“You’ll figure it out,” he says with a reassuring smile that almost makes me forget the terribleness of the paper in front of me. “You have your whole life to decide.”
One of the most unbelievably amazing things about my parents is how completely they support everything I do. Even when they disagree with my choices, they smile and cheer me on wholeheartedly. As long as I’m doing what makes me happy, they’re all for it.
My mother ushers me to sit down at the kitchen table, then moves behind me, and even though I can’t see her, I know she’s stroking the air above me, wiping the negative energy from my aura. Meanwhile, my father places a hand on my shoulder, channeling positive energy into my body.
I take a deep breath and sigh. This isn’t what I need right now, but this is how they show their love, and it's the only way I’ll keep their attention.
“Another deep breath, and then tell us what’s troubling you.” My father’s accent slips out as it often does when he’s practicing holistic medicine, even though he hasn’t lived in Iran since he was ten. I love hearing it just as I love every snippet of Persian heritage he’s passed on to me, including his coloring—dark hair, amber eyes, and olive skin. The “ethnic look,” as my agent calls it, has gotten me a decent amount of work in the erotic modeling business. Well, that and my willingness to shed my clothes in front of a camera like it’s no big deal, another attribute I credit to my parents. For as long as I can remember, they’ve instilled in me the notion that bodies are most beautiful in their natural state. While I’m more conservative than they are, I can be nude without the slightest bit of self-consciousness.
I do as my father has requested and fill my lungs with air. Then I release it. “It’s my student loans. My deferment has expired.”
“Ah,” my parents say in unison.
Another incredible thing about my parents is how in sync they are. Perhaps it’s a side effect of doing everything together, and I mean everything. They work together, they cook together, they clean together. If my father wasn’t recovering from a strained groin muscle, he would have been alongside my mother doing her yoga au naturel. Though I often poke fun at them for it, I hope to one day have a relationship just like theirs. Perhaps with more clothing involved.
My father moves his hand to the base of my neck. “If you go back to school, won’t the deferment kick in again?”
“Yes. But I still have no idea what I’d study. I also can’t afford a payment like this—” I wave the bill in the air. “Not on top of my apartment.” I was only able to afford moving out six months ago. My modeling jobs pay well, but not support-myself-in-California well.
“You know your room is always waiting for you.” My mother would be happy if I lived with her forever. But, as much as I love my folks, a child has to spread her wings.
“I really don’t think moving back home is the answer.” Besides, living with them put a serious damper on my social life. Any time I brought a guy home for a nightcap, my parents would descend upon us with mushroom tea, pot brownies, and endless tips on how to achieve the best climax. They consider themselves experts in Tantric sex and aren’t at all shy about sharing their personal experiences. It’s awkward, to say the least.
Not that there’s been a guy that I’ve wanted to bring home in a long time. The majority of my orgasms in the last year have come manually while watching Logan O’Toole porn. I imagine for a moment how he’d react to meeting my parents. Surely, he’s the one person who wouldn’t flinch at their carnal tales. God knows he could top any story they told.
Is it weird how often I think about Logan? We did a scene together—once—a threesome where I played the “extra.” It was more than three years ago now, and I still fantasize about it on a regular basis. That’s probably a sign that I’m not cut out to do full-blown porn. One on-camera scene with a man—sans intercourse, even—and I’m attached. Since then I’ve turned down any job that’s strayed from my usual girl-on-girl.
It would be nice if I had more of that work coming in. That could make a dent in the student loans.
“Moving home might be the answer,” my mother insists gently. “What makes you so quick to dismiss that option?”
“Is it pride, Devi?” There’s an edge of lecture in my father’s voice. Which is as close as he actually gets to lecturing. “You know what Buddha says about pride. ‘Let go of anger. Let go of—’”
“—‘pride. When you are bound by nothing, you go beyond sorrow,’” I finish with him. “Yeah, yeah, I know and it’s very sweet of you to offer. It’s not about pride.” It’s somewhat about pride. “I just need to figure this out.”
Mâmân is visibly disappointed with my response. I’m her only child and she misses me at home. “You know what? Let’s tarot,” she says. “The universe can tell you what to do.” Eagerly, she prompts my father to get the tarot cards from the breadbox—because who doesn’t keep a deck of Rider-Waite in their kitchen pantry?—and takes a seat at the chair next to me.
I blow out a hot stream of air, refusing to let my irritation show. Though I’ve been raised with the cards as a staple in my life, I’m less convinced of their divination properties and more convinced that my parents use them to convey whatever hard words they believe I need to hear. As my mother lays out the first card, I prepare myself for her interpretation to be, “Move home, go back to school, be happy.”