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Synopsis
The William C. Morris Award-winning author of Darius the Great Is Not Okay presents a smart, tender, vivacious romantic comedy about mistaken identities, the line between love and sex, and the way one night—and one person—can change your life forever.
Release date: August 27, 2024
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Print pages: 352
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I'll Have What He's Having
Adib Khorram
Farzan was crying.
It was his own fault: he knew better than to let his knives get this dull, but he’d taken a job substitute teaching every day the last two weeks and hadn’t made it out to the knife shop he liked.
Plus, this onion was aggressively potent. He’d started tearing up as he peeled the skin, even before he made the first cut. At least he didn’t have to dice it. All he needed were some long strips.
Farzan wiped his eyes with the crook of his elbow, darkening the soft gray cotton of his Henley. He’d have to change before Cliff got here, but first he had to get the salmon marinating, plus wash the rice and get it soaking. This was going to be Cliff’s introduction to Persian food, and everything had to be perfect.
He hummed along to Hikaru Utada—video game music was his go-to kitchen playlist—as he dropped the slices of onion into a wide dish. He added a good glug of olive oil, salt, and white pepper, then moved to his mortar and pestle for the saffron, red threads releasing their heavenly fragrance into the air as he ground them to a fine powder.
His mother insisted—as did many Iranians—that saffron was an aphrodisiac. Farzan certainly hoped it was true. This was his third date with Cliff, the make-or-break point. The first two dates—one at a coffee shop, the other a walk around Loose Park—had been pretty close to perfect. Cliff was fun, and interesting, and they’d had a good connection: laughing at each other’s jokes, bumping elbows as they walked, sharing little smiles. The kiss they’d shared pressed up against the side of Cliff’s Toyota had been full of promise, the kind of promise that set Farzan’s stomach dancing.
Persian food and chill was the perfect third date. At least, Farzan hoped it was. Cliff had seemed happy with the suggestion, but there was always the worry that Cliff was just agreeing to spare Farzan’s feelings. Sometimes dating was exhausting.
But Farzan was confident in his cooking. He’d waffled on whether to serve fish, given what he hoped might happen after, but taste had won out: saffron-marinated salmon, served over zereshk polow—basmati rice mixed with barberries, tart little rubies—was one of Farzan’s specialties.
It was an unorthodox combination, one he argued about with his dad, Firouz, constantly. Firouz, like many Iranians, would’ve paired fish with baghali polow, fava bean rice, or at least sabzi polow, rice with lots of fresh herbs, especially dill. But Farzan loved the combination of sweet and sour, the lift it gave to the savory fish.
Farzan had learned everything he knew about cooking from his dad, who was in charge of the food at his parents’ restaurant in the Northland. They called it Shiraz Bistro, even though their family came from Yazd. But his parents had insisted Shiraz was more familiar to Americans, because of the wine.
Not that they served much Shiraz at the bistro: Persis, Farzan’s mom, was in charge of the books, and she kept tight reins on the booze budget. Farzan’s brother and sister had taken after Persis in the math skills department, but somehow Farzan had missed out: math had been his worst subject in school, and every time he got a call to substitute for a math teacher, he seriously considered driving his car into the Missouri River instead.
“Shit!” he hissed, after bumping his elbow against the hot kettle.
His kitchen was smaller than he would’ve preferred, with not nearly enough counter space, but otherwise he really liked his apartment in the River Market. It had easy access to the farmers market on the weekends, a streetcar stop down the block, and countless restaurants nearby. Best of all, it was still rent-controlled, despite the intense gentrification all around. He’d moved in right after finishing his master’s in education—fuck, that was more than a decade ago now—and he had no plans to move.
He grabbed the kettle to pour boiling water over the saffron; the red powder blossomed into liquid gold. He swirled it in his mortar before adding it to the marinade. But as he ducked into the fridge to pull out the salmon, his music suddenly cut out, and his phone started buzzing. He jolted upright, banging his head against the handle to the freezer door.
“Fuck,” he groaned as he pulled out his phone, blinking at Cliff’s photo on the screen.
Holy shit. Cliff was calling him.
Making the transition from texts to phone calls was a huge step, right? Maybe even bigger than Persian food and chill. His throat clamped for a second; his heart gave a happy flutter.
Farzan was definitely getting laid tonight.
He grinned, even though Cliff couldn’t see him, as he answered. “Hey. I was just thinking about you.”
“Hi. I catch you at a bad time?” Cliff had a mellow, throaty voice, not to mention nice lips framed by his well-manicured beard.
Farzan held the phone in the crook of his neck as he pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves. He always used them for this part; otherwise his hands would be stained yellow for days, and that was definitely not sexy. “No, I’m just getting dinner going. Can’t wait to see you tonight.”
“Oh.” Cliff cleared his throat and went quiet for a moment. Then: “Did you get my texts?”
“No, sorry. I’ve been cooking. Everything all right? Oh shit, you don’t have a fish allergy, do you?” Farzan mentally kicked himself. He should’ve checked before going to the grocery store. He should’ve—
“Nothing like that.” Cliff’s voice softened, in that way someone’s did when they knew the listener wouldn’t like what they were about to say. Farzan’s shoulders hitched up. “Listen. I’ve been… Well, I don’t think I can make it tonight.”
“Oh.” Farzan tried to keep his voice light, even though his sternum began to burn. “We could try tomorrow instead?”
But he was pretty sure he already knew where this was heading. His eyes began to prickle in the corners, and this time, not from onions.
Cliff cleared his throat again. “Listen. You’re a nice guy, but… I’m not really feeling it. You know? I don’t see this going anywhere. I didn’t want to lead you on.”
“Oh.”
Farzan stared at the bowl of marinade. How many inches of liquid did it take to drown yourself in?
“I get it,” he said. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“I was hoping to catch you before you started. I can Venmo you for the groceries—”
“It’s fine. Leftovers, right?” Farzan knew he sounded weird. His throat felt like it was closing up. Farzan didn’t have any allergies (unless you counted how cantaloupe always made his tongue burn), but maybe he was becoming allergic to constant rejection.
