Overdue i love yous, p.4
Overdue I Love You's, page 4
“Sunny,” I say but she turns around and glares.
The girl smiles, inhumanely. Gosh, someone send her to a hospital. Or a science lab. “I am, yes.”
“It’ll be fifteen dollars,” Sunny speaks professionally.
The girl hands her three five dollar bills, sticks her tongue out at me, then walks away.
“I wasn’t going to sell the book,” I slump on a chair. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”
Sunny watches me with an indecipherable look, then sighs. “Nova, you’ve never read the book. It still has new stickers on it.”
“At least it didn’t have book lice,” I grumble.
“This is the twentieth customer you did this to today, do you want to sell your books or not?”
I’m grateful for Sunny always keeping it real with me. She took a day off from work to help me out today and I shouldn’t be rude, but I can’t help myself when she’s like this. No one understands books the way I do. You don’t need to read words to feel connected to them. Their presence, the familiarity of soft covers and hard covers are all I need to survive. They’re built, crafted, each page meticulously morphed together. Yes, reading gives me an annoying migraine but the senses of reading are all there as I flip pages.
Pretending I can read is reading too.
The world loves hurting imagination.
“I can’t sell them, Sunny.” The ones I’ve parted with are gone, but no more. “They mean too much to me.”
“This is why I said you couldn’t do this,” she takes the seat next to me. Her hand squeezing my thigh. “You have an attachment to them, which is fine. It’s just that I know you won’t be able to make up the money you need from this book sale. Maybe instead I can put up posters for a floral workshop? I’ve seen people interested in it.”
“I posted it on my social media a while ago,” I respond. “Three people have signed up so far.”
“That’s great!” Sunny exclaims with fake optimism. She is not about positivity at all. “They can post it on their social media and maybe you’ll blow up.”
Giving her a deadpan look, “They’re all over sixty.”
“It’s better than having no customers, Nova.”
I shrug a careless shoulder, “I guess. Should we tidy up?”
The piles of books stare at me from their set up. After five hours into the sale and selling twenty books, I lost each battle.
Guess this is my sign to find a part-time job. Which will be hard since Ontario’s job market is actual crap. There was a time when Tim Hortons hired people despite their lack of experience, now even people with a Bachelor’s degree can’t get a job there.
Thanks a lot, Ms. Cartwright. You had to sue me just when the economy hates us.
I go inside to pack up the other large number of books we carried from the apartment, while Sunny goes to the bathroom.
I’m placing books in boxes when I see the leggy brunette standing in front of the book stall. She looks out of place. Not in a bad way, but in a too-good-of-a-way. Thick, expensive sunglasses cover her eyes. Her dark brown hair swishes in the humid day. Fresh nails skimming over the books.
“Hey,” the bell above the door jingles when I open it. “We’re no longer selling books. I’m sorry.”
She slowly lifts her head to look at me and I’m blinded.
“You’re Nova, right?” Her smile relishes in the sun, beaming at me wide and bright. She takes her sunglasses off and struts towards me with an extended hand. “I’m Irene Dolores.”
Where have I heard that name before?
Tentatively, I take her hand. She doesn’t look like a scammer, I don’t think. “Do I know you?”
She laughs and it sounds rich. Like caramel or a bag of a thousand dollars in cash. “Maybe. I’m the producer of Love? Check! the dating show. You may have heard of it.”
Oh. My. Gosh.
Of course, I’ve heard of it. That show has been my guilty pleasure for the past two summers. Every year, a group of six to ten people go somewhere in the world and get to check off each other’s bucket list. It’s usually paired off as a date and the couple with the most global votes wins the show. Last year, Liana and Malachi won $300,000 USD. It’s been a year and they haven’t broken up, which makes me believe that some form of love exists for people that look for it.
“From the look on your face, you’ve heard of it.” Irene Dolores is standing in front of me. The woman who made all of this happen. Not only that, but her father—Tristan is a global billionaire. He set up multiple television companies, has his own app, and goes around the world to open charities to help people. He’s an entrepreneurial God.
