An Armenian-American woman rediscovers her roots and embraces who she really is in this vibrant and heartfelt queer rom-com by debut author Taleen Voskuni.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Sorry, Bro by Taleen Voskuni, which is out January 31st 2023!
When Nar’s non-Armenian boyfriend gets down on one knee and proposes to her in front of a room full of drunk San Francisco tech boys, she realizes it’s time to find someone who shares her idea of romance.
Enter her mother: armed with plenty of mom-guilt and a spreadsheet of Facebook-stalked Armenian men, she convinces Nar to attend Explore Armenia, a month-long series of events in the city. But it’s not the mom-approved playboy doctor or wealthy engineer who catches her eye—it’s Erebuni, a woman as equally immersed in the witchy arts as she is in preserving Armenian identity. Suddenly, with Erebuni as her wingwoman, the events feel like far less of a chore, and much more of an adventure. Who knew cooking up kuftes together could be so . . . sexy?
Erebuni helps Nar see the beauty of their shared culture and makes her feel understood in a way she never has before. But there’s one teeny problem: Nar’s not exactly out as bisexual. The clock is ticking on Nar’s double life, though—the closing event banquet is coming up, and her entire extended family will be there, along with Erebuni. Her worlds will inevitably collide, but Nar is determined to be brave, determined to claim her happiness: proudly Armenian, proudly bisexual, and proudly herself for the first time in her life.
Along the rows I read the names of Mom-approved bachelors, and the columns are as follows: Age, Occupation, Family, City, Country of Origin, Height, Photo, and RSVPs.
Eight rows are entirely filled, with some question marks in the columns. I grab a quick sip of tea and instantly burn my tongue. Damn it, I always time it wrong, and the tea goes lukewarm before I’m brave enough to try it again. Though I’m terrified at my mom’s meticulousness, I have to admit I’m a little impressed. Since my mom retired from her high school math position, she’s seemed a bit bored, directionless. Could also be attributed to Dad being gone and Nene having to move in. When Dad was alive, no, they didn’t always get along, but they were always doing things. Having people over, going out to the country club, organizing fundraisers, volunteering for this or that association. Now Mom feels trapped at home with Nene because Nene refuses to take care of herself, and I feel bad that my job keeps me away so much of the time, but it’s more than that. Without Dad, Mom seems to think she isn’t supposed to be out in society anymore, that her life is basically on pause until I produce some grandchildren. She’s hinted as much.
So I guess it’s not a terribly big surprise that she’s poured so much effort into the creation of this document, which will hopefully be a stepping-stone to the end goal of a bunch of rug rats for her to chase after. I get it; every parent wants to be a grandparent (their reward for surviving parenthood), but I suspect my mom’s just bored senseless. It’s on me, I guess, to take this spreadsheet seriously and pull her out of the doldrums. Erebuni, though. She’s not anywhere in “Mom’s vision of Nareh’s Life Plan.”
I sit back. “Damn, Mom, you put a lot of effort into this.” “You like it?” She’s smiling big. She knows she’s done good.
“Don’t say your mayrig doesn’t work hard.” “I don’t say that.”
“I know you think this.”
I shake my head just a bit and scan the list. It appears not all these guys are going to be at all the events (at least according to Facebook RSVPs). At the top she’s put Raffi and Arek. Of course Raffi gets top billing. Arek has a question mark by his country of origin. I point to that square. “Arek is either Barsgahye or Hyastansti. Also, he’s from Fresno. But it doesn’t matter, I told you I wasn’t into him—we’re just friends.”
She pulls the laptop toward her and clacks the keyboard, filling the box with Armenia?; she says while typing, “Not that many Barsgahyes in Fresno. Anyway, you didn’t give him a chance. Try again.”
I tell her okay, though in my mind I’m like, Bzzt, nope.
On to the next. “Armen, getting his PhD at Stanford in chemical engineering.”
Oh. The eggplant guy from the cooking class. There’s a tug in my stomach as I’m transported back to that kitchen—the interview with Erebuni, the way she stared at me, anticipating, lips barely parted.
I shake myself. “I met him last night. He wasn’t my type.” “Not your type? He is very good-looking! See his height? Six feet.”
Damn. She is right on with that. “How do you know these heights?”
“For some, I have seen them, or I know their parents. You take weighted average, giving the father seventy percent more weight. If I haven’t met them, I look at Facebook, see them next to others, and guess.”
“That’s very . . .” I try for euphemistic. “Well thought out.”
I turn back to the spreadsheet and press on, hoping we can get through this quickly so I can head upstairs and daydream about making out with a witch. “Sako the real estate agent. From Syria. Okay, okay. He’s fine-looking.”
Mom annotates excitedly, “I’ve heard he’s the number one agent in San Francisco. I got it from Angelina, who is also real estate.”
I nod to let her know I’m listening, even though I am not feeling the same thrill about real estate sales. I wonder if it’s because of Erebuni. God, I have no idea if she likes me like that; I wish I could shut down the Erebuni part of my brain. I squint at the spreadsheet, feigning interest. “Ara, an entrepreneur. That’s a little vague. Oh, his mom was a seamstress, are you sure you want someone whose parents aren’t Rhodes scholars who work at a think tank?”
“I don’t discriminate!”
Says the mom who literally put a list together of men with promising careers and included their parents (aka family pedigree) in the spreadsheet. I don’t fight it, don’t quit now, though this is ridiculous, and it’s all because my mom is having such a good time. I love seeing her this vibrant, her face rosier, eyes brighter than I’ve seen in years. I want to give her this. Let her be happy now, at least, because if by some chance I end up with a woman, it’s going to crush her.
“Kevork the jeweler. Obviously, I was waiting for a jeweler to appear on this list. He’s cute, too.”
“His family owned it, now they passed it down to him. Very good at business, well respected in the community.”
I’ve heard of him. He’s always seemed nice from afar, but I don’t know why any of these guys with their deep networks of friends would be interested in rubbing elbows with an almost stranger. I doubt they’re all wife hunting, but then again, what do I know?
“Zareh, lawyer. Ugh not another lawyer.”
From SORRY, BRO published by arrangement with Berkley, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC. Copyright © 2023 by Taleen Voskuni.
