Today I am the first Quinn, on my way to Mansour’s on a Wednesday afternoon to finalize Victoria and Lincoln’s menu. Instead of another torturous pencil skirt, I wear a vintage peach dress with tiny dogs on it I got on a thrift store trip with Julia last summer. I haven’t worn it nearly enough. I pin my hair back on the sides and add a swipe of red lipstick I almost never wear, and I don’t hate the way that looks either. Maybe it’s not B+B-approved, but my parents won’t be there.
Mansour’s isn’t a storefront, just a large kitchen space downtown with state-of-the-art appliances and pristine white countertops. Of course, when Victoria and Lincoln arrived, they asked a hundred questions about the framed articles on the walls detailing how Murad and Zainab met. There’s the two of them on the set of a national morning show, pages from People and the Washington Post and Cosmopolitan. Then they bonded over having love stories that took place partially in the public eye, which led to a discussion about living in “the age of social media” and how “nothing we do is private anymore,” according to Murad, while Tarek caught my gaze and rolled his eyes.
The upside of working today: food. The Mansours have prepared each appetizer, entrée, and dessert for Victoria and Lincoln, which they arrange on the counter in front of us. And as Tarek promised, there was baklava waiting for me when I got here.
“You have to try this,” Victoria says to Lincoln, holding out a golden potato croquette. “They’re so crisp but also so light? I could eat about a hundred of these.”
“You guys knocked it out of the park,” Lincoln agrees. I haven’t seen him as much as Victoria, but he has this relaxed, easygoing personality that’s impossible not to like. He’s tall, Black, wearing Seattle hipster glasses and a short-sleeved button-up with tiny sharks all over it. Tiny animals will never not be the best pattern. He tries a croquette, then another. “I can’t believe there isn’t any dairy in these.”
“Make sure you try them with a little of the sauce,” Tarek says, pushing the bowl toward them. “Sweet sriracha mayo. Vegan mayo, I should say.” It’s a kosher menu, and Mansour’s even has relationships with some of the local rabbis we work with.
“We get it. You made the sauce,” Zainab says, like this is something they’ve been joking about all day.
Tarek flushes, and it’s adorable.
“And it’s excellent,” Victoria says. She takes a fork to the roast chicken, one of the mains. “We’re so glad you could accommodate those last-minute changes.”
Zainab waves a hand. “Please. Not last minute at all. We completely understand wanting to swap out the rack of lamb for something… a little more attractive to be eating on camera.”
“The cameras,” Victoria says flatly. “Right.”
“Very exciting,” Murad says. This publicity is a big deal for them, too. “We really are honored to be part of it.”
“It’s just a lot of pressure. Not that I didn’t get torn apart enough the first time I was on TV,” she says with a brush-off kind of laugh.
I remember the breakdown she had the episode before the season finale, how she cried facedown on her hotel room bed while a producer rubbed her back. She liked both men so much, could see a life with each of them… but the one she couldn’t imagine saying goodbye to was Lincoln.
Now he’s the one rubbing her back, stroking her long curls, telling her it’s all going to be okay. “People are going to be watching because they’re happy for us,” he says. “Which in itself is still surreal.”
Victoria straightens and puts on a smile. “Really, I’m fine. It’s just the regular your-wedding-is-in-four-weeks-and-will-be-on-Streamr jitters.”
“Very common,” I assure her. “All our brides go through it.”
At that, I think her smile might turn real.
They don’t end up making any changes to the menu, which I think is a relief for all of us.
“Five o’clock,” Zainab muses once they leave, gesturing to the wall-mounted clock next to a framed photo of young Mansours shaking hands with young Berkowitzes.
“You say that as though time means something when you’re in the catering business,” Murad says, sweeping plates into their industrial-grade dishwasher.
“I can close up here, if you want,” Tarek says. “I know it’s been a while since you guys had a night off.”
Zainab pauses in the middle of wiping down the counter. “You’re sure? That would be wonderful. Thank you,” she says, moving over to him and kissing each of his cheeks. “Wow, a night off—I’m not even sure what that looks like.”
“Whatever it ends up being, please don’t tell me.” Tarek waves them to the door, and god, I think I love his parents.
That realization comes with a stab of jealousy. They’ve always been open and loving, supportive of what Tarek wants regardless of whether it’s what they want too. I’ve never been able to figure them out—if they’re faking a romance for the rest of us, the way I’ve always assumed my parents are, or if what happened at the Eiffel Tower really did lead to a genuine relationship. It was the grandest of grand gestures, and yet somehow it worked. And it’s been working for more than twenty years.
“So thoughtful of you,” I say after they’re gone. “Closing up for your parents.”
“I’m a good kid,” he says, untying his apron and inching closer to where I’m leaning against the kitchen island. The temperature seems to jump a full fifteen degrees. “That’s the only reason I did it.”
I pull his face down to mine, kissing him for the first time today. I breathe him in, his laundry-fresh scent and the spices from the food.
“Are the dogs on your dress wearing hats?” he asks against my mouth, biting at my lower lip.
“Yes. They’re very sophisticated.”
“Believe it or not, I did have an ulterior motive for asking them to leave. But it’s not what