And this is his daughter. Without his help, she managed to start her own television company with Love? Check! and many other reality shows that have hit records all over the world. She has fifty million followers on Headshot and she’s on Forpes’ 40 under 40.
“I’m having a hard time believing you’re here right now.”
It didn’t rain much, but the sun peeks through the dark clouds. Illuminating light on the gloomy street.
“I wish I stumbled upon your book sale without hidden intentions.” Not letting go of my hand, she takes us to the table. “Season 3 of Love? Check! is under production right now and we’re currently looking for two more contestants to join. I stumbled upon your Headshot page a week ago and I feel like you’re the perfect candidate. Sophisticated and beautiful.”
I blink a couple of times. There’s no way she’s asking me to be a part of a dating show, is she?
I fought with a fifteen-year-old less than twenty minutes ago.
“As exciting as this opportunity is…”
“Don’t say no,” she’s quick to add. “Season one won $100,000, season two won $300,000, and this year it’s half-a-million.”
My brain stems stop purposefully making my cells trip. I’m listening. Fully intent, aware, and in my sense. I hate being the type of person convinced by money, but goodness? Did you hear that amount? That can solve all my problems.
“What gave my problem away?” I ask her. Because there’s no way she thought of money to convince me like that.
Her eyes glance at the books. “Lucky guess? Are you a florist?” She looks at the shop, a smile on her lips. Dammit, everyone knows we don’t make much.
But in front of her, next to her, being close to her—I am nothing. Heck, a florist is like the premise of a career. We don’t exist on the list. We’re a hobby to society.
One look at her and despite not seeing a hint of judgement, I can’t help myself when I say, “No. Actually, I’m an editor. This is a…”
I see Sunny wiping her hands on her shirt as she makes her way out to us. “It belongs to my best friend over there. I help out from time to time.”
“And this?” Irene points at the books.
“That’s all me,” I shrug out a careful truth. “Need some extra money, you know how it is.”
She does not know how it is at all.
“This opportunity came at the right time for you then,” she opens a clutch I didn’t notice before and hands me a card. “I’ll let you think it over, but if you don’t call me by tomorrow night, I’ll assume you passed on the offer.” She offers another soft smile, then dips her head in a greeting at Sunny before walking away.
“Was that who I think it was?” Sunny steps in next to me. Both of us watching the model of a woman walk away.
I hand Sunny her card.
“I think she just asked me to be on Love? Check!”
She looks at me with a mischievous light in her eyes. “What’d you reply?” She asks.
“Something crazy.” I smile, big, wide and tooth-filled.
CHAPTER 6
“Sunny,” my eyes widen in bliss. Stars are shining in them. I am happy. I am more than happy. I died and went to heaven, and this is it. “They have a water fountain!”
The party is in full swing.
People are talking to each other, drinks in hand, live music is on, fairy lights curve over the top of us (I’m not sure how they did that), and right in the middle of it all is a large water fountain carved from granite stone.
When the invitation said rooftop, I thought an average rooftop somewhere with live BBQ, not this.
I bounce with excitement. My hands clasped together in front of me while I turn back to look at Sunny, who’s holding her dress with both hands and actively shooting daggers at me. “Fuck the water fountain, I can’t move in this dress.”
A dark blue long-sleeved hourglass dress falls off Sunny’s shoulders. It hugs her body and curves in a way I envy. On top of that, she used one of my Adelaide Mikael original hairpins to throw back one side of her hair.
Did I force her to wear the dress? Yes, but she looks beautiful. Sacrifices needed to be made.
“Sunaira Farsi,” I mirror back a glamoured glare. “You are glowing in that dress. If I hear another bad word out of your mouth, I’m going to tell Azar about your yoghurt incident.”
“Nova,” she drops her hold on the dress and points a finger at me. “Don’t you dare.”
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 dear queen. 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, and loud.
“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 wholly herself.
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 you could be 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 am not stupid.”
“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.”
“Exactly,” Sunny raises her glass. “A pre-bitch.”
They fight, then they’re friends.
Make it make sense, please.
We let music intervene our conversation.
“Mm,” Sunny swallows her drink quickly. “Did you know this one’s going on Love? Check! ?” She gestures her glass towards me.
