“Have fun.”
Mr. Edwards and Landon had already steeped four different cups of Darjeeling, and were dipping their spoons into the third when I knocked on the tasting room door.
“Just in time,” Mr. Edwards said. “Grab a spoon.”
I sat next to Landon and dipped my spoon into the first tea.
“Mm,” I said. “It’s good.”
“First or second flush?” Mr. Edwards asked.
“Um.”
I smelled the tea, studied the liquor, took another sip. It was lighter and smoother.
“First?”
“Good. What else?”
“Floral?”
“Hm.” His lips pursed for a second. “More spicy than floral, I think. Cardamom.”
“Oh.”
It didn’t taste like cardamom to me at all, and I drank cardamom all the time.
I tried number two. “Um. Tropical?”
“Yes, guava and passionfruit. Be more specific when you taste.”
That burning in my chest came back: this weird, kind of fluttery feeling, like I had a pulsar lodged behind my sternum, spinning and flinging electromagnetic radiation outward in rapid intervals.
I wished I could just drink the tea and enjoy it.
Next to me, Landon’s pen scratched against his notebook.
Mr. Edwards cleared his throat. “How about this third one?”
“Kind of nutty? Like almonds?”
“Better. And number four?”
I felt like I was back in Algebra II. And there was no Chip to help me study either.
I sniffed and sipped and thought.
“Fruity.”
“Grapefruit,” Landon added.
“Right. You’ve got to work on that palate, Darius.”
The pulsar spun faster.
And I had that ridiculous feeling again, stronger than ever.
Like I didn’t like working here anymore.
Like sooner or later, tea was just going to be another test for me to fail.
“All right. Better get cleaned up. Good work.”
“You mind taking care of it?” Landon asked. “I’ve gotta do some stocking.”
I cleared my throat. “Sure.”
I emptied the cups and put them in the dishwasher, wiped off the table, and told myself everything was okay.
Really.
* * *
I was going to go home after work, but Landon invited me over.
Landon almost never invited me over. For some reason, we usually hung out at my house.
So when he asked me to come over, I knew I had to say yes.
Landon and his dad lived in a condo downtown, just a couple streetcar stops away from Rose City. It was in a remodeled art-deco office building, on the eighth floor. Landon punched in the code to the front door and led me up in the elevator. He grabbed a paper notice wedged into the door frame and let us in.
Every time I saw Landon’s home, I was kind of amazed. Their living room had these big windows that looked out over downtown—you could even see Rose City Teas, if you were tall enough, like me—and everything was white and chrome and sleek.
Landon led me to the angular black couch. “You want anything?”
“I’m good.”
He sat down and rested his head against my shoulder.
“You okay? You were awfully quiet today.”
“I don’t know. I just . . .” I played with the hem of my shirt. “I don’t know.”
Landon snaked his arm behind me to hold my waist. “Talk to me.”
I didn’t know how to tell him how tired I was of never having the right answer at tastings.
How I just wanted to drink tea and share it with people.
How I wasn’t happy at Rose City.
I didn’t know how to say any of that out loud.
So instead I said, “I’m just worried about my dad, I guess.”
“He still depressed?”
“Yeah. Plus I’m still sad about my grandfather.”
“I get that.”
“Babou loved tea. Now, every time I make a pot, drink a cup, it’s like . . . it hits me. I don’t have a grandfather anymore.”
“I’m sorry.”
I took his free hand in mine and twined our fingers together. “It’s okay.”
Landon kissed my shoulder.
I sighed.
He smiled at me, and then leaned in closer to press his lips against mine, warm and soft and lingering.
It was gentle and nice. His hand moved from my waist to the back of my neck, fingers playing along my hairline before moving up my head and twisting into my curls.
I shivered.
Landon leaned back. His lips were red and a little chapped in the corner. His tongue darted out at the spot.
“Is this okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, because when we were kissing, I didn’t have to talk. I didn’t have to think.
