by Nicola Marsh
“Mother” was one of the few Hindi words she knew, and Kushi loved when she used it.
“You’re a good daughter,” she said, patting her cheek. “Now eat.”
Samira managed to eat several mouthfuls of delicious paneer, the soft cheese flavored with mustard and cumin seeds in a rich spinach gravy, and the amazing okra fried with chili and curry leaves, before Kushi said, “Go live in Southbank, do a good job as consultant for Pia’s fancy-schmancy new practice, but don’t think I’ll forget about introducing you to a nice Indian boy.”
Samira groaned and shot her a filthy look, resulting in a soft chuckle that couldn’t help but warm her heart. According to Pia, Kushi didn’t smile much these days, let alone laugh.
“You will find love again, betee, mark my words.”
Kushi waggled a finger in front of her face, and Samira swatted it away.
She’d let her mom indulge in fanciful daydreams about fixing her up, but Samira knew better.
Love was for schmucks.
Two
Dinner with her mom had gone better than expected, but Samira needed a drink when she got back to her apartment, a nightcap to help reset her body clock. Her excuse; she was sticking to it. Her hankering for bourbon on the rocks had nothing whatsoever to do with her mom’s nagging as she walked her to the door that she must meet “the man who’ll be perfect for you” next week. Yeah, right. The perfect man ranked alongside unicorns and flying swine.
She’d rented an apartment for the next six months in Melbourne’s tallest residential building, Eureka Tower, for one reason: when she’d lived in Melbourne, she hadn’t visited it with Avi. It had the added bonus of being near the one woman guaranteed to join her in a drink and make her laugh enough to forget her mother’s meddling matchmaking.
Pia strode into the bar, and heads turned. At five ten, with a rocking body and cascades of black hair falling to her waist, she looked like an Indian supermodel. The elegant emerald salwar kameez added to her air of mystery. Samira had shunned her mom’s choice of Indian clothing from childhood, and Pia had done the same, but once she’d married Dev, an Indian engineer from Bengaluru, she’d chosen to revert to tradition. It made her stand out in all the right ways.
“Hey, babe, do you come here often?” Pia opened her arms when she reached the bar, and Samira stepped into them, hugging her cousin and best friend tight.
“Lame,” she said, gently shoving her away. “Now sit your gorgeous ass down and let’s order a drink.”
“Perfect.” Pia wrinkled her nose and pointed at Samira’s glass. “Is that bourbon?”
“Don’t judge. I needed it.” She downed the rest of her bourbon and gestured at the bartender. “Vodkatini okay?”
“Better than okay.” Pia unwound the silk scarf from around her neck and slid onto the barstool next to her. “I take it dinner with your mom was a bit of a trial?”
“It was fine,” she said, her gaze darting toward the bottles lining the back of the bar, unable to sustain contact with Pia’s astute stare.
“Let me guess; it went something like this: Samira, my girl, I have a nice Indian boy for you to meet. He’s a doctor. Tall. Handsome. Fair and all.”
Her mimicry of Samira’s mother was so accurate she couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s not funny. Even after the Avi disaster, she wants to poke her nose into my love life.”
“She’s getting old. She’s alone. And she’s Indian.” Pia shrugged. “What else is she going to do?”
“She could butt the hell out,” Samira said, but her chest tightened. Her mom was aging; Kushi would be seventy this year. She’d been widowed five years ago, and that had been the last time Samira visited Melbourne, for her dad’s funeral. Kushi had no family in Melbourne except her sister, Sindhu, Pia’s mother, and during their intermittent phone calls, she never failed to make Samira feel guilty for abandoning her and moving to “that horrible, godforsaken place.”
“It’s tough being back here,” she said, hating the defensive edge in her voice. “I need time.”
The bitterness of her divorce should’ve faded twelve years later. But the moment her plane had touched down on the tarmac at Tullamarine Airport, she’d been swamped with an unwanted blend of regret and anger and sadness, tinged with the faintest hope. Hope that she could move past this and mend the breach with her mom once and for all.
