It was always interesting to learn which of Danial’s cultural references were filtered through his trips to Iran. He once spent a whole afternoon telling Alex about those summers: video game tournaments with his cousins, his aunt playing Googoosh’s greatest hits on a loop in the kitchen, falling asleep in the living room to the smell of stewed chicken with pomegranates on the stove.

“You should watch it in English.” Dev pointed his fork in his direction, chewing a bite of French toast. “Jesse Eisenberg is incredible.”

“He’s okay,” Bee corrected. “He’s nice in real life, at least.”

“You met him?” Paul asked, turning to face her.

“Yeah, my mom worked with him on a project last year.”

Alex, feeling that familiar flush of inadequacy at the mention of Bee’s exceptional, artistic life, chimed in with a self-deprecating joke: “My mom’s big accomplishment last year was getting her favorite diner to carry sugar-free vanilla syrup.”

A quiet laugh rippled through the group, save Danial, who cocked an eyebrow before returning to his food. She wrinkled her nose, instantly regretting her knee-jerk impulse to sacrifice her mother for a cheap laugh. Danial had admonished her more than once for treating Elena with less respect than she deserved, and few things in life had embarrassed her more. Just seeing the way he treated his own mother was enough to shame her: the small ways he kept her close, even from across the country. He’d once spent an entire day in deep Queens hunting down a specific tea that her local store had stopped carrying.

And beyond the disparities in their relationships with their mothers, he frequently left her second guessing. She never quite knew where she stood with him, and they always ended up picking pedantic fights with one another, correcting each other on a word or reference. He always found a way to needle her, to bait her into a debate that both exhausted and exhilarated her. And she always called him Danial, stretching out and relishing its fullness while nearly everyone else called him by a nickname.

By the time all of their shared dishes arrived, the two of them had stumbled into a minor and unexpected argument about whether the fish she was eating had been shipped across the country.

“Monkfish is not a Pacific species,” Danial said, firmly but casually, asserting his intrinsic correctness. From behind him, the waiter came by to refill their glasses.

“Yes it is.” Alex concentrated on remaining as unflappable as possible, reaching across the table to snag a french fry.

Sophie and Bee—equally chic in their mostly black outfits, even in late May—looked over at the two of them, exhausted.

“Not this bullshit again.” Bee exhaled, reaching across the table for a fry.

“Let them fight,” Paul asserted, looking on approvingly.