“Ain’t no fucking way.” Azar’s eyes widen. “What the hell do you mean she’s going on Love? Check!”
Sunny and Azar share a look.
“It’s not like I’m going yet,” I muffle the last part into an empty—now fogged up—glass
“Nova,” Azar scratches the space between his brows. “Dating shows are performative. They’re not for genuine people like you.”
“That’s what I told her,” Sunny adds while looking around the room.
Azar pushes my cheeks together. My lips purse forward and I’m sure I look like a blobfish. “You are a cute little bunny who can’t survive swimming with sharks.”
I swat his hand away. I’m used to this. Being the underestimated one. The one who needs to stay where she’s comfortable being because she’s never been outside before. The protected one. This is why I didn’t want to tell them. I knew they’d act like this. Sunny already gave me the biggest lecture before, saying that it’s stupid to go on a dating show right now.
Imagine if I told my sisters.
The thought sends a shiver down my spine.
“It can be for genuine people.” I shrug out of Azar’s hold, “Look at Liana and Malachi.”
“They found each other, but you might not.”
“I’m going for the experience.” The orchestra begins performing a rendition of Espresso.
“Maybe I’ll find my person.” I smile with all of my teeth showing. “And I’ll come back grossly in love.” Highly unlikely.
“Anyone with your mommy and daddy issues won’t touch love with a ten-foot pole,” Azar shakes his head.
Fair point.
I can’t tell him about the debt I’m in. Knowing Azar, he’d tell the whole world about my problem. Instead, I say, “Just think of it as me going on a trip for fun.”
From the corner of my eye, Sunny looks at me odd. I ignore it.
“How long will you be gone for?” Azar asks.
“Eight weeks,” I beam. “I’ll come back with a handsome beau that’ll put you and your looks to shame.”
“First of all, nobody says beau anymore. Secondly,” Azar rolls his eyes. “Impossible.”
“More like very possible,” Sunny fakes a cough.
Azar glares at Sunny and I’m glad for the quick shift in tension as they move to Sunny teasing Azar about Victoria Lauman—famous popstar and Azar’s supposedly worst nightmare. Though, the term dream works better for him.
Other than needing to find someone to be with, I get to go to one of the most beautiful and picturesque cities in the whole world. Even if I don’t find someone and get paid half of what I need to pay off my library debt, it’ll still be worth going and meeting new people in Switzerland.
At least that’s what I’m hoping for.
A sharp sounding microphone screeches over the orchestra. They halt their performance and glance in its direction.
As does everyone else.
The glass in my hand is forgotten as the swarming swirls of warmth simmer through me like the champagne decided to transform itself into breadths of tangible somethings.
Dean stands with one of his hands tightened around the microphone and the other unearthly stiff beside him.
“Oh god,” Azar mutters under his breath before drowning the remaining liquid in his drink. It’s nice knowing only one of us needs alcohol to survive (me, of course).
“Welcome everyone!” Azar’s boisterous voice bounces off the skyline and back onto the roof. I think the ground vibrated. “We are excited to have you join us for Vuk Securities' fifth anniversary.”
He continues on about how amazing it is to have all of these people here to celebrate, but I can’t drag my eyes away from Dean who seems to have the same idea as I do.
There’s a vicious moment that has me locking my toes into the ground so I can’t move. Those willow eyes bolt into me and I can’t look away.
Everyone’s looking at Azar now, they’re smiling because he’s easy to talk to and he knows how to work a crowd.
But something tells me if Dean was given the chance, he could too.
The hand holding the microphone follows suit with his other one and now both are to his side. There’s a tick in his jaw, I think. I can’t really tell standing from here.
I swallow hard, then look away when everyone starts clapping.
It’s like resurfacing and all the sound whooshes back into my ears.
“Congratulations,” a man says to Azar and shakes his hand.
Others do the same.
Do these people not know the person whose hand they should be shaking is standing mere feet away from them?
Don’t count me as someone who knows the history of Vuk Securities, but I’m pretty damn sure that this company may have been founded by Callahan and Azar, it was Dean who took care of all the dirty work behind the scenes.