Repeated exposure made allergies worse, right?
“I… guess I’d better let you go then.”
“Yeah. Okay. Uh. Thanks, Farzan. Bye.”
“Bye.” But Cliff had already hung up.
Farzan jumped when Utada started singing again. He paused the song and sighed.
Thirty-seven years old and single again.
Thirty-seven years old, single, and about to drop a fifty-dollar salmon fillet on the floor.
“Goddamn it!” he spat. The salmon was a two-hand job.
He groaned and pulled it off the floor. A good rinse and it would be fine.
Farzan shook his head, blinking against the sting in his eyes. Did it count as a breakup if you were never officially together? It hurt like one. Not the sort of all-encompassing, black-hole-of-despair heartbreak he’d had with his last serious boyfriend, Jason (fucking Jason, he mentally amended), or even the jagged, knife-to-the-guts feeling of when he’d brought up being exclusive to Corey, who said he didn’t see why they had to change their casual relationship to something more (that’s what Farzan got for falling for a guy who only did casual) but still, this hurt enough.
What was it about him that drove men away?
Farzan knew he was fairly good-looking. His light russet skin was smooth and clear, thanks to a combination of good genes and good skin care. He had an elegant nose (if only a little largish—he was Persian after all). His thick, curly black hair wasn’t thinning—Alavi men didn’t usually go bald, though he had started finding salt in his pepper. Plenty of guys complimented his warm brown bedroom eyes.
Yeah, maybe he was headed toward a bit of a barrel chest, and yeah, he’d lost any trace of abs five years ago, but he was reasonably fit, even by the unrelenting standards of the gay community.
Farzan huffed. If it wasn’t his looks, it had to be something else, something inside him, and he couldn’t wait to hear his family’s latest theories about that next time they interrogated him about his dating life.
Meanwhile, his younger sister was happily married, and his baby brother was in a long-term relationship. Everyone in the family was already taking bets on when he’d propose.
How had Farzan wound up as the one with no love life?
He finished rinsing the salmon and patted it dry with a paper towel. At least Cliff had called before he’d started cooking the rice. He could save the marinade for tomorrow—it would actually taste better after sitting overnight anyway.
Farzan didn’t much feel like cooking anymore. Persian food was for sharing: for family gatherings, for date nights, for sitting together enjoying the warmth of a meal, lovingly prepared. It was not a food for breakups.
Thankfully (or lamentably), Farzan had a foolproof solution for heartbreak: get drunk on wine and eat a bunch of french fries. He’d perfected the pairing in his twenties, commiserating with his best friends, Ramin and Arya, over the men they were seeing, and fucking, and loving, and losing.
Farzan paused his music and pulled his phone back out to text them. The only thing better for a breakup than wine and fries was wine and fries with friends.
Farzan
Guess who got dumped
You guys free for wine and fries?
We could check out that new wine bar.
His friends answered in less than a minute.
Arya
WTF
Sorry dude
Ramin
Oh Farzan. I’m sorry.
Are you doing okay?
Farzan
I’m doing okay.
We’d only been on two dates anyway.
Arya
I’m working tonight
I totally would otherwise
You know mr
Ramin
Weren’t you going to cook for him?
Arya
Me*
HE WAS GETTING FARZAN FOOD???
Farzan
Yeah but whatever
Arya no worries. Ramin you free?
Ramin
Dinner with Todd tonight. Our one year anniversary.
Sorry.
Farzan
Don’t be! Have fun!
Is it already a year?
Fuck. How had Farzan missed that? And how come Ramin and Todd could make it a whole year, but he couldn’t even make it to two weeks?
Ramin
See you Thursday then?
Farzan
For sure.
Love you guys.
Ramin
Love you
Arya
Love you doostammmm
Farzan flopped back on the couch. Looked like he’d be flying solo tonight. In more ways than one.
He pulled up the website of the wine bar. Aspire had opened over the summer in a vacant spot on Walnut. He’d been meaning to try it out—with Arya and Ramin (and Todd), in fact—but reservations had been hard to come by, and then he’d been super busy with jobs, and Arya always had a slew of end-of-summer events to plan, and Ramin had gotten a promotion, and now it was nearly fall and they still hadn’t been.
But it was easier to get a table for one than for four.
Aspire didn’t open for another hour. Farzan knew he should be doing his dishes, but honestly, he was content to lie on the couch and stare at the ceiling. There would always be more dishes. Turns out that was what his thirties had been about: endless dishes, knees that crackled when he went for a run, and graying hair. He’d even found a gray strand this morning while he was grooming himself down below, just in case Persian food and chill became… really chill.
He sighed. He should’ve left his poor balls alone. After all, they’d been more reliable companions than any man he’d ever dated. They hadn’t dumped him after two dates, halfway through cooking for the third.
In the kitchen, his oven beeped that it had finished preheating for the salmon that it wouldn’t be seeing tonight.
“Shit!” Farzan sprang off the couch and ran to the kitchen.
Maybe he’d better clean up after all.
David stared at the wineglass in front of him. The wine was a deep purple, nearly maroon, dark and mysterious. He gave it a swirl and admired the legs. Full-bodied, certainly.
Behind him, Dannon muttered hopefully, “You think you’re going to stump him this time?”
Kyra scoffed. “Thirty bottles in, I’ve more or less given up on that.”
“Do you mind?” David asked without heat. “I’m trying to taste here.”
“So sorry.” Kyra gave him a quirked eyebrow and mocking bow. She was the assistant manager at Aspire, a charming Black woman in her early thirties who treated David like a cranky old man even though he was only thirty-seven. She actually reminded David of his mom, but there was no fucking way he’d ever tell Kyra that.
She had warm brown skin, immaculate box braids, and kind dark eyes that turned up in the corners. Her signature pinstriped vest was buttoned up; a gray tie, still loose, dipped into her large bosom.
