Page 76 of Oliver
Finally, I forced myself up the familiar walkway, hesitating only briefly before pressing the doorbell. The chime echoed inside, followed by footsteps.
The door swung open to reveal Mina Nazarian, her face brightening with recognition.
"Oliver! What a wonderful surprise!" She pulled me into a hug, warm and scented with saffron and cardamom. I allowed myself to lean into it for just a moment.
"Come in, come in." She ushered me inside. "Kamran will be so happy to see you."
Inside, the house was exactly as I remembered—family photos, Persian rugs, potted plants thriving in every corner.
"Kamran!” she called. “Look who's here."
Mr. Nazarian emerged, glasses perched on his nose, a book under his arm. His weathered face broke into a wide smile.
"Oliver, my boy." He clasped my hand between both of his. "What a pleasant surprise. Zahra didn’t tell us you were joining us for breakfast."
"She doesn’t know.” I tried to keep my voice light, but the deceit was heavy on my tongue. “It’s, uh, a surprise."
His gaze sharpened slightly, just for a fraction of a second.
"Ah," he said simply. Then, softer, "You look tired."
I swallowed. "Yeah. It’s been a long week."
A beat, then, "Be careful who you cross in this town, son."
My stomach twisted. It was a warning, not a threat. I could see it in his weathered eyes. He’d seen too much and still chose to stay silent, and it weighed on him, more so when he knew I was in the crosshairs. It was his cross to bear.
Before I could question him, Mrs. Nazarian ushered me into the kitchen.
"Zahra will be back from the market soon.” She practically shoved me into a chair. “Sit, sit. I'll make you tea."
“Oh, no, I don’t want to impose.” My chest ached at their kindness. I didn’t deserve this.
"Nonsense.” Mrs. Nazarian waved away my objections. “You're family."
She filled the kettle, arranging glass teacups stained with delicate red rose enamels. "How are you finding Norman after so many years away?"
"Um, mixed emotions, I guess," I said, settling at the familiar kitchen table. "Some things have changed, but others feel exactly the same."
Like this house. Like the Nazarians' unquestioning welcome. Like the warmth I felt when I was around them.
Mr. Nazarian laughed, taking the seat beside me as Mrs. Nazarian served us steaming chai.
I took a sip of the dark brew. Bitterness mixed with the sweetness of a single sugar cube, the taste and scent throwing me back to late-night study sessions with Zahra at this very table.
She remembered. After all these years, she remembered how I took my tea.
The knot in my throat made it difficult to swallow.
Over tea, we talked about my work. Mr. Nazarian listened intently, fascinated as always. The guilt twisted deeper.
Then he pulled out an old photo.
"I’ve been tidying the attic," he said. "Came across this."
I picked up the photo he slid my way, and the lump in my throat grew.
Zahra and I, on the first day of sophomore year, backpacks slung over our shoulders. Smiling.