“She cares about you.” Pia patted her cheek in the same way her mom had done to Samira many times growing up. “We all do.”
“I know.” Blinking back tears, Samira nodded her thanks when the bartender placed two vodkatinis in front of them.
“Moving on to more important matters.” Pia leaned in close, her exaggerated whisper conspiratorial. “Did you pack condoms?”
Samira elbowed her away. “I’m here on business, not a Samira-does-Down-Under jaunt.”
“You’re here for six months, right?”
“Right.”
“And you’ve seen the kind of guys Australia produces? Chris Hemsworth. Hugh Jackman. Sam Worthington. Eric Bana. Hello?”
Personally, Samira was a Shahid Kapoor kind of gal. She may only be half Indian, but her love affair with Bollywood couldn’t be denied.
“And you’re single after a dead-end relationship I warned you about?” Pia smirked and nudged her.
“Hamlyn was a nice guy.”
Pia snorted. “Nice is pink tutus and octogenarians and a white Christmas. Nice should not be used to describe the man of your dreams.”
Samira ran a finger around the rim of her glass, a small part of her agreeing but not willing to acknowledge it. “Hamlyn was a nice guy. He treated me well, he didn’t leave the toilet seat up, and he always recapped the toothpaste.”
“That’s awfully nice of him, but did he rock your world?”
Heat seeped into Samira’s cheeks as she silently cursed the girls’ night out they’d had when Pia last visited LA three months ago, when she’d consumed too many margaritas and blurted the sorry tale of her lackluster sex life.
She loved her cousin, and despite living on different continents, they were closer than ever. They Skyped and emailed several times a week, and Pia made an annual pilgrimage to LA. Yet another thing Samira felt guilty about: not reciprocating.
“Whatever.” Samira shrugged. “Besides, Hamlyn is history.”
She’d made sure of it when he suggested they move in together after only dating four months. He’d been her longest relationship post-divorce, but familiarity bred comfort, and to her that meant one thing: trouble.
“Uh-oh.” Pia’s eyes widened before she shook her head. “You’re not still pining for Avi?”
“Hell no.” Bitterness clogged her throat. “I got over that prick a long time ago.”
She hadn’t loved Avi, not at the start. That had come later, after she’d allowed herself to be swept into the Bollywood fantasy she’d always craved. Avi was handsome, suave, and charming, and she’d been sucked in, marrying him within nine months. Over a year later, she’d discovered he’d had an affair, got some nineteen-year-old kuthi pregnant, and was leaving her because that bitch could give him something she couldn’t: a baby.
Since then, she’d vowed to find love her way. Twelve years later, she was still looking.
Pia’s smile waned, and something soft and warm flickered in her coal black eyes. Samira loved that about her. As hard as Pia pushed her, she always knew when to back down. “Fine. You’re over Avi, the Hamster’s history, and you’ve got a smorgasbord of hot Aussie guys waiting for you.”
“I don’t need a fling.”
Samira gestured to the barman for another round of drinks and reached for a strand of hair to twirl around her finger, a lifelong habit, and came up empty. Maybe getting a layered bob the day after she’d dumped Hamlyn hadn’t been such a great idea.
“You’re in denial.” Pia’
s plucked eyebrows shot high. “We both know Wham-Bam-Ham was a three-minute wonder. He was a fuddy-duddy stuck in his ways and boring as bat shit.” She snapped her fingers. “You know what you need? A boy toy. Some hot younger guy to give you a damn good screwing to get rid of the cobwebs.”
Samira wished she could duck behind the polished chrome bar as the barman placed their second round of vodkatinis in front of them, his deadpan expression and barely perceptible twitching mouth signaling he’d heard every word her mega-mouth cousin had said.
Samira reached for her drink and gave her cousin some serious side-eye. “Don’t you have a husband to go home to and annoy?”
“Dev knows where I am. Besides, he’s had his quota of annoyance for one day. It’s your turn.”
“Lucky me,” she said, rolling her eyes.
Pia studied her with an astute gaze. “You’ll have a ball while you’re here. You’ll meet guys, you’ll flirt, you’ll have a fling, and you’ll feel fabulous.”