David huffed a laugh, rolled his eyes, and stuck his nose in the glass. Notes of chocolate-covered strawberries punched him in the face, joined by more subtle scents: fresh-roasted coffee, allspice, sagebrush. He swirled again, keeping the tasting grid in his mind, as he took his first sip.
The wine danced across his tongue and sang on his palate, a soft, sensuous mouthfeel he’d come to associate with Rhône blends, especially ones from the New World. This deep and dark, it had to be Paso Robles. Medium-plus acidity, yes, and high tannins, but they were nice and ripe. And the finish? Whew. Fuck him.
He took one more luxurious sip, as blackberry and licorice overwhelmed him. He closed his eyes and sighed.
“Saxum. James Berry Vineyard. Twenty…”
He caught Kyra’s face. She was smiling, but she looked like she’d sucked on a lemon drop, too.
“Fifteen.”
“Damn, I thought I had you that time.”
David laughed as she started pouring more glasses. “Maybe next time. Come on, gather round.”
One of David’s duties as Aspire’s wine director was educating the team—everyone from dishwashers to chefs to front of house. Every day, someone picked a bottle from the cellar, which he tasted blind to help him practice for his upcoming master sommelier test. After they tried (and failed) to stump him, everyone tasted a small pour of the wine, while David talked about it: who made it, what grapes were used, where they were grown, what foods it might pair nicely with.
He studied Kyra’s face as she puckered her lips. “It’s got a lot of tannins,” she said.
“Juicy,” David agreed.
“I could see this with a roasted duck,” Brayan, their chef, said. He had cool beige skin, curly brown hair, intense dark brown eyes, and the sort of dimples that let straight guys get away with anything. Not that David could picture Brayan actually doing anything rotten—the guy was soft-spoken and kind. He kept trying to get David to hang out after work, but David had precious little time for socializing with his test looming.
It was set for December: just under three months away. David had spent pretty much every day studying for it ever since he passed his advanced somm last year. Well, every day that hadn’t been given over to moving from Chicago back home to Kansas City when Jeri, Aspire’s owner, had asked him to come on board as wine director.
It didn’t hurt that it meant he’d be closer to his mom and dad. And he wasn’t going to miss the Chicago winters, though the snowstorm that had blown through in late February, right as he was packing, had felt fucking vindictive. He wasn’t sure if it was a “please don’t leave” storm or a “good riddance” storm, but either way, he was happy to be gone.
It wasn’t like he had many friends left in Chicago, either. Sure, he had people he sometimes hung out with, people it would be fun to grab a drink with after work, but ever since he started studying for his sommelier certifications, he hadn’t had that much time for hanging out. There were only a couple people he’d legitimately miss, but that’s what FaceTime was for.
And he certainly wasn’t going to miss any guys back in Chicago. The Grindr pool had been feeling shallower and shallower the last few years as he inched closer to forty and had less and less time and patience for bullshit.
Granted, guys might’ve been just as bad at home, but David hadn’t actually logged in since he moved back. He’d been too busy helping get Aspire off the ground, or studying, or spending time with his mom to make up for fifteen years of only being home at Christmas.
“All right, team,” he said, as everyone finished their tastes. “Any final questions?”
Kyra raised her hand. David pressed his lips together.
“Kyra?”
“You sure you’re not part mass spectrometer?”
David rolled his eyes. “All right. Back to work. Doors in one hour.”
While the rest of the team finished their final checks before opening, David gave the wineglasses dangling above the bar one last polish. This was his favorite time: the calm before the storm.
Nah, that was bullshit. His favorite was being in the thick of things, on a Saturday rush, having to pick five wines for three different tables and seven different mains. He loved the magic of wine. He loved the challenge.
That part of him hadn’t changed, at least, since switching careers. He hadn’t gotten his bachelor’s in econ in three years—or his master’s in business analytics in eighteen months—by shying away from a challenge. Nor would he be putting himself through the grueling master somm test if he didn’t think he was up to it.
“How we doing?” Kyra asked, sidling up to him and grabbing another polishing cloth.
“Good,” David said. “Same old, same old.”
Kyra laughed, a high, tinkly sound. “You got anything going on tonight? There’s a new bar that opened in the West Bottoms. A couple of us were thinking of checking it out.”
“I’m good,” David said as politely as he could. Kyra asked him to go out with the crew nearly every night—it was sweet of her, if a little exhausting—but he had a stack of note cards waiting for him at home. “Thanks, though.”
Kyra pursed her lips. “Okay, fine. What about this weekend? There’s this guy at my gym…”
David held up a hand. “Kyra. I’m not—”
“Just hear me out.” David suppressed an eye roll. He’d learned over the last five months that there was no stopping Kyra. This was attempted set-up number eight, and it was going to go just like all the others (with a firm “no thank you”), but he had to let her get it out of her system.
“His name’s Anthony. He’s only a few years younger than you, he’s gay, he’s handsome, and he’s got a better ass than me.”
David narrowed his eyes. “How old is ‘a few years younger’?”
“Twenty-eight.”
David sighed. That was nine years younger. Just because he’d started getting some salt in his stubbly goatee, that didn’t mean he was ready to be an “older man.”
“I’m good—”
“And don’t worry, he’s Black too.”
David sighed. That was a point in his favor—if he had to hook up with one more guy who went on and on about how he’d “never been with a Black guy before…”
“Ah, I can tell you’re thinking about it,” Kyra said. “You need some dick to help you deal with all this stress.”
“Okay, first off, you can’t say that kind of thing at work.”
Kyra rolled her eyes. Somehow, though they’d only met when David started at Aspire, she acted like they were old friends.
“Second…” This Anthony didn’t sound… awful. David could almost picture him, imagine inviting him back to David’s place to chill. He’d finished furnishing his new house—he’d spent too long in a cramped Chicago apartment to not want to indulge a little bit in having a house again—and the new couch was cozy. They could curl up, watch a movie…
“You’re thinking about it?” Kyra asked.
