CHAPTER ONE
If there were pictures in the dictionary, Mom’s face would be next to the word swoon. The giddy expression she wears every time Maziar and Sara are around resembles that of a lovesick teenager. It wouldn’t be so annoying if it weren’t always peppered with pitying glances in my direction and covert comments about how I’m not married as well. Not as hidden as you think, Mom.
The older sibling left behind in the marital race is an Iranian nightmare. Now add the fact that I’m a girl and you have the perfect recipe for disaster. I should get used to it. I can only assume if Mom looks at me this way, everyone else is probably saying worse. The lack of a husband when currently of childbearing age is not a cute accessory.
You’d think, at twenty-eight, I would still have lots of time, but Persian girl years resemble that of dogs―for every one we get older, we actually age a decade. I’m officially approaching old maid status. Ridiculous, but sadly the truth of it. I’m not vying to get married or anything. Or maybe I am, but that’s just what I tell myself. I honestly don’t know anymore. I definitely don’t need a man; I just think dying alone may be depressing.
My need to oppose the unfair Iranian girl conundrum is why I’m currently sitting in the passenger seat of Maziar’s BMW as he drives us over to the coffee shop where we will meet my new realtor. Or, at least, potential new realtor. He still has to pass the good old-fashioned father-brother test.
I stare out the window, watching the trees breeze by as the leaves blur into a wave of green. I try to block out the chatter between Dad and Maziar. They talk too much, and I have a headache.
My mind wanders to the dinner that set the wheels in motion on my newest endeavor: buying a house. Despite the need for freedom, as it provides me a way to shake the chains my family has bound me with but are too oblivious to see, there’s a part of me that’s terrified of the magnitude of this commitment.
“I can’t wait until you’re sitting here with your husband too, Bita, and my grandchildren are surrounding me,” Mom said dreamily. “Wouldn’t that be nice?” She turned her lovesick gaze toward me then, and all I wanted to do was roll my eyes.
As if that weren’t bad enough, Maziar thought he’d be the “good” brother that he thinks he is, and jump in for the rescue. I didn’t need saving, but no one seemed to realize that.
“Oh, leave her alone, Mom. She has plenty of time to get married,” he replied, smiling at me. “Not all of us can be as lucky as me.” Could he have been any more annoying? “Plus, no one is thinking babies yet. Just practicing.” He winked at Sara, who turned the color of a cherry.
“Seriously, you guys are bordering intolerable right now.” I finally allowed myself the eye-roll I’d been suppressing. “There’s more to life than just getting married.”
“Of course there is,” Mom agreed. “But you’ve finished school and passed your exams. Now you’re officially a dentist and we couldn’t be prouder. What else is there for you to accomplish, though? You’re getting older, azizam.” My dearest.
Now, just a few minutes out from our destination, I wish I hadn’t let her get to me.
But the cultural expectations placed on young Iranian women are damn near impossible, really. We’re encouraged to “stand on our own two feet,” studying for careers that can support us without the help of a partner. But at the same time, we’re urged to be on the prowl for a suitable husband. Suitable means hot, established, goal-driven, and loving. Like that’s easy. When was I supposed to be on this husband hunt anyway? I spent half my life studying my ass off. In a library. Alone.
“You’re right, Mom. I’m getting older and it’s time I take the next step.” Her eyes had lit up momentarily as I’d hoped they would. Then, I delivered the blow. I’m such a bitch. “I’m going to buy my own place.”
I cringe in the passenger seat as I recall my impulsive, and very emotionally charged, reaction. Dad being the open-minded, rational man he is, seemed to think this was a good idea. After giving me his lecture on all the expenses owning a house would require, and all the responsibilities I’d have, he gave in, taking Mom with him.
I hope I can make this work. Not so much because I’m afraid of failing, but more because coming back home after failing would give my brother enough ammunition to make me feel stupid until I’m on my deathbed, and Mom exactly what she needs to control me forever. Not making it at this one thing will tighten my chains to the point of suffocation.
I’m jarred from my thoughts when Maziar squeezes my wrist. I look around, realizing he’s parked. It’s go time.
“You ready?” The worry nestled in my brother’s eyes makes the knot in my stomach multiply in size.
“Yup. I’m good,” I lie. I slap on a winning smile and follow my family through the parking lot. I refuse to let my anxiety ruin this for me. I’m a grown-ass woman; I can do this.
“He comes highly recommended,” Dad says, as we make our way toward the entrance to the coffee shop. “Shahram just used him to buy Banoo’s first condo and they loved him.”
“Okay, Dad. Whatever you think is best. We just need to get the process stared. It takes a while to find something,” I reply.
“I don’t know about using an Iranian realtor,” Maziar teases. “I mean, you know how Iranians can be. He may screw us.” He winks at me.
“Oh, Maziar, don’t be so negative.” Dad rolls his eyes. “And don’t generalize people like that. We should support our community when we can. Let’s talk to the poor guy before we decide on his intentions. That’s the whole point of this meeting, anyway.”
