dad’s back. I thought about how he came here and met her at university. The life they built for themselves. The life they built for me. I almost ruined all of that. Almost.
“But I’m here, Dad. Don’t be scared of me now,” I said.
He took a breath. He also leaned back into my mom’s touch a little.
“I’m careful. I’m always going to try to be careful. I need you to believe that. I don’t know how else I can show you, but I need you to believe that,” I said. We should have hugged or something, but we weren’t there yet. I bid them both good night and headed up to my room.
* * *
As the rest of the month went on, there were three things that really stood out while working at Manijeh’s.
The first was that we had lots of new customers, and many of them didn’t work at Zia Sofia’s. Customers who had waited in line at Zia Sofia’s noticed the servers were eating at our place instead of where they worked. We finally got the foot traffic that had eluded us for years.
The second change was the sign outside of Zia Sofia’s. They had a promotional banner hanging above their doors that read 10% OFF ALL PASTA ENTREES. I could sometimes see Terrence standing outside during the lunch shift to invite people in, but lately he didn’t have many takers. I guess the novelty was wearing off.
“Hey, Laleh,” Natalie said, tugging lightly on my apron strings after I had run some plates to my table. “I seated table two for you.”
The third change was our new staff member. Business was booming, and Arash finally had his weekends to himself, though he still helped out on Sunday evenings. We paid Natalie with money, not with ash-e-reshte, but my uncle gave her leftover food to take home after her weekend shifts.
“Thanks, Nat,” I said as my girlfriend and I walked to the bar so I could get my guests water. “How many guests at table two?”
“Just one. He requested you by name.”
I stopped what I was doing and peeked from the bar over at table two. My dad was seated there, talking to my uncle Mansour, who stood beside him. He was looking up at the photo of his mother and brother that hung on the wall. When my dad smiled, he looked so much like his brother.
“That’s my dad!” I said excitedly. My voice squeaked a little.
“Your uncle talked to him on the phone from the host stand while I was up there. I assumed he was talking to your dad because my Persian language skills are nonexistent, but he said your name a lot,” Natalie said, her hand on the small of my back.
“Could have been another Laleh. Super-common name around here,” I joked.
“Only one Laleh around here who makes your uncle beam like that,” Natalie said, and Amu Mansour waved me over.
“Want to meet my dad?” I asked, filling a glass with water for my father.
“I’ll come around during dessert.”
“Sweet.”
Natalie rolled her eyes, and I laughed as I walked over to my dad’s table. I placed the water in front of him, and Uncle Mansour put his arm around my shoulder.
“Do you know this wonderful young lady?” Uncle Mansour said, his chest puffed out proudly as he stood next to me.
“I’m very happy to say that I do,” Dad said, looking at me warmly, but he didn’t make eye contact for very long. “I called your uncle and made a reservation. The place looks great, Laleh. I should have visited sooner.”
Yes, you should have. But we’re glad you’re here now.
“Thanks for coming,” I said.
Uncle Mansour squeezed me closer to him. “Tell your baba about our specials!”
Dad listened while I recommended our best dishes. I already knew what he was going to order before he made his decision. I made sure he got an extra-large serving of his favorite stew.
When my shift was over, Uncle Mansour said I didn’t need to worry about my side work that night. He said I’d done more than enough.