David shook his head. He needed to be thinking about the stacks of note cards and piles of books and cases of wine blocking the TV.
“Second.” David cleared his throat. “I don’t have time to be dating right now. And for the record, I can get dick on my own just fine.”
“First, I didn’t say date him. Just meet him.” Kyra’s eyes sparkled. “And second,” she said, sticking her nose in the air, “you can’t say that kind of thing at work.” With that, she spun around and headed back toward the kitchen.
David snorted. Outmaneuvered again.
Still, that didn’t change things. Yes, he’d been in a drought since he moved back home, and yes, he could use some good dick. But his test had to come first. Once he got his master somm, he could get a job anywhere: San Francisco. New York. Austin. Seattle.
All places with way better dick than Kansas City, Missouri. He’d grown up here. He knew the score.
Aspire was great, but it wasn’t permanent. He promised Jeri he’d help get it off the ground while he finished out his master somm, but that was it. This was a temporary thing, not a permanent move. He had big dreams, and he was so fucking close. No way was he going to get entangled right now.
Besides. He had two hands and a nightstand full of toys.
He would be just fine on his own.
Farzan was running late.
At least, later than he’d meant to. It wasn’t like he had a date. Or even a reservation. But cleaning up the kitchen had taken longer than he’d planned. He’d been overcome by the urge to scrub down the stovetop, imagining Cliff’s face in the black metal as he worked. And then he still had to shower, plus the streetcar was running behind because some bozo had parked over the line and they had to wait for said bozo to move his car. It was either that or get towed, and despite the screaming, the guy clearly didn’t want to get towed.
So it was past six when he finally pulled up at the Kauffman Center stop. Early evening light was streaming down 16th Street; uphill, the light caught the edges of the Kauffman Center’s two silver humps, turning them golden. But Farzan was headed the opposite way, toward Walnut.
Aspire had a tiny parking lot (already full), and Farzan was relieved he’d taken the streetcar, because he was shit at parallel parking, especially if there were witnesses. If no one was watching him, he could do it—most of the time. But like Schrödinger’s cat, as soon as someone observed him, his parking skills were dead.
A small patio took up half the sidewalk outside Aspire, dotted with two- and four-seat tables, hemmed in by a black metal fence and a few ginkgo trees with their leaves already fading toward yellow. The tables were full, though—no surprise—so Farzan stepped inside to see if he could get a seat at the bar.
Farzan had been to a lot of restaurants all around Kansas City—some amazing, some awful, and plenty mediocre. Aspire’s vibe was immaculate. Warm, cozy lights shone on the gray tile floor; abstract paintings by local artists dotted dark wood walls; a long mahogany-topped bar was laden with black rubber mats and cocktail fixings; and right above the host stand a kitschy chandelier made of empty wine bottles cast a greenish glow all around.
The restaurant was packed. Even the bar was crowded, but Farzan thought he saw a free stool. Fingers crossed, he approached the host stand.
“Hi!” The host was a lovely Black woman with box braids. Her pinstriped vest had a little pin that said SHE/HER on the lapel. “Do you have a reservation?”
“No, sorry,” Farzan said. “You have room for one?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “We’ve got a spot at the bar, if you want to wait until a table opens up.”
“Sure. That’ll be fine.”
“Can I get a name?” She tapped at the iPad on her stand.
“Farzan Alavi. He/him.”
“Sorry?” A group of four suit-clad lawyer-looking bros at one of the tables had just started arguing about last Sunday’s Chiefs game.
“Far—” he tried again, but another one of the bros shouted, “No fuckin’ way!” at the top of his lungs. Farzan sighed.
“Frank,” he shouted. “Frank Allen. He/him.” It was his default White Person Name.
“Great.” She tapped away again. “I’m Kyra, by the way. Shout if you need anything.”
“Thanks, Kyra.”
She gestured toward the open seat at the bar, and Farzan hopped onto the high-top stool, though he could already tell it wouldn’t be long before his ass fell asleep. He wasn’t in his twenties anymore. Despite never missing leg (and glutes) day at the gym, his ass was no longer made for sitting on barstools. Hopefully a table would open up soon.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked. She was a short, sepia-skinned woman (she too wore a SHE/HER pin) with her long black hair in a ponytail.
“Ah, glass of rosé?” Farzan asked. “Something you’re excited about right now?”
“I got just the thing.” On the counter behind her stood two glass-fronted wine dispensers filled with their by-the-glass offerings, one white, one red; above that, a ledge with top-shelf whiskeys and gins and vodkas and tequilas. It was a lovely bar, though crowded. While the bartender poured his rosé, Farzan scanned the restaurant. It was hopping, servers coming and going, topping up wine or dropping off beautiful square bowls of french fries. Farzan’s mouth watered.
Wine and fries really was the ultimate heartbreak food.
Farzan raised his hand to try to flag down the bartender to put in an order (he could always take the bowl with him once he got a table, right?), but she still had her back turned, fiddling with the wine dispenser. And right next to her—
Farzan had to blink a few times, and then quickly duck his head before he got caught looking, because holy shit. In his panic, he’d gripped his water glass, smearing condensation all along his palms; he wiped them off on his jeans and risked another sly glance.
Ho. Ly. Shit.
Farzan had really liked Cliff. He’d been funny, a little self-deprecating, and really attractive: white, a bit taller than Farzan, with a dimple in his chin and one of those forehead veins that made a face interesting. He’d gone mostly gray, but the silvery kind that looked sexy.
But fuck Cliff. In fact, Farzan could barely remember why he’d found him hot in the first place.
Because the guy at the end of the bar had to be the most beautiful man Farzan had ever seen. Dark, cool black skin that glowed where the lights hit his cheekbones; the most stunning pair of midnight-brown eyes, big and perfectly shaped, beneath thick eyebrows, one of which had a sharp slit on the outer edge; his lips were framed by a nicely trimmed goatee, and his hair, black with a few grays, was in short twists. And his suit: blue with lilac plaid, impeccably tailored to show off his lovely shoulders. Farzan tried to get a better look—a suit like that had to show off the guy’s ass . . .