The girl smiles, inhumanely. Gosh, someone send her to a hospital. Or a science lab. “I am, yes.”
“It’ll be fifteen dollars,” Sunny speaks professionally.
The girl hands her three five dollar bills, sticks her tongue out at me, then walks away.
“I wasn’t going to sell the book,” I slump on a chair. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”
Sunny watches me with an indecipherable look, then sighs. “Nova, you’ve never read the book. It still has new stickers on it.”
“At least it didn’t have book lice,” I grumble.
“This is the twentieth customer you did this to today, do you want to sell your books or not?”
I’m grateful for Sunny always keeping it real with me. She took a day off from work to help me out today and I shouldn’t be rude, but I can’t help myself when she’s like this. No one understands books the way I do. You don’t need to read words to feel connected to them. Their presence, the familiarity of soft covers and hard covers are all I need to survive. They’re built, crafted, each page meticulously morphed together. Yes, reading gives me an annoying migraine but the senses of reading are all there as I flip pages.
Pretending I can read is reading too.
The world loves hurting imagination.
“I can’t sell them, Sunny.” The ones I’ve parted with are gone, but no more. “They mean too much to me.”
“This is why I said you couldn’t do this,” she takes the seat next to me. Her hand squeezing my thigh. “You have an attachment to them, which is fine. It’s just that I know you won’t be able to make up the money you need from this book sale. Maybe instead I can put up posters for a floral workshop? I’ve seen people interested in it.”
“I posted it on my social media a while ago,” I respond. “Three people have signed up so far.”
“That’s great!” Sunny exclaims with fake optimism. She is not about positivity at all. “They can post it on their social media and maybe you’ll blow up.”
Giving her a deadpan look, “They’re all over sixty.”
“It’s better than having no customers, Nova.”
I shrug a careless shoulder, “I guess. Should we tidy up?”
The piles of books stare at me from their set up. After five hours into the sale and selling twenty books, I lost each battle.
Guess this is my sign to find a part-time job. Which will be hard since Ontario’s job market is actual crap. There was a time when Tim Hortons hired people despite their lack of experience, now even people with a Bachelor’s degree can’t get a job there.
Thanks a lot, Ms. Cartwright. You had to sue me just when the economy hates us.
I go inside to pack up the other large number of books we carried from the apartment, while Sunny goes to the bathroom.
I’m placing books in boxes when I see the leggy brunette standing in front of the book stall. She looks out of place. Not in a bad way, but in a too-good-of-a-way. Thick, expensive sunglasses cover her eyes. Her dark brown hair swishes in the humid day. Fresh nails skimming over the books.
“Hey,” the bell above the door jingles when I open it. “We’re no longer selling books. I’m sorry.”
She slowly lifts her head to look at me and I’m blinded.
“You’re Nova, right?” Her smile relishes in the sun, beaming at me wide and bright. She takes her sunglasses off and struts towards me with an extended hand. “I’m Irene Dolores.”
Where have I heard that name before?
Tentatively, I take her hand. She doesn’t look like a scammer, I don’t think. “Do I know you?”
She laughs and it sounds rich. Like caramel or a bag of a thousand dollars in cash. “Maybe. I’m the producer of Love? Check! the dating show. You may have heard of it.”
Oh. My. Gosh.
Of course, I’ve heard of it. That show has been my guilty pleasure for the past two summers. Every year, a group of six to ten people go somewhere in the world and get to check off each other’s bucket list. It’s usually paired off as a date and the couple with the most global votes wins the show. Last year, Liana and Malachi won $300,000 USD. It’s been a year and they haven’t broken up, which makes me believe that some form of love exists for people that look for it.
“From the look on your face, you’ve heard of it.” Irene Dolores is standing in front of me. The woman who made all of this happen. Not only that, but her father—Tristan is a global billionaire. He set up multiple television companies, has his own app, and goes around the world to open charities to help people. He’s an entrepreneurial God.
And this is his daughter. Without his help, she managed to start her own television company with Love? Check! and many other reality shows that have hit records all over the world. She has fifty million followers on Headshot and she’s on Forpes’ 40 under 40.