My brother loves messing with Dad, pushing his buttons when he can. A playful camaraderie is everpresent between the two of them. Sometimes, I feel like I’ve been left out of an inside joke that only they understand. Makes me wish I were a boy. Iranian men and their sons. Legacies to their names and reminders of who they used to be. Despite my being Daddy’s girl, there’s a bond there I can’t compete with.
I head toward the coffee shop doors with Maziar and Dad flanking me, two soldiers in an unnecessary battle. This business of buying a house has proven tedious―first, with their lack of confidence in me, and now, stuck between the walls of their opinions. It’s been a tennis match of locations, style, and budget. I just want my own place. I’ve grown weary of Mom’s constant intrusion and Dad’s neverending guidance. I love my parents, but I’d prefer to love them from a distance.
The cold air rushes into our faces as Dad pulls open the door. It’s a nice distraction from the heat bearing down on us as it bounces off the parking lot asphalt. The California summer sun is vicious, with little regard for sunburns and skin cancer.
A gentleman, possibly in his late thirties, looks up at us as we walk through the door. Recognition crosses his face and he stands, reaching out toward Dad when we approach his table.
“Aghah Parviz?” His brows rise in question. His perfectly etched arches catch my attention. Full yet tamed. The new fad among trendy Iranian men. They give women a run for their money when it comes to getting their eyebrows primped.
“Salom Ramtin, khan,” Dad greets him.
The edges of his lips curl up further as he reaches over to take my hand. “Bita khanoom, I presume?”
Despite the tiny flutter beneath my ribcage, his attention doesn’t linger on me too long, turning it back toward the men accompanying me. I can only guess he presumes the deciding factor of whether he gets signed on as my realtor lies with them. A single Iranian woman, regardless of her age, is always viewed as some sort of damsel in distress when her father or brother are around. Stereotypical for sure, but something in the way he flashes me a tiny grin before turning toward the men, softens the blow. Almost like he’s humoring them and it’s our little secret. It pulls at me, unexpectedly.
“Can I get you some coffee?” Ramtin asks, looking around the table.
Dad stands. “I’ll get it,” he says.
“No, Parviz aghah. Khayesh meekonam. It’s my pleasure. I have this.”
Taarof, the art of hospitality in the Iranian culture. It would be considered rude if Dad didn’t offer to pay for his own family’s drinks, as well as if Ramtin doesn’t take the initiative to pay for it himself. Complicated and drawn out at times, but a popular Iranian social norm.
“Merci, Ramtin. I would love a cappuccino,” Dad says, taking his seat.
Ramtin turns toward my brother and me. “And for you?”
“Thanks. I’ll have one too,” Maziar adds. “And Bita will have a regular coffee.”
As Ramtin walks up to the counter, I elbow my brother in the side.
“What?” Maziar asks, innocently.
“I can speak for myself.” I scowl at him. “You seem to forget who’s the older sibling around here.”
“Dude, relax. I just know you like regular coffee. I’m not taking away your womanhood or anything.” He chuckles, arms raised in surrender.
“You’re so damn annoying.”
“Okay, okay. I won’t order coffee for you anymore. Jeez, I was trying to be nice.”
I glare at him. But when my brother leans in and pecks me on the cheek, I can’t help but giggle. I’m such a sucker when it comes to him. Definitely a downfall.
Ramtin returns with our drinks and takes his seat. He immediately launches into questions, focused on his mission to get our business. We discuss desirable locations, town houses versus traditional homes, number of beds and baths. He’s very smooth, the perfect combination of business class and down-home roots.
I lean back in my chair, the conversation barreling forward. Each question I answer is accompanied by both Maziar and Dad throwing in their opinions as well, giving me a moment to stare at Ramtin.
He’s much older than me, but there’s a childlike quality to him. Something in the deep set of his rich brown eyes feels adventurous. When he smiles, his plump lips stretch across his perfect teeth, exuding a charm that takes my breath away. I wouldn’t say he’s gorgeous, but nonetheless, there’s something about him that makes me curious and has me intrigued.
“So we want to mainly focus on single family dwellings, and possibly town houses?” he asks.
“Yeah, that sounds good,” I answer.
“Do you really want a town house?” Maziar interjects. “You share a wall, and it could get loud if your neighbor isn’t considerate.” He turns toward Ramtin and starts listing pros and cons.
My attention is drawn to a tiny scar below Ramtin’s left eye. It’s small and oval, possibly from a bad bout of chicken pox. A tiny imperfection that somehow adds to his sex appeal.
“Does Saturday work for you?” he suddenly says.
“Huh, what?” I realize he’s directing the question at me. I feel my cheeks burn and pray I don’t appear red and blotchy.
Maziar and Dad just wait for me to respond, neither privy to the fact that I’ve been checking this guy out for the past hour. He isn’t really my type, older than the men I usually date, so it would make sense they’d be oblivious.
“Saturday,” I mumble.
“Yes, does that work for you to go look at some houses?” Ramtin repeats. He chuckles, and there’s that twinkle again. It makes my skin prickle.
“Uhm, yeah. That should be fine.”
He watches me for a moment longer than he should, making my stomach knot, then he looks away as he gathers his papers.
“Then I’ll see you all this weekend.”