It was his own fault: he knew better than to let his knives get this dull, but he’d taken a job substitute teaching every day the last two weeks and hadn’t made it out to the knife shop he liked.
Plus, this onion was aggressively potent. He’d started tearing up as he peeled the skin, even before he made the first cut. At least he didn’t have to dice it. All he needed were some long strips.
Farzan wiped his eyes with the crook of his elbow, darkening the soft gray cotton of his Henley. He’d have to change before Cliff got here, but first he had to get the salmon marinating, plus wash the rice and get it soaking. This was going to be Cliff’s introduction to Persian food, and everything had to be perfect.
He hummed along to Hikaru Utada—video game music was his go-to kitchen playlist—as he dropped the slices of onion into a wide dish. He added a good glug of olive oil, salt, and white pepper, then moved to his mortar and pestle for the saffron, red threads releasing their heavenly fragrance into the air as he ground them to a fine powder.
His mother insisted—as did many Iranians—that saffron was an aphrodisiac. Farzan certainly hoped it was true. This was his third date with Cliff, the make-or-break point. The first two dates—one at a coffee shop, the other a walk around Loose Park—had been pretty close to perfect. Cliff was fun, and interesting, and they’d had a good connection: laughing at each other’s jokes, bumping elbows as they walked, sharing little smiles. The kiss they’d shared pressed up against the side of Cliff’s Toyota had been full of promise, the kind of promise that set Farzan’s stomach dancing.
Persian food and chill was the perfect third date. At least, Farzan hoped it was. Cliff had seemed happy with the suggestion, but there was always the worry that Cliff was just agreeing to spare Farzan’s feelings. Sometimes dating was exhausting.
But Farzan was confident in his cooking. He’d waffled on whether to serve fish, given what he hoped might happen after, but taste had won out: saffron-marinated salmon, served over zereshk polow—basmati rice mixed with barberries, tart little rubies—was one of Farzan’s specialties.
It was an unorthodox combination, one he argued about with his dad, Firouz, constantly. Firouz, like many Iranians, would’ve paired fish with baghali polow, fava bean rice, or at least sabzi polow, rice with lots of fresh herbs, especially dill. But Farzan loved the combination of sweet and sour, the lift it gave to the savory fish.
Farzan had learned everything he knew about cooking from his dad, who was in charge of the food at his parents’ restaurant in the Northland. They called it Shiraz Bistro, even though their family came from Yazd. But his parents had insisted Shiraz was more familiar to Americans, because of the wine.
Not that they served much Shiraz at the bistro: Persis, Farzan’s mom, was in charge of the books, and she kept tight reins on the booze budget. Farzan’s brother and sister had taken after Persis in the math skills department, but somehow Farzan had missed out: math had been his worst subject in school, and every time he got a call to substitute for a math teacher, he seriously considered driving his car into the Missouri River instead.
“Shit!” he hissed, after bumping his elbow against the hot kettle.
His kitchen was smaller than he would’ve preferred, with not nearly enough counter space, but otherwise he really liked his apartment in the River Market. It had easy access to the farmers market on the weekends, a streetcar stop down the block, and countless restaurants nearby. Best of all, it was still rent-controlled, despite the intense gentrification all around. He’d moved in right after finishing his master’s in education—fuck, that was more than a decade ago now—and he had no plans to move.
He grabbed the kettle to pour boiling water over the saffron; the red powder blossomed into liquid gold. He swirled it in his mortar before adding it to the marinade. But as he ducked into the fridge to pull out the salmon, his music suddenly cut out, and his phone started buzzing. He jolted upright, banging his head against the handle to the freezer door.
“Fuck,” he groaned as he pulled out his phone, blinking at Cliff’s photo on the screen.
Holy shit. Cliff was calling him.
Making the transition from texts to phone calls was a huge step, right? Maybe even bigger than Persian food and chill. His throat clamped for a second; his heart gave a happy flutter.
Farzan was definitely getting laid tonight.
He grinned, even though Cliff couldn’t see him, as he answered. “Hey. I was just thinking about you.”
“Hi. I catch you at a bad time?” Cliff had a mellow, throaty voice, not to mention nice lips framed by his well-manicured beard.
Farzan held the phone in the crook of his neck as he pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves. He always used them for this part; otherwise his hands would be stained yellow for days, and that was definitely not sexy. “No, I’m just getting dinner going. Can’t wait to see you tonight.”
“Oh.” Cliff cleared his throat and went quiet for a moment. Then: “Did you get my texts?”
“No, sorry. I’ve been cooking. Everything all right? Oh shit, you don’t have a fish allergy, do you?” Farzan mentally kicked himself. He should’ve checked before going to the grocery store. He should’ve—
“Nothing like that.” Cliff’s voice softened, in that way someone’s did when they knew the listener wouldn’t like what they were about to say. Farzan’s shoulders hitched up. “Listen. I’ve been… Well, I don’t think I can make it tonight.”
“Oh.” Farzan tried to keep his voice light, even though his sternum began to burn. “We could try tomorrow instead?”
But he was pretty sure he already knew where this was heading. His eyes began to prickle in the corners, and this time, not from onions.
Cliff cleared his throat again. “Listen. You’re a nice guy, but… I’m not really feeling it. You know? I don’t see this going anywhere. I didn’t want to lead you on.”
“Oh.”
Farzan stared at the bowl of marinade. How many inches of liquid did it take to drown yourself in?
“I get it,” he said. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“I was hoping to catch you before you started. I can Venmo you for the groceries—”
“It’s fine. Leftovers, right?” Farzan knew he sounded weird. His throat felt like it was closing up. Farzan didn’t have any allergies (unless you counted how cantaloupe always made his tongue burn), but maybe he was becoming allergic to constant rejection.
Repeated exposure made allergies worse, right?
