My phones alarm jars me as I study. Only my mom and my grandmother call me, and it’s not either of their tone. I pull away from studying to peer at my phone. “Conner” is displayed in bright letters. My face feels hot in anticipation.

“I take it you really do want to chat,” I answer in Arabic

“I need to work on my phone skills,” his deep base voice rumbles back at me in broken Arabic.

“Do you need experience talking to women?” I flirt back at him.

“Well…um…I haven’t had many opportunities to speak Arabic to any woman. In Iraq they were usually dressed in bee suits and you don’t want to be the cause of some young woman getting offed by her family.”

“Your vocabulary’s good. I think you said almost everything in Arabic.”

“It’s hard processing what you’re saying. The accent isn’t what I’m used to.”

“For some reason I thought you were stationed in Afghanistan?”

“I was.”

“Then where did you learn Arabic?”

“I also got to spend some time in the Middle East.”

“Well then, I guess I’m lucky that they sent you for Arabic training, since I wouldn’t get to talk to you if you were sent to learn Pashto,” I flirt.

“Do you know any Pashto?” he asks.

“Only that Pashto and Farsi are what Afghani’s speak.”

“To bad, I could use someone to help me keep up with my Pashto.”

“When did you learn Pashto?”

“When I was in Afghanistan, that’s when I realized I had an ear for languages. The other guys were still stumbling over basic words, while it took me about three months to be conversational. Our squad stopped using an interpreter, since I could communicate directly with the locals.”

“That’s impressive.”

“I think what you and my sister are doing is impressive. She wants to go into genomics. I had to look it up in Wikipedia to even know what she was talking about.”

“I’m not nearly as impressive as your sister. I’m only studying to be a doctor.”

“You’re both saving lives.”

“Says the American hero.”

“I’m far from that. Before the war started, did you ever go to Syria?”

“Not Syria in the Middle East, but every Sunday morning during the school year, I’d go to Ocean Parkway in Brooklyn with my grandmother. That’s the unofficial headquarters of the Jewish Syrian community. Grandma and I would get off the train, stop at Mansoura Bakery, pick up Maamoul with dates, Candied Pistachios, Sambousek, and Greybeh. Then we’d go to my great Aunt’s house for brunch.”

“Your mom never went with you?”

This gives me pause. Conner understands about broken families. Maybe this is how I can get him to talk to me about Meredith. “Her decision to marry my dad was…let’s just say it caused arguments. Mom would join us sometimes. My brother hated going, sitting around listening to all the old people talk, it drove him crazy, while I loved it.”

“Yeah, I get family drama.”

“Did you have big family dinners on Sunday afternoons when you were growing up?”

“When my mom was alive, we would go to my grandparents. Once she died my dad and his family stopped visiting.”

“Did you see Meredith very often after you moved to the farm?”

“Did your family cook Mediterranean or American food?” Conner finally answers.

“Both of my parents worked crazy hours. My grandmother raised me. She picked me up from school, took me to after-school activities, and made us dinner. So yes, she always spoke Arabic, and she always cooked Middle Eastern food. Did you enjoy Middle Eastern cooking when you were over there?”

 “At first, it was strange. But I learned to like hummus and tzatziki, actually, all the guys got into kebabs. In Afghanistan, I ate a lot of Naan, kebabs, and rice. Yeah, the food was surprisingly good in the Middle East. Now I prefer it to the casseroles I grew up with.”

“So the stereotype of Midwesterners eating casseroles is true?”

“I can’t talk to all of the Midwest, but that’s what my grandma would make. It seems like a long time ago. Some other person’s life when I think about living there.”

“Have you been back?”

 “Once, nothing had changed except me. I’ve called back a few times. My dad and I have a difficult relationship. I was close with my grandfather, but he died.”

It leaves me cold thinking that he has no real home to go back to. Then again Meredith never goes back either. Mom and I are continually texting. I can’t imagine what life would be like without her.

“Hey Olivia, it’s been nice talking to you. Do you mind if I call you again?”

“Sure, it’s a nice break from schoolwork…but I have to tell you, just talking about Middle Eastern cooking has made me hungry. I’ll have to get Sam to take me off campus to Orems, they make great shakshuka.”

I hang up the phone. My roommate Jennifer came in somewhere in the middle of the conversation.

“Who were you talking to?”

“What?” I say feeling like I got caught doing something wrong.

“That wasn’t your grandmother.”

“Why’d you say that?”

“You’re voice and mannerisms were in total flirt mode. I have no idea what you were saying, but there had to be a hot guy at the other end of that phone.”

I smile slyly at her as I pick my book back up and feign interest. Shit, I promised Meredith I wouldn’t flirt with her brother. But he has something, I don’t know what it is. I can feel myself buzzing with anticipation, hoping he’ll call me again.