“I’m having a hard time believing you’re here right now.”
It didn’t rain much, but the sun peeks through the dark clouds. Illuminating light on the gloomy street.
“I wish I stumbled upon your book sale without hidden intentions.” Not letting go of my hand, she takes us to the table. “Season 3 of Love? Check! is under production right now and we’re currently looking for two more contestants to join. I stumbled upon your Headshot page a week ago and I feel like you’re the perfect candidate. Sophisticated and beautiful.”
I blink a couple of times. There’s no way she’s asking me to be a part of a dating show, is she?
I fought with a fifteen-year-old less than twenty minutes ago.
“As exciting as this opportunity is…”
“Don’t say no,” she’s quick to add. “Season one won $100,000, season two won $300,000, and this year it’s half-a-million.”
My brain stems stop purposefully making my cells trip. I’m listening. Fully intent, aware, and in my sense. I hate being the type of person convinced by money, but goodness? Did you hear that amount? That can solve all my problems.
“What gave my problem away?” I ask her. Because there’s no way she thought of money to convince me like that.
Her eyes glance at the books. “Lucky guess? Are you a florist?” She looks at the shop, a smile on her lips. Dammit, everyone knows we don’t make much.
But in front of her, next to her, being close to her—I am nothing. Heck, a florist is like the premise of a career. We don’t exist on the list. We’re a hobby to society.
One look at her and despite not seeing a hint of judgement, I can’t help myself when I say, “No. Actually, I’m an editor. This is a…”
I see Sunny wiping her hands on her shirt as she makes her way out to us. “It belongs to my best friend over there. I help out from time to time.”
“And this?” Irene points at the books.
“That’s all me,” I shrug out a careful truth. “Need some extra money, you know how it is.”
She does not know how it is at all.
“This opportunity came at the right time for you then,” she opens a clutch I didn’t notice before and hands me a card. “I’ll let you think it over, but if you don’t call me by tomorrow night, I’ll assume you passed on the offer.” She offers another soft smile, then dips her head in a greeting at Sunny before walking away.
“Was that who I think it was?” Sunny steps in next to me. Both of us watching the model of a woman walk away.
I hand Sunny her card.
“I think she just asked me to be on Love? Check!”
She looks at me with a mischievous light in her eyes. “What’d you reply?” She asks.
“Something crazy.” I smile, big, wide and tooth-filled.
CHAPTER 6
“Sunny,” my eyes widen in bliss. Stars are shining in them. I am happy. I am more than happy. I died and went to heaven, and this is it. “They have a water fountain!”
The party is in full swing.
People are talking to each other, drinks in hand, live music is on, fairy lights curve over the top of us (I’m not sure how they did that), and right in the middle of it all is a large water fountain carved from granite stone.
When the invitation said rooftop, I thought an average rooftop somewhere with live BBQ, not this.
I bounce with excitement. My hands clasped together in front of me while I turn back to look at Sunny, who’s holding her dress with both hands and actively shooting daggers at me. “Fuck the water fountain, I can’t move in this dress.”
A dark blue long-sleeved hourglass dress falls off Sunny’s shoulders. It hugs her body and curves in a way I envy. On top of that, she used one of my Adelaide Mikael original hairpins to throw back one side of her hair.
Did I force her to wear the dress? Yes, but she looks beautiful. Sacrifices needed to be made.
“Sunaira Farsi,” I mirror back a glamoured glare. “You are glowing in that dress. If I hear another bad word out of your mouth, I’m going to tell Azar about your yoghurt incident.”
“Nova,” she drops her hold on the dress and points a finger at me. “Don’t you dare.”
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 dear queen. 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, and loud.
“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 wholly herself.
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 you could be 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 am not stupid.”
“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.”
“Exactly,” Sunny raises her glass. “A pre-bitch.”
They fight, then they’re friends.
Make it make sense, please.
We let music intervene our conversation.
“Mm,” Sunny swallows her drink quickly. “Did you know this one’s going on Love? Check! ?” She gestures her glass towards me.