“I… guess I’d better let you go then.”
“Yeah. Okay. Uh. Thanks, Farzan. Bye.”
“Bye.” But Cliff had already hung up.
Farzan jumped when Utada started singing again. He paused the song and sighed.
Thirty-seven years old and single again.
Thirty-seven years old, single, and about to drop a fifty-dollar salmon fillet on the floor.
“Goddamn it!” he spat. The salmon was a two-hand job.
He groaned and pulled it off the floor. A good rinse and it would be fine.
Farzan shook his head, blinking against the sting in his eyes. Did it count as a breakup if you were never officially together? It hurt like one. Not the sort of all-encompassing, black-hole-of-despair heartbreak he’d had with his last serious boyfriend, Jason (fucking Jason, he mentally amended), or even the jagged, knife-to-the-guts feeling of when he’d brought up being exclusive to Corey, who said he didn’t see why they had to change their casual relationship to something more (that’s what Farzan got for falling for a guy who only did casual) but still, this hurt enough.
What was it about him that drove men away?
Farzan knew he was fairly good-looking. His light russet skin was smooth and clear, thanks to a combination of good genes and good skin care. He had an elegant nose (if only a little largish—he was Persian after all). His thick, curly black hair wasn’t thinning—Alavi men didn’t usually go bald, though he had started finding salt in his pepper. Plenty of guys complimented his warm brown bedroom eyes.
Yeah, maybe he was headed toward a bit of a barrel chest, and yeah, he’d lost any trace of abs five years ago, but he was reasonably fit, even by the unrelenting standards of the gay community.
Farzan huffed. If it wasn’t his looks, it had to be something else, something inside him, and he couldn’t wait to hear his family’s latest theories about that next time they interrogated him about his dating life.
Meanwhile, his younger sister was happily married, and his baby brother was in a long-term relationship. Everyone in the family was already taking bets on when he’d propose.
How had Farzan wound up as the one with no love life?
He finished rinsing the salmon and patted it dry with a paper towel. At least Cliff had called before he’d started cooking the rice. He could save the marinade for tomorrow—it would actually taste better after sitting overnight anyway.
Farzan didn’t much feel like cooking anymore. Persian food was for sharing: for family gatherings, for date nights, for sitting together enjoying the warmth of a meal, lovingly prepared. It was not a food for breakups.
Thankfully (or lamentably), Farzan had a foolproof solution for heartbreak: get drunk on wine and eat a bunch of french fries. He’d perfected the pairing in his twenties, commiserating with his best friends, Ramin and Arya, over the men they were seeing, and fucking, and loving, and losing.
Farzan paused his music and pulled his phone back out to text them. The only thing better for a breakup than wine and fries was wine and fries with friends.
Farzan
Guess who got dumped
You guys free for wine and fries?
We could check out that new wine bar.
His friends answered in less than a minute.
Arya
WTF
Sorry dude
Ramin
Oh Farzan. I’m sorry.
Are you doing okay?
Farzan
I’m doing okay.
We’d only been on two dates anyway.
Arya
I’m working tonight
I totally would otherwise
You know mr
Ramin
Weren’t you going to cook for him?
Arya
Me*
HE WAS GETTING FARZAN FOOD???
Farzan
Yeah but whatever
Arya no worries. Ramin you free?
Ramin
Dinner with Todd tonight. Our one year anniversary.
Sorry.
Farzan
Don’t be! Have fun!
Is it already a year?
Fuck. How had Farzan missed that? And how come Ramin and Todd could make it a whole year, but he couldn’t even make it to two weeks?
Ramin
See you Thursday then?
Farzan
For sure.
Love you guys.
Ramin
Love you
Arya
Love you doostammmm
Farzan flopped back on the couch. Looked like he’d be flying solo tonight. In more ways than one.
He pulled up the website of the wine bar. Aspire had opened over the summer in a vacant spot on Walnut. He’d been meaning to try it out—with Arya and Ramin (and Todd), in fact—but reservations had been hard to come by, and then he’d been super busy with jobs, and Arya always had a slew of end-of-summer events to plan, and Ramin had gotten a promotion, and now it was nearly fall and they still hadn’t been.
But it was easier to get a table for one than for four.
Aspire didn’t open for another hour. Farzan knew he should be doing his dishes, but honestly, he was content to lie on the couch and stare at the ceiling. There would always be more dishes. Turns out that was what his thirties had been about: endless dishes, knees that crackled when he went for a run, and graying hair. He’d even found a gray strand this morning while he was grooming himself down below, just in case Persian food and chill became… really chill.
He sighed. He should’ve left his poor balls alone. After all, they’d been more reliable companions than any man he’d ever dated. They hadn’t dumped him after two dates, halfway through cooking for the third.
In the kitchen, his oven beeped that it had finished preheating for the salmon that it wouldn’t be seeing tonight.
“Shit!” Farzan sprang off the couch and ran to the kitchen.
Maybe he’d better clean up after all.
David stared at the wineglass in front of him. The wine was a deep purple, nearly maroon, dark and mysterious. He gave it a swirl and admired the legs. Full-bodied, certainly.
Behind him, Dannon muttered hopefully, “You think you’re going to stump him this time?”
Kyra scoffed. “Thirty bottles in, I’ve more or less given up on that.”
“Do you mind?” David asked without heat. “I’m trying to taste here.”
“So sorry.” Kyra gave him a quirked eyebrow and mocking bow. She was the assistant manager at Aspire, a charming Black woman in her early thirties who treated David like a cranky old man even though he was only thirty-seven. She actually reminded David of his mom, but there was no fucking way he’d ever tell Kyra that.
She had warm brown skin, immaculate box braids, and kind dark eyes that turned up in the corners. Her signature pinstriped vest was buttoned up; a gray tie, still loose, dipped into her large bosom.
David huffed a laugh, rolled his eyes, and stuck his nose in the glass. Notes of chocolate-covered strawberries punched him in the face, joined by more subtle scents: fresh-roasted coffee, allspice, sagebrush. He swirled again, keeping the tasting grid in his mind, as he took his first sip.
