I’m guilty of the same thing I’m mad at Zaid and Alexandre for. I know my mom would be disappointed in me. And man, does her disappointment cut to the bone.
“Well, then, it’s about how you feel,” Mom says. “And what you’re willing to forgive. None of us are perfect. We can hurt those closest to us. But love should make you feel good. Love should feel like home. A place built on trust and honesty. Not every moment is going to be perfect. But during the hardest times, you want that relationship to be your shelter from the storm.”
“I don’t know if either of them makes me feel that way. Or if they can. Or if anyone can or will.” I gaze into my mom’s kind eyes and blink back a tear. “It always seems easy and natural with you and Papa.”
“Oh, jaan, if that’s what you want, I hope you find it. But trust me; your papa and I, we work at it. Love requires work. But it’s good work. Rilke called it the work for which all other work is but preparation.”
I manage a wan smile. “Honestly, I’m not sure if either of them inspire that kind of work. And I’m definitely not sure if I’m in love with either of them. Like, yes. But love?”
My mom smiles with obvious relief. “Maybe you have your answer, then. Maybe you don’t have to worry too much about love or finding the right one. You’re young; enjoy the journey. Love yourself. Forge the path you want. You know, your namesake had two rules for living: better to starve than to eat whatever; better to be alone than to love whomever.”
“And that is why I avoid blue cheese.”
My mom laughs. “Avoid moldy rot is an excellent metaphor.”
“Who’s being metaphorical?”
My mom leans over and kisses me on the cheek. “Perhaps what you seek is seeking you.”
“Khayyam didn’t write that, did he?”
“It’s Rumi.”
Persian Sufi poets are getting a lot of play in this morning’s life talk.
My mom bites her lip, then continues, “Listen, I wasn’t going to say anything because Zaid asked me not to . . .”
I straighten up in my seat. What. The. Hell. “Zaid has been talking to you? Why? What did he say and why didn’t you tell me before?”
My mom puts her hand on my arm. “I’m sorry, beta. He said he wanted to send you a surprise. I thought it would be okay. It should be here tomorrow or the next day, I think.”
“So I need to be here anyway to get it.” My brain floods with questions. Zaid has never been the big romantic gesture type, but he actually took the time to reach out to my mom? To plan something? I’m keeping my expectations low, but it doesn’t stop me from smiling because maybe something actually has changed. “Do you know what it is?” I ask, almost breathless.
“No. But he didn’t indicate it was anything perishable like flowers.”
“Ha. Right. Flowers? Julie had to remind him to get me a corsage for prom, so, no, probably not flowers. Could be garbage cookies from Medici.”
That would be perfect. Like those T-shirts we exchanged? This would be our type of romantic gesture. He knows of my deep affection for garbage cookies, because they are filled with every good thing—chocolate chips, M&Ms, nuts, butter, sugar, oatmeal. Once, we found a week-old one in a paper bag in Zaid’s backpack. We split it—he even let me have the bigger half. And it was still delicious, because unlike blue cheese, garbage cookies never get moldy and start to stink. Their shelf life is eternity.
“Well, if garbage cookies put a smile on your face like that, I hope that’s what he’s sending,” my mom says softly. “Don’t tell Papa, though. I don’t think he’ll approve of having pastries sent to Paris from Chicago.”
“They’re not pastries. They’re cookies. They can coexist.”
My mom seems satisfied with my smiles.
Garbage cookies are home and comfort and laughter. If that’s what he sends, Zaid won’t be off my shit list, not exactly, but he’ll definitely