I had to lean against the wall to catch my breath, steady my head. My heart was pounding dangerously in my chest and I closed my eyes, gave myself two more seconds to pull myself together before I headed for the door, glancing in the mirror as I went.

I froze.

Horror, horror at the state of my face, my appearance in general. I was flushed beyond reason, my eyes dilated with pleasure. Desire.

I was losing control. Losing my head.

I was certain now that I was probably going straight to hell for a myriad of reasons, not the least of which was my virulent desire for my father’s death, and now this—this—

I spun around, took it all in.

Zahra’s bedroom. I’d kissed Ali in her own bedroom. Any ancient sense of honor I’d once had compelled me now to recoil with shame. I was not proud of myself. I hadn’t meant for any of this to happen. This, here, today, just now—I’d crossed a line, turned my back on the ghost of my best friend. Even after all this time, after all her cruelty, I felt punctured by sorrow. I’d wanted so much more for us.

But then—even as I felt the cold lash of guilt cool my feverish skin, I grew tired. Tired of this feeling, tired of owing Zahra a tithe of my happiness. My guilt was tempered by a realization, an awareness that nothing I’d ever done had been enough for her. I knew that for certain now. So many times I felt like I’d been strapped to the tracks of our friendship, Zahra the train that repeatedly ran me over, only to later complain that my body had broken her axles.

I was tired of it.

I’d been ashamed of myself for a number of things lately, but Zahra’s unfair judgments were no longer among them. I would never again let her hold my feelings hostage. I would never again let her dictate the terms of my life.

Another sharp knock at the door and I startled.

Steadied.

It was time, I realized, to close the book of our friendship.

Twenty

I nearly gasped when I saw her face.

I looked into her eyes—Zahra’s mom’s eyes—and my heart steadied on its own, my fears disappeared, my face blossomed into a familiar smile. I’d missed her, missed her face. A sudden, cold pain pierced through me.

Fereshteh khanoom, I called her.

Khanoom meant lady; it was an affectionate term, respectful. But her name, Fereshteh, meant angel.

“Bidari, khoshgelam?” She smiled. Are you awake, my beauty?

She opened her arms to me and I stepped into her hug, held on. She smelled the same, the way she always did, like rose water.

I pulled back, feeling suddenly young.

“Chetori?” she said. How are you? “Khoob khabeedi?” Did you sleep well?

“Thank you, yes,” I said quietly. “Thank you for everything.”

She beamed. “Asslan harfesham nazan,” she said, dismissing my statement with a flutter of her fingers.

She was still wearing her hijab, and seemed to realize it as she spoke. In a single motion she slipped it off her head, explained with a laugh that she’d gotten home from work not long ago, had forgotten to take it off. She’d gotten home late, I realized. She’d probably stayed later than usual at the office, no doubt to make up for the time she’d lost in the middle of the day.

My smile felt suddenly weak.

“Bea bereem paeen,” she said, not missing a beat. “Ghaza hazereh.” Let’s go downstairs. Food is ready.

“Oh, no,” I said, panicked. “I can’t— I should get home.”

She laughed at me. Laughed and took me by the arm and literally dragged me down the stairs. My heart was pounding, my fear spiking.

“Please, Fereshteh khanoom. Lotf dareen, shoma.” You are very kind. In Farsi, I said, “But I swear to God I’m not just trying to be polite. You’ve embarrassed me with your kindness.”

I was laying it on thick with some old-school, effusive statements, but I did it on purpose. Iranian parents always seemed delighted when I talked like that, when I made the effort to be formal and polite. They found my incompetent Farsi oddly charming, especially with my American accent.

And just then, I did not disappoint.

Fereshteh khanoom lit up like a Christmas tree, her eyes glittering as we stepped off the stairs and into the dining room. She turned to face me, pinched my cheek. “Vay, cheghad dokhtareh nazi hasteetoh.” My, what a sweet, darling girl you are.

Never mind, it had backfired.

“Dariush,” she said, calling for her husband. “Bodo biyah. Shadi bidareh.” Come quickly. Shadi is awake.

Agha—Mister—Dariush, as I called him, hurried into the living room, smiling and saying hello with a level of fanfare and enthusiasm that left me painfully embarrassed. I felt flush with joy and horror, unsure what to do with myself. Their kindness was too much, an overcorrection, but I actually believed them when they said they’d missed me. I felt it like a dart to the heart.

“Thank you. Thank you. But I should go,” I tried again. “Please, really, I’m so grateful, thank you—I’m so sorry for troubling you—but I really, truly—”

“Khob, ghaza bokhoreem?” Zahra’s dad cut me off with a wink and a smile, clapped his hands together. So, should we eat?

My heart sank.

He frowned, looked around. “Fereshteh,” he said, “Ali kojast?” Where’s Ali?

Fereshteh khanoom was standing in the kitchen, pulling plates out of a cupboard. She didn’t even look up when she started shouting his name. “Ali,” she bellowed. Then, in Farsi: “The food is getting cold!”

“Fereshteh khanoom,” I said, trying, one last time, to exit stage left without insulting them. It was the height of cruelty to refuse them the chance to feed me—practically a sin—and I knew it. They knew it. And they weren’t letting me off the hook. “Please,” I said. “You’ve already done so much. I’m so grateful. Mozahemetoon nemikham besham.” I don’t want to be a burden.

“Boro beshin, azizam,” she said, shoving a plate in my hands. Go sit down, my love. “I already called your mother. I told her you’d be having dinner here tonight.”

A violent fear briefly paralyzed me.

She’d called my mother. Of course she’d called my mother.

My smile slipped and Fereshteh khanoom caught it, point oh five seconds of weakness and she caught it, her eyes narrowing at my face.

“I didn’t tell her what happened,” she said quietly, still speaking in Farsi. “But before the end of this night, you are going to tell me. Do you understand?”

My chest was heaving. I felt suddenly faint.

“Shadi. Look at me.”

I met her eyes. She must’ve seen something in my face then, because the hard edge to her expression melted away. She set the stack of plates on the table. Took my hands in hers.

“Don’t be afraid,” she whispered. “It’s going to be okay.”

Heat, heat, rising up my chest, pushing against my throat, singeing my eyes.

I said nothing.

Fereshteh khanoom was still holding my hands when she suddenly turned her head toward the stairs. “Ali,” she shouted. “For the love of your mother, come downstairs! Your food has frozen solid.”

So, too, had my limbs.