Page 50 of I Hope This Finds You Well

He disappears inside the café’s door. I wait a whole seven minutes—just me, the sound of my heavy breathing, and the stinky hoodie that, in natural light, shows a few crusty stains that I don’t want to know more about.

Did I really stalk Armin all the way to this place? Iambeing a weirdo. Then again, this can’t be any worse than using a colleague to create a whole fake life without her knowing. I’m just here to do some light reconnaissance and figure out what the heck is going on.

Finally, I head toward the bakery, take a deep breath, and pull the door open.

The little chime from the bell on the door sends a jolt through me. The place is crowded with mostly Iranian people. Nobody seems to notice me as I take my place in the back of the line, swept up by the hum of conversations and laughter and waving hands. The sweet scent of chai fills my soul with warmth.

I glance around the room and spot a mini version of myself staring back from a warped security mirror. But it’s not as warped as one would hope—more that over the course of this afternoon and one bus ride, I’ve devolved into a weary troll. The hoodie just carries the vibe further.

My eyes skim over the tables in the back of the room, and I finally spot Armin. He’s in a corner booth, a small golden samovar in the center of the table.

It’s like he can feel my stare land on him. He looks sharply toward me and visibly jolts. He’s sitting with an older man, but I can see only the back of his head as he talks animatedly with his hands. That must be his father.

Armin’s forehead wrinkles as he sinks lower in the booth, crouching behind the bulkiest part of the samovar. Even from across the room, I can tell his complexion is paling at a considerable speed.

But Armin doesn’t know thatIknow anything is up. In his mind, this is just a coincidental meeting of two colleagues out in the wild.

I wave and gesture for him to come over. I just want to know what’s going on. Maybe I can even make some kind of truce with him here?

But his eyes shift away from me, and he shakes his head once before crouching even farther down into his seat, jaw set.

I do my best impression of an innocent, confused person and take a step back into his line of sight, raising my eyebrows in silent question.

He doesn’t quite look at me, but his lips start to tremble. I halt in my tracks. The fear etched in his expression hits me like a flash of boiling water, and I’m back to feeling like a monster. Everything inside of me is heavy as lead.

I give him a tiny, apologetic wince and turn my attention away from him. No matter what, our personal lives need to stay personal, or society doesn’t have a chance.

As I back away, the proprietor behind the counter calls out to me. “Yes, miss, what would you like?”

“Twelve danmarkis, please,” I blurt out automatically. Since they’re each the size of a hamburger, it’s a huge order for one person, but also reasonable, if I’m being real. The guy nods, face neutral, as he pulls asheet of wax paper out to gather my request. When he hands me my box, I thank him as quietly as possible and tap my card, bracing for this financial blow.

I’m heading for the door, danmarki box cradled against my chest—

“Isn’t that Jolene?” a Persian-accented man calls behind me. I flinch at my name, at who must’ve said it. Armin’s dad calls, “Jolene!” The gazes of the other customers crawl to me. I take a breath and turn around. Armin’s dad smiles and nods in confirmation. This guy might be a spy if he can recognize me from the low-quality Christmas party picture.

I make my way to the table, arms rattling my oversized box of pastries, while Armin’s jaw makes its way to the floor. This situation may be the most unprecedented moment in human history; all the words that exist have disappeared from my brain. It doesn’t matter because Armin takes over as if on autopilot. “Dad, I’d like you to officially meet Jolene.” He locks my gaze, a plea in his eyes. “My fiancée.”

“Hello! Ah, Jolene, nice to meet you!” His dad seems to light up from deep inside. He’s got the same smile as Armin’s, though Armin hasn’t been using his much lately. I put out my hand, but he grabs it and pulls me in for a hug.

A squeal creaks from the hinges of the little bathroom door at the back. I sense her energy before I see her. “Nice to meet you, Jolene joon!” Armin’s mom’s voice is airy and delicate. My chest lightens at the universal nickname of affection. That unconditional yet fully judgmental feeling of love that I get from my aunties sharpens into effect.

I turn and everything stops when I see her. Her bones jut out of thin, sallow skin. She looks like my grandma when she was undergoing cancer treatment. She embraces me, and her skin is cool and firm, her rosewater scent mixed with something medicinal like a lozenge.

Over her shoulder, I spot Armin looking as though he might break in half. And as the realization hits—I might do the same.

I break the pregnant pause. “Oh, salam! It’s nice to meet you. Armin has said so many wonderful things about you.”

Armin’s lips curl into an uncertain smile, but he still looks like he’s contemplating running through the wall next to him.

His dad’s grin creases into his cheeks. “Armin had just told us you couldn’t make it after all. But we’re very glad you took a break from studying—even though we understand how important your exams are.”

My lips wobble. “I wanted to meet you. I was starting to think Armin was making you up.”

Armin’s temples twitch, his gaze turning manic as it bores into me. But his parents both laugh.

I continue: “I needed a break anyway.” Then I remember myself—how I look. What kind of person would dress like this to meet her future in-laws for the first time? “I’m just popping in for a few moments.”

His mom nods weakly as Armin jumps up to steady her into her seat slowly. “What are you studying for this week?”