“Well, when you put it like that.” She clinked glasses with Pia.
“Here’s to Samira Broderick doing the entire eastern seaboard of Australia.” Pia raised her glass before downing her drink in one long chug without spilling a drop.
“I’d settle for one not-so-nice, sex-mad, no-strings-attached type of guy.”
She imitated Pia’s effort, tossing it back quickly, hoping the vodka would help her residual insomnia from crossing the international date line and result in blissful slumber. Considering it was her third drink in twenty minutes and she had a buzz going, goal achieved: she’d probably pass out the minute she hit the bed.
When Pia continued to study her, the scrutiny too intense, Samira changed the subject. “So how are things coming along at the health center?”
Thankfully, Pia bought her diversion. Her cousin’s eyes lit up as she waxed lyrical for the next fifteen minutes about her pride and joy. Samira interjected when needed, but she was content to sit back and listen to Pia. Her cousin’s excitement was infectious, and she looked forward to the challenge of helping her launch the center as a primary allied health venue in Melbourne.
Pia eventually ran out of glowing reports and poked her in the arm. “You should’ve told me to shut up. You know I can talk all night about the center.”
“I like seeing you this enthusiastic.” Samira smiled. “We still on for lunch tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Meet me at Dosa Villas at midday, and we can discuss more of the nitty-gritty details about the practice.”
“Sounds good.”
She needed to focus on work, not the odd disassociated feeling plaguing her since she’d come home. She’d built a reputation as one of LA’s best physical therapists specializing in unusual therapies, from clinical Pilates to dialect coaching, but consulting on a new, first-of-its-kind, innovative health center in her home city had filled her with a trepidation she didn’t usually associate with her job.
It was all about being back in Melbourne and the overwhelming guilt she felt returning home. Guilt for not being woman enough to keep her husband. Guilt for not producing the babies he wanted. Guilt for intrinsically blaming her mother for it all and driving a wedge between them because of it.
Samira could feel her emotions starting to spiral, so she faked a yawn.
Pia immediately stood. “I should go and let you get some rest.”
Samira raised her half-full glass. “I’ll just finish this. That way I’ll be fully comatose to fight off the pitfalls of jet lag.”
“Go for it.” Pia rewound her scarf before dropping a peck on her cheek. “It’s good to have you home, Cuz.”
Samira knew if she responded with “it’s good to be home,” it would sound like a hollow lie, so she settled for, “We’re going to have a blast hanging out, both in and out of work.”
Pia hesitated and glanced around. “Are you sure you want to stay here? You’re always welcome at our place—”
“With you and Dev trying to make a baby?” She grimaced. “No, thanks.”
The moment the retort popped out of her mouth, Samira wished she could take it back. Her cousin had been trying to have a baby for the last two years, and while Pia joked about it herself, Samira knew firsthand the pain of not being the baby-maker expected of a good Indian wife, though in Pia’s case their fertility problems stemmed from Dev.
Thankfully, Pia appeared unfazed by her blunder. “Well, if you get tired of apartment life, you know you’re always welcome.”
“Thanks, you’re the best.” Samira stood and hauled Pia in for a hug.
“You’re only saying that because I’m your new boss.”
Samira bumped her with her hip. “And I’m your world-renowned consultant, so you’d better treat me nice or I’ll head back to LA where I know I’m appreciated.”
Pia rolled her eyes and blew her a kiss as she strolled away, elegant and stunning in a way Samira never could be. Pia owned her heritage. While they both had Indian mothers and Caucasian fathers, everyone recognized Pia as being Indian, while Samira, with her streaked light brown hair, hazel eyes, and lightly tanned olive skin, was consistently mistaken for other nationalities, from Greek to Spanish to Maori to Hispanic.
It served to accentuate her inherent feelings of not belonging, of being lost. Lost to her heritage, lost in relationships, lost in the divide between countries and culture.
She downed the remainder of her vodkatini in two gulps, only to find a replacement appear before her like magic.