The wine danced across his tongue and sang on his palate, a soft, sensuous mouthfeel he’d come to associate with Rhône blends, especially ones from the New World. This deep and dark, it had to be Paso Robles. Medium-plus acidity, yes, and high tannins, but they were nice and ripe. And the finish? Whew. Fuck him.
He took one more luxurious sip, as blackberry and licorice overwhelmed him. He closed his eyes and sighed.
“Saxum. James Berry Vineyard. Twenty…”
He caught Kyra’s face. She was smiling, but she looked like she’d sucked on a lemon drop, too.
“Fifteen.”
“Damn, I thought I had you that time.”
David laughed as she started pouring more glasses. “Maybe next time. Come on, gather round.”
One of David’s duties as Aspire’s wine director was educating the team—everyone from dishwashers to chefs to front of house. Every day, someone picked a bottle from the cellar, which he tasted blind to help him practice for his upcoming master sommelier test. After they tried (and failed) to stump him, everyone tasted a small pour of the wine, while David talked about it: who made it, what grapes were used, where they were grown, what foods it might pair nicely with.
He studied Kyra’s face as she puckered her lips. “It’s got a lot of tannins,” she said.
“Juicy,” David agreed.
“I could see this with a roasted duck,” Brayan, their chef, said. He had cool beige skin, curly brown hair, intense dark brown eyes, and the sort of dimples that let straight guys get away with anything. Not that David could picture Brayan actually doing anything rotten—the guy was soft-spoken and kind. He kept trying to get David to hang out after work, but David had precious little time for socializing with his test looming.
It was set for December: just under three months away. David had spent pretty much every day studying for it ever since he passed his advanced somm last year. Well, every day that hadn’t been given over to moving from Chicago back home to Kansas City when Jeri, Aspire’s owner, had asked him to come on board as wine director.
It didn’t hurt that it meant he’d be closer to his mom and dad. And he wasn’t going to miss the Chicago winters, though the snowstorm that had blown through in late February, right as he was packing, had felt fucking vindictive. He wasn’t sure if it was a “please don’t leave” storm or a “good riddance” storm, but either way, he was happy to be gone.
It wasn’t like he had many friends left in Chicago, either. Sure, he had people he sometimes hung out with, people it would be fun to grab a drink with after work, but ever since he started studying for his sommelier certifications, he hadn’t had that much time for hanging out. There were only a couple people he’d legitimately miss, but that’s what FaceTime was for.
And he certainly wasn’t going to miss any guys back in Chicago. The Grindr pool had been feeling shallower and shallower the last few years as he inched closer to forty and had less and less time and patience for bullshit.
Granted, guys might’ve been just as bad at home, but David hadn’t actually logged in since he moved back. He’d been too busy helping get Aspire off the ground, or studying, or spending time with his mom to make up for fifteen years of only being home at Christmas.
“All right, team,” he said, as everyone finished their tastes. “Any final questions?”
Kyra raised her hand. David pressed his lips together.
“Kyra?”
“You sure you’re not part mass spectrometer?”
David rolled his eyes. “All right. Back to work. Doors in one hour.”
While the rest of the team finished their final checks before opening, David gave the wineglasses dangling above the bar one last polish. This was his favorite time: the calm before the storm.
Nah, that was bullshit. His favorite was being in the thick of things, on a Saturday rush, having to pick five wines for three different tables and seven different mains. He loved the magic of wine. He loved the challenge.
That part of him hadn’t changed, at least, since switching careers. He hadn’t gotten his bachelor’s in econ in three years—or his master’s in business analytics in eighteen months—by shying away from a challenge. Nor would he be putting himself through the grueling master somm test if he didn’t think he was up to it.
“How we doing?” Kyra asked, sidling up to him and grabbing another polishing cloth.
“Good,” David said. “Same old, same old.”
Kyra laughed, a high, tinkly sound. “You got anything going on tonight? There’s a new bar that opened in the West Bottoms. A couple of us were thinking of checking it out.”
“I’m good,” David said as politely as he could. Kyra asked him to go out with the crew nearly every night—it was sweet of her, if a little exhausting—but he had a stack of note cards waiting for him at home. “Thanks, though.”
Kyra pursed her lips. “Okay, fine. What about this weekend? There’s this guy at my gym…”
David held up a hand. “Kyra. I’m not—”
“Just hear me out.” David suppressed an eye roll. He’d learned over the last five months that there was no stopping Kyra. This was attempted set-up number eight, and it was going to go just like all the others (with a firm “no thank you”), but he had to let her get it out of her system.
“His name’s Anthony. He’s only a few years younger than you, he’s gay, he’s handsome, and he’s got a better ass than me.”
David narrowed his eyes. “How old is ‘a few years younger’?”
“Twenty-eight.”
David sighed. That was nine years younger. Just because he’d started getting some salt in his stubbly goatee, that didn’t mean he was ready to be an “older man.”
“I’m good—”
“And don’t worry, he’s Black too.”
David sighed. That was a point in his favor—if he had to hook up with one more guy who went on and on about how he’d “never been with a Black guy before…”
“Ah, I can tell you’re thinking about it,” Kyra said. “You need some dick to help you deal with all this stress.”
“Okay, first off, you can’t say that kind of thing at work.”
Kyra rolled her eyes. Somehow, though they’d only met when David started at Aspire, she acted like they were old friends.
“Second…” This Anthony didn’t sound… awful. David could almost picture him, imagine inviting him back to David’s place to chill. He’d finished furnishing his new house—he’d spent too long in a cramped Chicago apartment to not want to indulge a little bit in having a house again—and the new couch was cozy. They could curl up, watch a movie…
“You’re thinking about it?” Kyra asked.
David shook his head. He needed to be thinking about the stacks of note cards and piles of books and cases of wine blocking the TV.
“Second.” David cleared his throat. “I don’t have time to be dating right now. And for the record, I can get dick on my own just fine.”
