Mimicking a half-hearted shrug I say, “You know I don’t back away from dares.”
“You will when I kick your ass.”
“In that dress?” I smirk. “Honey, you can’t even move.”
It takes us less than a second to break out in a laugh before I extend a hand. “Take it, my dearqueen. Before you fall and embarrass yourself in front of my colleagues.”
She grabs it and shakes her head at my fake British accent. “You don’t even work here.”
The comment digs into my rib. I don’t know why, but it does. I’ve heard it too often, repeated it every day, but it’s never bothered me before.
“Nova, you made it!” An older woman passes the four musicians playing live music and all but runs over to me. Sunny moves to the side when Mrs. Vuk bombards me with a hug.
She’s a short Iranian woman with a chiffon scarf draped over her head. Pale skin, grey eyes, and a soft smile. She reminds me of fluffy pillows and fresh laundry. Azar’s her only son that seemed to catch onto some of her genes. Both of them have the same vibe to them. Fun, loving, andloud.
“Let me look at you,arus.” Her thick Persian accent has subsided over the year I’ve befriended her, but I’m learning that she doesn’t care whether she succeeds at perfecting English or remains whollyherself.
Still not sure what arus means. But Azar laughs whenever she says it. Either it’s really sweet or she hates me.
Mrs. Vuk feels like what my mother should have been like.
She pulls me at arm’s length to eye me up and down. The deep red halter dress stops right at my calves. It’s made from the softest silky material and feels like second skin. The neckline is deep enough to bring attention to myself but remains appropriate for the event. The thick straps holding my dress up tie back in a delicate bow around my neck, which was the only indication for putting my hair in an updo.
I put effort into today and by the glow in her eyes, I succeeded.
“Farshteh ziba,” she pats my cheek. “You can be wearing a shorts and you still shine.”
“It’s youcouldbe wearing shorts and you’d still shine,madar jan.” Azar walks up to Mrs. Vuk and hugs her from behind. He’s wearing an all-white tuxedo, but instead of his usual gelled back style that he has to do for work, his hair is ruffled. Girls are ogling him. That says enough about how good he looks.
The woman’s head dwarfs between her son’s huge arms. “I thought you were working on your English.”
“Pasar ahmagh, get away.” She smacks Azar’s arm, and he laughs while letting her go.
“I amnotstupid.”
“He is,” she looks at me but refers to her son. “No words.”
I laugh at that. Whenever Sunny and I go to Azar’s place for our monthly K-Drama Watchathon’s, Mrs. Vuk is there. Albeit she lives with Azar, but hers and his relationship ends up being more entertaining than the shows themselves.
She says something in Persian to Azar before pressing a kiss to my cheek and walking away.
“Your mother is the woman I want to be when I grow up,” Sunny starts. She snatches herself a lemonade from one of the waiters and turns to us with a hair stuck to her lips. She struggles to blow it away. “Fuck, man. Can’t a girl just live?”
I chuckle but make quick work on pulling the hair off of her lip.
“You dragged the devil to this party and expect her to be normal? Since when has that ever worked?”
“Since I dragged your ass out of the porta potty,” Sunny raises an unimpressed brow at Azar.
The two have been bickering since the first minute they met. At first, I sensed some chemistry. But after a day, there was no chemistry. Just two idiots being idiots together.Siblinghood, in other words.
“It was once,” he groans. “I told you it was because that girl thought I was robbing her of her Jimin photocard.”
“You did rob her,” I noted.
“That’s not the point, Nova.” He leans his head back with a groan. “She was a little bitch.”
“She was nine.”
