by Nicola Marsh
“I’m sorry, Mom,” she said, enveloping Kushi in a hug. She didn’t need to elaborate, and they clung to each other for a while before Kushi eased away, dabbing at her eyes with the corner of her sari.
“I’ll get rid of them so we can talk.”
“That’ll be nice,” Samira said. “Tell them I’m on a call and can’t say goodbye.”
“I didn’t teach you to lie.” Kushi waggled her finger, but a smile tugged at her mouth. “But after what that tactless Sushma said, I’ll gladly do it.”
They shared a conspiratorial smile before Samira ducked out of the kitchen and into her childhood bedroom to wait out the interminable farewells. She knew it would take a while, as Kushi exhorted her guests to take home any leftover food and the aunties pretended to refuse but would leave with foil-wrapped parcels regardless.
She closed the door and reached for the light switch, illuminating a virtual time warp.
Nothing had changed.
Emotion welled in her chest as she spun a slow three-sixty, taking in the batik bedspread, the bookshelves crammed to overflowing, the anatomy textbooks stacked in a corner. She’d favored a yellow-and-white color scheme in her teens, with fake bunches of daisies and daffodils in tall vases bracketing either end of her desk, where she’d spent countless hours poring over online study guides for her physical therapy exams.
Taking a deep breath, she opened the wardrobe, not surprised to see a rainbow-colored salwar kameez pushed to one side. Kushi had bought her one every six months in the hope she’d change her mind about wearing Indian garb, but she never had; it hadn’t stopped her mom from buying more.
Slamming the door shut, she whirled back to face the room, unprepared for the flood of nostalgia that made her want to crawl under the covers and hide out for a week.
She’d lived at home until her marriage to Avi and hadn’t set foot in this room since the night before her wedding. When they’d separated, she’d rented a tiny one-bedroom flat in Carnegie until she’d fled Melbourne altogether, so being here thrust her back to a time she didn’t welcome.
She’d been starry-eyed that last night in here, dreaming of having a happily ever after with her Bollywood prince. Avi had been so suave, so self-assured, she’d never doubted they would have a wonderful marriage. After all, she’d been the one against it from the start, bucking tradition and her mom’s choice of groom, only to be wooed by his persistence and charm.
She’d been a virgin before she’d married, so she had spent her last night in this room hot and bothered, dreaming about her first time with Avi. She’d been so naive for twenty-two, her head filled with romantic notions and unobtainable fairy tales.
She may have blamed Kushi for pushing her toward Avi, but she’d also blamed herself for being so caught up in the whirlwind that she hadn’t stopped to question anything. She’d sugarcoated Avi’s faults, labeling his arrogance as confidence, his sleaziness flirtatious, his selfishness self-assuredness. He’d professed to love her, and she’d believed him, because for the first time in her life she’d felt a part of something bigger, embraced by the Indian community that had often eyed her sideways for the simple fact she had an American father.
She’d hated their stupid reverse racism, and the aunties her mom had ushered out the door had been a big part of that. Having her mom admit they’d ostracized her when she’d married someone outside her culture made sense of why they never socialized with her family. She’d assumed Kushi preferred being at home, but to learn the real reason . . . it made her mad. Especially as Kushi had turned to them in her hour of need because her own daughter hadn’t been around.
Her mom may have embraced them after her dad died because she felt alone, but Samira couldn’t imagine these judgmental women would’ve been truly supportive. She couldn’t remember them being at her dad’s funeral or his wake. Then again, her mom had wanted to keep both private, and only her parents’ closest friends had attended, her dad’s mostly. Nobody apart from Sindhu and Pia had attended from her mom’s circle. And Samira had been too wrapped up in her own grief to find out why.
Craving a glass of wine more than ever, she edged the bedroom door open and listened. Farewells faded down the corridor, and when she heard the familiar creak of the front door as it shut, she breathed a sigh of relief and exited the bedroom.
“You can come out now,” Kushi said. “They’re gone.”
Samira didn’t want to delve too deeply into her mom’s friendships. It was none of her business, because as Kushi had said, these women had been around for her when Samira hadn’t. But she needed to make it clear she wouldn’t stand for any interference regarding her love life while she was in town, and the sooner Kushi conveyed that message to the Bollywood battle-axes, the better.
“I’ll make some fresh chai,” Kushi said, linking her arm through Samira’s. “Or would you prefer something stronger after that ordeal?”
Samira smiled, knowing her mom didn’t drink but would have a ginger wine stock, her dad’s favorite.
“Chai is fine.” She leaned into her mom, glad for their renewed closeness. She hadn’t expected Kushi to take her side in what just happened. In fact, when she’d walked in on the aunties, she’d suspected an ambush.
But she’d been wrong, and having Kushi stand up for her meant a lot. It gave her hope that once she came clean about Manny, her mom would take the news well.
“I can do it,” she said, moving toward the cupboard above the stove where Kushi stocked her spices.