I didn’t feel that pulsar in me anymore.
Landon scooted closer until he was almost in my lap and kissed me again. He tapped his tongue against my teeth, and I opened up a little bit to meet it. But then he did this thing where he hollowed out his cheeks and sucked my tongue into his mouth.
My breath hitched. It was the weirdest thing I’d ever felt.
Weird and excellent.
I finally had to break the kiss and catch my breath. Landon’s cheeks were flushed. His eyes shone.
“Someone’s excited,” he whispered, and poked at the weird pooch my jeans made in the front.
“That’s a joner,” I whispered back, and Landon giggled.
I mean, I was hard, but it was trapped against my left thigh.
Landon used his thumb to trace my lips. I kissed the little pad of it, but then he stuck it into my mouth and rubbed it against the inside of my cheek.
It was the kind of thing you would see in porn.
(If I’m being honest, it was the kind of thing I had, in fact, seen in porn.)
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“I don’t think I like that.”
Landon blanched. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” I kissed his shoulder.
He rested his hand on my thigh (my right one, thankfully) and rubbed it back and forth. He leaned in for another kiss, and he did that tongue-sucking thing again.
My skin tingled all over.
This time it was Landon who broke the kiss.
I was pretty sure he was excited too.
“My dad won’t be home until late,” he said. “What should we do?”
“You could play for me. You never let me hear you play bassoon.”
Landon stared at me.
“Or we could just stay like this. Cuddle for a while.”
Landon kissed me and rested his head against my chest again. “I like cuddling with you.”
I took his hand off my thigh and brought it up to my lips. I kissed his knuckles, one after another.
Landon shifted a bit, his hair tickling my chin, as I wrapped my arms around him and laid us across his couch.
I took a long, deep breath.
And then Landon snorted and muttered “joner” under his breath, and we both started cracking up.
THE SECOND STEEPINGS
That night, after Dad and I watched “Indiscretion,” a kind of trippy episode of Deep Space Nine, I tried Sohrab. Again. But the little green CALL icon kept flashing, and the doot-deet-doot, deet-doot-deet music echoed in my bedroom. And Sohrab didn’t answer.
I didn’t know what to do.
Sohrab was the one who always helped me figure out what to do.
I hung up and tried again. And a third time. Let it ring until it timed out.
Nothing.
I chewed on my lip for a little while, and then tried Mamou instead.
I hated how selfish I was, calling my grandmother because I couldn’t get ahold of my best friend.
How was I supposed to talk to Mamou now that Babou was gone?
She picked up almost instantly. There was a second of weird, ringing feedback, and the screen flashed black and then white as we connected.
“Hi, Darioush-jan.”
“Hi, Mamou.” I almost cried, I loved my grandmother’s voice so much. “How are you?”
She sighed. “I am doing okay, maman. You know, it’s hard.”
“Yeah.”
“I miss you. I wish you could come visit again.”
“Me too.”
At that I think I did start crying. Just a little.
“Is Dayi Jamsheed around? Or Sohrab?”
I hated the thought of Mamou being alone in that house.
And, I thought maybe Sohrab was there.
“No. Just me. Zandayi Simin is coming later to make ab goosht. You know ab goosht?”
“Yeah.”
Ab goosht more or less translates to “meat water.” But it’s actually a stew, made from meat braised until it falls off the bone, and eaten with crusty bread.
“You know, it was Babou’s favorite.”
I sniffed.
“How are you doing, Darioush-jan? How’s school? How’s soccer? How’s your job? How’s your dad? Your mom?”
“Um. They’re okay. Everyone’s doing okay.” I couldn’t tell her about how Mom was tired. Or how Dad was depressed. Or how I was beginning to hate going into work.
I had to pretend like everything was okay here, because I knew that it wasn’t over there.
“Hey, Mamou?”
“Yes?”
“You haven’t seen Sohrab lately, have you?”
Mamou looked off to the side.
“It’s just, I haven’t heard from him in a while.”