I wonder if Slade has ever eaten Persian food. I sigh, dropping my head with the thought of him. He’d probably run screaming if he knew my heritage. Not that I have any evidence he’d react negatively, but there’s a general bend against people of Middle Eastern heritage in this country since 9/11, and that’s a fact.

I still haven’t called or messaged him to thank him for saving my life. As it turned out, nine people died, two of whom were trampled to death while exiting the club. But I was safe, and it was because of him. My mind continues to replay how he knocked over anyone who came into my path. And then how he took care of me all night, his face in concentration and control as he cleaned me. Slade is a better man than any I’ve ever known.

“Did you hear me?” My father’s face is stern but worried.

I’m not usually one to zone out, especially when he speaks.

“No, I won’t tell him.” I shrug. “I went away for Vincent and Eve’s wedding a few months ago, and even that was a huge ordeal …” My voice trails off.

“Oh, right. Your friend Eve who married the man who built the Milestone?” My mom smiles wide. She knows the answer but is trying to keep the conversation light. She places a hand on my father’s forearm. “We should go there, Farzad. I heard it’s amazing.”

“Yes, that’s them.” I stick my fork in a piece of chicken and place it in my mouth.

“How is she? Your friend Eve?” Standing again, she pours stew in a bowl for herself—no rice. I don’t think my mom has had a carbohydrate in the last twenty years.

“She’s good. Really good.” I swallow. “Started this safe house for abused women and helps them legally separate from their husbands and get jobs.”

Talking about Eve makes me miss her. She is the one person in my life who is both strong and honest. She used to work at Crier as one of the associate attorneys but left for Nevada after rekindling her romance with Vincent. I brought the jokes, but Eve brought the real. I miss having that in my life.

“I agree with you,” my father chimes into the conversation, voice decisive. “Don’t take any time off. You’ve got to just let this go and put it all behind you. Worrying about what could be won’t fix anything.”

“But, Dad”—I shake my head—“it’s not about worrying about something that might happen. It’s the memory of what did actually happen, and—”

“Why don’t we just take it all day by day?” my mom chirps.

I shut up, privately caving in on myself.

“Have you sent out your law school applications? I’ve been waiting to review your essay.” He cuts into a piece of lamb kabob, the dark hair on his head perfectly gelled.

My girlfriends all used to tease me that my parents are the Persian version of George and Amal Clooney. It’s annoying but true.