She’d learned how to make masala chai from a young age because she loved the tantalizing aroma of crushed cinnamon, cloves, and cardamom when they simmered together with pepper, nutmeg, star anise, and tea leaves. Kushi made her own blend by grinding the spices together and kept them in a small red-and-gold tin with a sizable dent in it. Samira had mentioned replacing it once, but her mom wouldn’t hear of it. In fact, she’d become quite upset, so she’d backed down.
“You sit. I’ll make it,” Kushi said, guiding her toward a chair at the small dining table where they’d shared so many meals over the years. “You look tired. Is Pia working you too hard?”
Samira knew the dark circles under her eyes she’d tried to hide with concealer were a result of losing sleep over her stupid argument with Rory rather than working too hard, but one revelation at a time. She’d come here to discuss Manish. She doubted Kushi could cope with learning about Rory too. Not that there was much to tell anymore.
“I’m enjoying the work,” she said. “I’ve even got a client requiring dialect coaching, which is part of my specialized field back in LA.”
She’d almost said “back home” but stopped herself at the last moment. Kushi may have understood her desire to leave her home city, but she never approved and often badgered her into returning during their phone calls.
“And what about Manish? Have you seen him again since your date?”
Great, her mom had given her the perfect opening to segue into the discussion they had to have.
“No, Mom. And it wasn’t a date.”
“You spent time with him; it is a beginning,” Kushi muttered, pouring the steaming chai into two cups before waddling toward the table and setting them down. “He is a lovely man and so perfect for you—”
“I’ve heard those exact words from you before, Mom, and they turned out to be untrue.”
A blush stained Kushi’s cheeks as a frown creased her brow. “Manish is nothing like that horrid Avi.”
Samira agreed, but she needed to put a stop to her mom’s matrimonial hopes once and for all. “How do you know? Did the aunties extol his virtues and you believed them?”
Kushi tut-tutted. “Leave the aunties out of this.”
“No, Mom, because we need to have this conversation, and it’s long overdue.”
The frown between her mom’s perfectly threaded brows deepened. “No good can come
of dredging up the past.”
“This is about the future.” Samira laid a comforting hand on her mom’s forearm. “I like Manish. He is lovely. But there’s no spark between us and we both know it, so we’ve agreed to be friends.”
Disappointment clouded Kushi’s eyes. “But love can grow—”
“Mom, it’s not going to happen. Last time, I got swept up in a fairy tale and living up to expectations. This time, I’m older and wiser and will choose my own men, okay?”
“Men?” Kushi shook her head and slipped her forearm away to fold her arms across her chest. “You should be past the dating stage. You should be looking toward the future.” Her glance slid away. “What about babies—”
“Enough.” Samira held up her hand, ignoring the inevitable twinge of pain whenever the subject of children came up. Her mom knew how difficult it had been for her trying to conceive, and those problems would only be exacerbated now because of her age. “The only reason I told you about meeting up with Manish for coffee is so you would back off. Instead, he’s all you’ve talked about for the last week when we’ve chatted on the phone. So from now on I’d appreciate if you don’t push it, okay?”
Kushi’s lips compressed in a mutinous line Samira had seen many times before. Her mom wouldn’t give up until Samira had a shiny gold band on the ring finger of her left hand. “Friendship can grow into love, but you need to be open to it.”
Samira sighed and reached for her tea. Sipping the fragrant brew should soothe her. It didn’t, because the moment her mom had mentioned being open to love, an image of Rory popped into her head, and she knew all the chais in the world wouldn’t dislodge it.
Twenty-Two
As Rory strode out of Pia’s office for the last time, he knew he had to get his nerves under control or he’d be shot at the audition in two hours.
He had this. Pia had said as much. They’d worked their asses off, and he had to admit his confidence had skyrocketed as a result. But all the dialect exercises and practice in the world couldn’t change one salient fact.
He had to get up in front of a camera and recite from a script without stumbling.
Hard enough for anyone without a speech impediment, but for him? No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t forget the first and only time he’d done this before, when Benedict Dixon had been witness to his humiliation. And now the dickhead would be present again, though this time he wouldn’t see it firsthand; Chris had assured him of that. This role was too big and nothing like the bit part of his first audition where it had been an open set.
Two hours. One hundred and twenty minutes to get his head in the game.
Which meant of course he’d run into Samira.
He’d managed to avoid her and clamp down on the urge to call her since he’d sent that pathetic apologetic text after their confrontation two weeks ago. Once the audition was done, he’d planned on saying sorry in person. But until then, he had to focus.
She stiffened when she caught sight of him in the dimly lit corridor, her hesitation giving him a chance to study her. Man, she looked even hotter than he remembered, with those big hazel eyes and tousled brunette bob and curves he remembered all too well highlighted by a simple black knee-length dress.
Nailing this audition was imperative, and putting their fledgling relationship on hold had been part of his preparation, but seeing her again acted like a sucker punch to the gut, leaving him winded and slightly breathless.
“Hey,” he said, raising his hand in a casual wave, relieved when she crossed the short distance between them.
