“So, let me get this straight—you’re telling me that your dad’s Somalian, your mom's French, you were born in Saudi Arabia, grew up in Italy, then moved to Chicago, and now you’re here in New York?”
“Exactly,” Ali confirmed, grinning.
I laughed, pretending to scrutinize his face. “Wow. Talk about multicultural. You really don’t look French at all, though. More like African-Arab.
”He gave me a half-smile. “Yeah, I didn’t inherit her looks. But I’m a lot like her in other ways. She was really kind.”
His gaze shifted to the table.
“Oh, she was?” I asked softly.
He looked up and nodded, his smile a little sad. “Yeah, she’s…gone. She erm, died in a plane crash about five years ago.”
“Oh.” I paused, unsure of what to say. Comforting wasn’t exactly my strength. “I’m really sorry to hear that.”
He gave a small nod, swirling his spoon absentmindedly. “Thanks. It’s okay.”
We both went quiet for a moment. Then, Ali managed a small smirk. “My dad’s remarried now.”