“First, I didn’t say date him. Just meet him.” Kyra’s eyes sparkled. “And second,” she said, sticking her nose in the air, “you can’t say that kind of thing at work.” With that, she spun around and headed back toward the kitchen.
David snorted. Outmaneuvered again.
Still, that didn’t change things. Yes, he’d been in a drought since he moved back home, and yes, he could use some good dick. But his test had to come first. Once he got his master somm, he could get a job anywhere: San Francisco. New York. Austin. Seattle.
All places with way better dick than Kansas City, Missouri. He’d grown up here. He knew the score.
Aspire was great, but it wasn’t permanent. He promised Jeri he’d help get it off the ground while he finished out his master somm, but that was it. This was a temporary thing, not a permanent move. He had big dreams, and he was so fucking close. No way was he going to get entangled right now.
Besides. He had two hands and a nightstand full of toys.
He would be just fine on his own.
Farzan was running late.
At least, later than he’d meant to. It wasn’t like he had a date. Or even a reservation. But cleaning up the kitchen had taken longer than he’d planned. He’d been overcome by the urge to scrub down the stovetop, imagining Cliff’s face in the black metal as he worked. And then he still had to shower, plus the streetcar was running behind because some bozo had parked over the line and they had to wait for said bozo to move his car. It was either that or get towed, and despite the screaming, the guy clearly didn’t want to get towed.
So it was past six when he finally pulled up at the Kauffman Center stop. Early evening light was streaming down 16th Street; uphill, the light caught the edges of the Kauffman Center’s two silver humps, turning them golden. But Farzan was headed the opposite way, toward Walnut.
Aspire had a tiny parking lot (already full), and Farzan was relieved he’d taken the streetcar, because he was shit at parallel parking, especially if there were witnesses. If no one was watching him, he could do it—most of the time. But like Schrödinger’s cat, as soon as someone observed him, his parking skills were dead.
A small patio took up half the sidewalk outside Aspire, dotted with two- and four-seat tables, hemmed in by a black metal fence and a few ginkgo trees with their leaves already fading toward yellow. The tables were full, though—no surprise—so Farzan stepped inside to see if he could get a seat at the bar.
Farzan had been to a lot of restaurants all around Kansas City—some amazing, some awful, and plenty mediocre. Aspire’s vibe was immaculate. Warm, cozy lights shone on the gray tile floor; abstract paintings by local artists dotted dark wood walls; a long mahogany-topped bar was laden with black rubber mats and cocktail fixings; and right above the host stand a kitschy chandelier made of empty wine bottles cast a greenish glow all around.
The restaurant was packed. Even the bar was crowded, but Farzan thought he saw a free stool. Fingers crossed, he approached the host stand.
“Hi!” The host was a lovely Black woman with box braids. Her pinstriped vest had a little pin that said SHE/HER on the lapel. “Do you have a reservation?”
“No, sorry,” Farzan said. “You have room for one?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “We’ve got a spot at the bar, if you want to wait until a table opens up.”
“Sure. That’ll be fine.”
“Can I get a name?” She tapped at the iPad on her stand.
“Farzan Alavi. He/him.”
“Sorry?” A group of four suit-clad lawyer-looking bros at one of the tables had just started arguing about last Sunday’s Chiefs game.
“Far—” he tried again, but another one of the bros shouted, “No fuckin’ way!” at the top of his lungs. Farzan sighed.
“Frank,” he shouted. “Frank Allen. He/him.” It was his default White Person Name.
“Great.” She tapped away again. “I’m Kyra, by the way. Shout if you need anything.”
“Thanks, Kyra.”
She gestured toward the open seat at the bar, and Farzan hopped onto the high-top stool, though he could already tell it wouldn’t be long before his ass fell asleep. He wasn’t in his twenties anymore. Despite never missing leg (and glutes) day at the gym, his ass was no longer made for sitting on barstools. Hopefully a table would open up soon.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked. She was a short, sepia-skinned woman (she too wore a SHE/HER pin) with her long black hair in a ponytail.
“Ah, glass of rosé?” Farzan asked. “Something you’re excited about right now?”
“I got just the thing.” On the counter behind her stood two glass-fronted wine dispensers filled with their by-the-glass offerings, one white, one red; above that, a ledge with top-shelf whiskeys and gins and vodkas and tequilas. It was a lovely bar, though crowded. While the bartender poured his rosé, Farzan scanned the restaurant. It was hopping, servers coming and going, topping up wine or dropping off beautiful square bowls of french fries. Farzan’s mouth watered.
Wine and fries really was the ultimate heartbreak food.
Farzan raised his hand to try to flag down the bartender to put in an order (he could always take the bowl with him once he got a table, right?), but she still had her back turned, fiddling with the wine dispenser. And right next to her—
Farzan had to blink a few times, and then quickly duck his head before he got caught looking, because holy shit. In his panic, he’d gripped his water glass, smearing condensation all along his palms; he wiped them off on his jeans and risked another sly glance.
Ho. Ly. Shit.
Farzan had really liked Cliff. He’d been funny, a little self-deprecating, and really attractive: white, a bit taller than Farzan, with a dimple in his chin and one of those forehead veins that made a face interesting. He’d gone mostly gray, but the silvery kind that looked sexy.
But fuck Cliff. In fact, Farzan could barely remember why he’d found him hot in the first place.
Because the guy at the end of the bar had to be the most beautiful man Farzan had ever seen. Dark, cool black skin that glowed where the lights hit his cheekbones; the most stunning pair of midnight-brown eyes, big and perfectly shaped, beneath thick eyebrows, one of which had a sharp slit on the outer edge; his lips were framed by a nicely trimmed goatee, and his hair, black with a few grays, was in short twists. And his suit: blue with lilac plaid, impeccably tailored to show off his lovely shoulders. Farzan tried to get a better look—a suit like that had to show off the guy’s ass . . .
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I'll Have What He's Having
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