“How are you?” One of her eyebrows rose, as if daring him to give some trite response.
“Nervous as hell,” he said, the truth spilling from his lips, but he didn’t care. Nothing he said now would change the fact he had to nail the audition of his life in two hours and he’d treated this gorgeous woman appallingly because of it.
“The audition’s today,” she said. A statement, not a question. Then again, she’d already know, considering she’d been helping Dixon. But he couldn’t think about that now. It would only derail his carefully prepared mental plan to deal with the upcoming audition.
“Yeah, I’m heading home to change, then going to the studio.”
“Good luck,” she said, sticking out her hand for him to shake it like some goddamn acquaintance.
“Thanks.” He took her hand and tugged, her body slamming flush against his as he covered her mouth with his.
She gasped in surprise, and he took advantage of it, his tongue seeking out hers, elated when she gripped his shirt and pushed him up against the nearest wall like she wanted to clamber all over him.
He groaned a little, or that might’ve been her, as the kiss deepened. Hot. Long. Sexy as hell.
She broke it off, her breathing ragged as she smoothed down his shirt where she’d bunched it before stepping away.
“That’s one hell of a good luck wish,” he said with a grin.
“I should be mad at you.” She thumped his chest. “And I have been. But I know this audition is important to you, and I hope you kill it.”
“Thanks.”
He wanted to tell her everything right then. Why the money from this job was so important, why the housing commission kids needed the speech therapy program, why he empathized.
But he had to get his head back in the game, starting now.
“Pity you didn’t sabotage my rival.”
Predictably, shutters descended over her eyes. “He’s a client, so you know I can’t discuss him with you.”
“Yeah, I know.” He swiped a hand over his face. “Sorry for being a schmuck.”
A soft sigh escaped her lips. “I’m guessing you have reasons for overreacting the way you did to me coaching him, and for avoiding me after that amazing afternoon we spent together at my place, but I’m too old to play games.”
She brushed a soft kiss on his cheek. “I really do wish you all the best with the audition.”
With that, she left him standing in the corridor, torn between wanting to run after her and run from her as fast as he could because of the unexpected feelings rioting through him.
Twenty-Three
I am so sick of you using me,” Manish said, with a wink as he puffed out his chest. “The least you can do if you’re going to treat me as a plaything is use me for my body.”
Samira rolled her eyes but smiled nonetheless. “You’re an idiot.”
“But you like me anyway, huh?” He wiggled his eyebrows, and she barked out a laugh.
“You know what this lunch is about, so behave.” She grimaced. “My mom doesn’t need the slightest sign of encouragement.”
“Relax, I’ve got this.” He held up his hand to count off points on his fingers. “No flirting. No meaningful eye contact. No touching. No encouraging. No problem.”
If only it would be that easy. Samira had facilitated this lunch to prove to her mom once and for all there was no future with Manish beyond friendship. Because despite their chat after the aunties debacle, Kushi had persisted in calling her every night, and the conversation eventually steered in the direction of Manny being marriage material.
She’d had a gutful.
As if she wasn’t nervous enough about this lunch, she’d had to run into Rory just before leaving the center. Considering his lack of contact, she should’ve slugged him. She’d almost convinced herself their interlude meant nothing and chalked it up to a little homecoming fling. But seeing him again had blown that preconception, as her body flooded with heat at remembrance of exactly how great her home-coming had been each and every time they got together.
Then he’d kissed her as if to prove it, and she’d been a goner. She still wanted him as bad as ever. But she’d been right about one thing: she was too old to play games, so she’d let him get whatever audition funk was plaguing him out of his system, an
d if he wanted to contact her after that, he knew where to find her.
First, she had a lunch to endure.
“What are you thinking?” Manny tapped her temple, and she swatted his hand away.
“How I’m an idiot for entrusting such an important task to a joker,” she said, eyeballing him.
He laughed and held up his hands. “I’ll be good, promise.”
“You better be, otherwise this friendship is over.” She poked him in the chest. “Seriously, my mom has to get the message to stop meddling after this.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got this. Moms love me.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she muttered, as they entered a café not far from her apartment.
She would’ve preferred having lunch there before realizing that would send Kushi mixed messages: insisting Manish was a friend while inviting him to a cozy lunch for three at her place. So she’d settled on impartial ground, and this way, if things got too tense, she could make a break for it.
“There’s your mom,” Manish said, placing a hand in the small of her back before realizing how that looked and dropping it. “Sorry,” he murmured. “Force of habit being a gentleman.”
“I am in so much trouble,” she muttered, deliberately putting some distance between them as they made their way toward the back table she’d reserved where her mom currently had her nose buried in the menu.
When she reached the table, she said, “Hi, Mom,” and bent down to kiss her cheek.
“My darling,” Kushi said, standing and enveloping her in a hug, while murmuring in her ear, “He’s so handsome and tall—”
“And you know Manish,” Samira said, breaking the embrace before her mom could extol the virtues of Manish any longer.