“You look like you could use another?” The hipster, barely out of his teens, stroked his beard as he studied her with blatant speculation. His brown eyes glittered with intent behind black-rimmed glasses.
Jet lag, a bellyful of Indian food, and the alcohol had lowered her resistance. She didn’t want to appear rude, so she picked up the glass and said, “Thanks.”
“Your accent is hot.” He slid onto the barstool Pia had just vacated, and Samira guzzled her drink to refrain from responding.
“Can I get you another?”
“This is fine for now.” She raised the almost-empty glass in a silent cheer, and he shrugged, obviously nonplussed she didn’t want to flirt.
“Care to share my cab sav?” He picked up his wineglass and waved it under her nose like a sommelier. “Then we can share anything else you want.”
He leaned on the bar, making his biceps bulge beneath a black T, continuing to swirl his wine like he wanted to hypnotize her.
He winked, and Samira stiffened, dread making her skin prickle. Avi used to wink at her all the time, and she hated that such an innocuous gesture could awaken her old insecurities.
If her mom knew about Avi’s impending fatherhood, the entire Indian community would. Their overt pity would stifle her as much as their sly glances, their effusiveness as bad as their gossip. Her twelve-year-old divorce would mean nothing in the face of momentous news like Avi’s second child. And the fact she was still single and childless would only add to their rumormongering.
The less time she spent at home in Dandenong over the next six months, the better.
“Hey, was it something I said?” Hipster Dude touched her hand, and she flinched.
“I’m old enough to be your mother. Go hit on someone your own age.”
His eyes narrowed, but not before she glimpsed a mean glint. “Not sure if you know, but when a guy buys you a drink, you act a little nicer.”
Before she could tell him to take a hike, his arm shot out and grabbed her arm, his fingers digging in too tight.
“Hey.” Outrage warred with shock, but before she could react, a shadow fell over them.
“Sorry I’m late, honey.”
Samira’s head spun a little—four drinks in less than an hour had been a bad idea—but she registered a surprisingly deep voice. A Chris Hemsworth voice, low and resonant, the kind of voice that sounded
sexier with an Australian accent. Confused, she glanced at the owner of the seductive voice, and he looked nothing like what she’d imagined. From its bass timbre, she’d expected a Connery-Clooney clone, an older guy, suave and mature. Instead, he had a surfer thing going on, with ruffled hair the color of her favorite caramel latte, vivid blue eyes bordering on aquamarine, and the kind of jaw and cheekbones that channeled Chris. She really needed to stop watching Thor on repeat.
He was incredibly handsome. And young, mid to late twenties, max. Way too young to have a voice like that, and she wished Pia hadn’t put the thought into her head about boy toys and damn good screwings.
“I’d appreciate you taking your hands off my girlfriend,” he said, eyeballing the hipster, as she gawked like an ingenue.
“Whatever,” Hipster Dude muttered, releasing her, his mouth downturned in a sulk as he raised his glass in a mock cheers. “Old chicks have too many hang-ups anyway.”
Samira had no idea what happened next. Maybe she pushed away from the bar too hard, maybe Sexy Voice deliberately bumped the hipster, or maybe Hipster Dude was a vindictive jerk, but in a split second his wineglass had upended all over the front of her boyfriend’s white T-shirt.
“Fuck,” he muttered, as Hipster Dude smirked before sauntering away and Samira stared at the burgundy stain spreading across his T.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, ineffectually swiping at the stain with napkins she snatched off the bar.
He smiled, his eyes crinkling in the corners as he watched her pat down his chest, and Samira held her breath. He had a killer smile, one of those smiles that could make a woman swoon or rip off her clothes or both, the type of smile that transformed his face from cute to drop-dead gorgeous.
“That guy was a douche.”
“Yeah, thanks for saving me.” She placed the sodden napkins on the bar and eyed the stain with horror. “That’s my fault.”
“Don’t sweat it.”
“I’ve got something in my apartment that could get the stain out . . .” She trailed off, heat scorching her cheeks. She’d offered in a genuine attempt to fix his T-shirt, but it sounded like a ploy to get him upstairs.