He stands and I take in his long, lean form. The cobra shape of his torso and the way his shirt is pulled tight over his biceps puts my generation to shame. He’s not buff by industry standards, just sharply defined.
How old is he? Sadly, the conversation never progresses to more personal terrain, and I leave the coffee shop under a barrage of commentary from Dad and Maziar, ruining my daydream buzz.
***
“The bedroom is kind of small.” I make a slow lap within its four walls.
“Okay, that’s good to know,” Ramtin says.
He’s leaning against the door frame, arms across his chest. His six-foot build, slim and runner-like, only takes up half the space. The light from the window down the hall outlines his body in a luminescent glow, accentuating the rise and fall of his chest beneath his shirt.
The crisp white button up he wears amplifies his olive-toned skin, complemented further by the opposing dark shade of his jeans. His lids are framed by long lashes and his eyebrows are in pristine condition, as usual. A grin subtly plays at the corner of his full lips.
For a moment I’m transported into an alternate universe, one I’ve been popping in and out of in my head the past few weeks while house-hunting, where Ramtin is mine and we’re out browsing locations for our first home together. I imagine he’d rest against the wall like so, waiting for me to fully absorb the feel of our potential dwelling place.
He’s old enough to be my dad. Okay, maybe not that old, but still. I was able to discover he’s forty-three, so I guess he could technically have fathered me, if he knocked someone up at fourteen.
Mom and Dad make it down the hallway, their conversation pulling me out of my daydream. Why am I even thinking about this guy that way? Is he my type?
I really don’t know what my type is. With very little experience in the arena of relationships, I still haven’t figured it out. I usually go for the typical Iranian guys, the ones my friends drool over because they’re hot, driven, and my age. But they’re always too cocky and full of themselves to think about being anything other than the good-time guy. Those guys don’t work out well for me. Their immaturity causes me to lose interest quickly. Why haven’t I ever dated an older man?
I turn to face the window, busying myself by taking in the view of the neighborhood. Honestly, I’m just no longer able to stare at Ramtin as he watches me with little interest further than the current possibility of a sale. I’m over here planning out futures that don’t seem to be near his radar.
Three houses in, I realize I needed to downsize my idea of what I could afford. Dad’s helping me with the down payment, but I’m determined to do this “adulting” business on my own. I need to stand on my own two feet, show myself that I can really do this grownup thing. We can’t all be Peter Pan.
“It’s cute, isn’t it, Bita?” Mom asks, as Ramtin steps aside to let her pass. “The bedrooms are slightly small, but it’s quaint and in such a fabulous neighborhood. It’ll be easy to rent once you get married.”
I have to consciously keep myself from flinching. She discusses my future as if marriage is the only outcome. What if I never find a guy I love enough to marry? Because, let’s be honest here, being single indefinitely is a real possibility. But I don’t say that to Mom. It would only spark a debate I really don’t feel like engaging in. Plus, for some odd reason I don’t yet understand, the idea of discussing my inability to find a mate while Ramtin is in earshot is humiliating.
“I agree with your mom. This is good for you, dokhtaram. You don’t need too much space right now when it’s just you,” Dad joins in.
And there it is, reference two, albeit subtly, to the lack of a husband.
“Well, I personally love this neighborhood and think it’s a great little place where Bita could set down her own roots,” Ramtin suddenly says.
My parents fall silent, exchanging wide-eyed expressions. I spare a quick glance in Ramtin’s direction and he winks at me, flashing his perfect smile, making my stomach drop into my toes. He doesn’t think my only outcome to success is through a husband. I try to hide the smirk curling the edges of my lips.
“We have a few more houses to look at before you need to make a decision, Bita,” Ramtin adds. “If you’re ready, we can head to the next one.”
“Yeah, I’m ready.” I follow Ramtin down the hall, wondering how this stranger somehow managed to leave my parents speechless. I’m not entirely sure, but the warmth growing in the pit of my stomach is a sure indication that he has my attention.
We make it to three more houses before we part ways.
“I really liked that first one,” Mom decides, as we drive home.
“Yes, it was the best location. Your mom’s right, it will be easy to rent with its proximity to the beach.”
I’m glad my parents have their priorities straight. Always hovering in the back of each conversation: when will she get married? Add a younger brother that just tied the knot, and the pressure is on.
I turn and lean my head against the backseat window, feeling the warmth from the sun. I stare out onto the streets of Santa Monica, watching couples walking hand in hand along the sidewalk. A sigh escapes me, a longing I try to deny, pushing to the surface. Despite my protests, I do dream of finding “the one.” Maybe that makes me weak, or maybe it’s just human nature. But a life of solitude scares me a little.
As we stop at a red light, a couple embraces. He leans down and kisses the crown of her head, and I’m oddly reminded of Ramtin. What would it feel like to have his strong arms wrapped around my waist, and the afternoon stubble on his face playfully scratch my skin as he kisses me?
We drive on, and as the image of the couple embracing shrinks in my line of vision, so do the possibilities I’ve let run rampant in my mind all afternoon. Daydreams of Ramtin evaporate with the summer heat, taking with them the little bubbles of hope that had begun to form.
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