“Ain’t no fucking way.” Azar’s eyes widen. “What the hell do you mean she’s going on Love? Check!”
Sunny and Azar share a look.
“It’s not like I’m going yet,” I muffle the last part into an empty—now fogged up—glass
“Nova,” Azar scratches the space between his brows. “Dating shows are performative. They’re not for genuine people like you.”
“That’s what I told her,” Sunny adds while looking around the room.
Azar pushes my cheeks together. My lips purse forward and I’m sure I look like a blobfish. “You are a cute little bunny who can’t survive swimming with sharks.”
I swat his hand away. I’m used to this. Being the underestimated one. The one who needs to stay where she’s comfortable being because she’s never been outside before. The protected one. This is why I didn’t want to tell them. I knew they’d act like this. Sunny already gave me the biggest lecture before, saying that it’s stupid to go on a dating show right now.
Imagine if I told my sisters.
The thought sends a shiver down my spine.
“It can be for genuine people.” I shrug out of Azar’s hold, “Look at Liana and Malachi.”
“They found each other, but you might not.”
“I’m going for the experience.” The orchestra begins performing a rendition of Espresso.
“Maybe I’ll find my person.” I smile with all of my teeth showing. “And I’ll come back grossly in love.” Highly unlikely.
“Anyone with your mommy and daddy issues won’t touch love with a ten-foot pole,” Azar shakes his head.
Fair point.
I can’t tell him about the debt I’m in. Knowing Azar, he’d tell the whole world about my problem. Instead, I say, “Just think of it as me going on a trip for fun.”
From the corner of my eye, Sunny looks at me odd. I ignore it.
“How long will you be gone for?” Azar asks.
“Eight weeks,” I beam. “I’ll come back with a handsome beau that’ll put you and your looks to shame.”
“First of all, nobody says beau anymore. Secondly,” Azar rolls his eyes. “Impossible.”
“More like very possible,” Sunny fakes a cough.
Azar glares at Sunny and I’m glad for the quick shift in tension as they move to Sunny teasing Azar about Victoria Lauman—famous popstar and Azar’s supposedly worst nightmare. Though, the term dream works better for him.
Other than needing to find someone to be with, I get to go to one of the most beautiful and picturesque cities in the whole world. Even if I don’t find someone and get paid half of what I need to pay off my library debt, it’ll still be worth going and meeting new people in Switzerland.
At least that’s what I’m hoping for.
A sharp sounding microphone screeches over the orchestra. They halt their performance and glance in its direction.
As does everyone else.
The glass in my hand is forgotten as the swarming swirls of warmth simmer through me like the champagne decided to transform itself into breadths of tangible somethings.
Dean stands with one of his hands tightened around the microphone and the other unearthly stiff beside him.
“Oh god,” Azar mutters under his breath before drowning the remaining liquid in his drink. It’s nice knowing only one of us needs alcohol to survive (me, of course).
“Welcome everyone!” Azar’s boisterous voice bounces off the skyline and back onto the roof. I think the ground vibrated. “We are excited to have you join us for Vuk Securities' fifth anniversary.”
He continues on about how amazing it is to have all of these people here to celebrate, but I can’t drag my eyes away from Dean who seems to have the same idea as I do.
There’s a vicious moment that has me locking my toes into the ground so I can’t move. Those willow eyes bolt into me and I can’t look away.
Everyone’s looking at Azar now, they’re smiling because he’s easy to talk to and he knows how to work a crowd.
But something tells me if Dean was given the chance, he could too.
The hand holding the microphone follows suit with his other one and now both are to his side. There’s a tick in his jaw, I think. I can’t really tell standing from here.
I swallow hard, then look away when everyone starts clapping.
It’s like resurfacing and all the sound whooshes back into my ears.
“Congratulations,” a man says to Azar and shakes his hand.
Others do the same.
Do these people not know the person whose hand they should be shaking is standing mere feet away from them?
Don’t count me as someone who knows the history of Vuk Securities, but I’m pretty damn sure that this company may have been founded by Callahan and Azar, it was Dean who took care of all the dirty work behind the scenes.
