Give Love a Chai (Common Threads Book 2)

by Smartypants Romance

  When Andrew looked at me again, his eyes were shuttered. He looked, but I wasn’t sure if he saw me anymore. When we were younger, people thought he was cold, aloof, hard. But to me, when I looked closely enough, his eyes would show what he didn’t say. Now, those beautiful, expressive eyes were dull.

  There was a bleakness in how he carried himself, a half breath deflated. I understood. I was completely deflated and defeated by this whole situation. There was a reason why I had moved on. The past was too thorny, and I had no place in my life for complications.

  Sounding far away, yet too close, Andrew finally responded to Clayton’s invitation. “Sure, just text me the time and place. My number hasn’t changed since New York.”

  Ai ya ya. As if this encounter wasn’t awkward enough, I could look forward to an engagement party with Clayton’s very proper parents, my very prim parents, our friends, my fiancé, and my husband. A whole night of fun!

  I gave a half-hearted wave of goodbye as Andrew left my office, more out of politeness than anything else. Taking a deep breath, I turned around to face my fiancé.

  Clayton looked down at his Patek Philippe watch and pointed toward the door. “You still got time before your next class. You want to try the new burger food truck outside?”

  I peered at him, trying to see the questions that he must have. What hidden meanings were behind his suggestion of food trucks? Would burgers loosen my tongue enough to spill the secrets of my past? Was the glance at his watch a not-so-subtle reminder of his Kennedy-esque wealth and family connections? Could he read the guilt all over my face?

  “You okay, Tia?” He peered back at me, his lips curved up in a teasing smile. “Should we get some food? I don’t know about you, but breakfast was a long time ago.”

  Huh.

  I guess he really did just want to get burgers? His gaze was curious, but there was no censure. Yet, I reminded myself. Clayton didn’t know who Andrew was. Well, he did. Or rather does know him. Just not all the ways we were connected. In the past! Andrew and I were connected in the past. Not connected now. Very painfully disconnected now.

  Ai ya ya. I shook my head a little to get my brain started again. Seeing Andrew had charged my brain and fried it all at the same time. Seeing Andrew and Clayton together had spun that charged, fried brain into a muddle. Not a puddle, mind you, because I hoped that my brain was still solidly inside my head. Just a solid, charged, fried mess of thoughts that were banging against my skull.

  By this time, Clayton was starting to look worried. Before I could get out of my mental muddle, he grabbed my coat, draped it over me and pushed me gently out of the door. “C’mon, Tia, you look like you need some fresh air and food.”

  Whether it was something he was born with or a lifetime spent being dragged on the campaign trail for his father, Clayton had this instinct for making people feel comfortable. He may not know exactly why I was out of sorts, but he sensed enough to keep up a stream of small talk while I devoured my burger. Nothing that I really needed to respond to—a little bit about his day, a bill that his father was trying to pass in the senate, some funny videos that his brother had sent.

  He was right. I did need fresh air, food, and normalcy. Sitting on a bench with a cheeseburger and a bucket of greasy fries, I felt human again. My brain had upgraded to a functioning muddle. I could do stuff … like talk to my fiancé.

  “Small world, huh? You and Andrew knowing each other.”

  My heart sank with guilt, as I thought about what to say. Two weeks after the almost-kiss, I still couldn’t reconcile what had happened. I didn’t do things like fly halfway across the country to see a guy. I had never been tempted by someone else when I was in a relationship.

  Yet here I was, still tempted by the possibility of Andrew and me. Was he right? Have we matured enough that we could have more good than bad? Because the good—the sense of rightness and utter joy in being around him—those were highs that I hadn’t achieved with Clayton, no matter how much I tried.

  Clayton is the right choice. I had to keep reminding myself. No one would question why I chose Clayton. If I were really honest with myself, part of his appeal to me was his universal appeal. I would never have to fight with my friends or parents to accept him. If everyone agreed that getting engaged to him was a coup, then, they can’t all be wrong, right?

  We weren’t in some movie where Clayton was the evil guy standing between soulmates. This was real life. I was ready to be Mrs. Clayton Davenport, and if that meant brunches at the country club with his golf buddies and their wives, wearing argyle and pearls, then so be it. Well, maybe not the argyle part. But yes to being Mrs. Clayton Davenport. And definitely yes to being Mrs. Clayton Davenport without committing bigamy.

  Clayton deserved to know the truth about my marriage. However, this was not a conversation to have on a crowded campus, minutes before I had to go to class. We needed privacy. After I prepared a speech. Oh, and finalize the divorce for real this time.

  I finally responded, “Well, Andrew and I were friends when we were kids. We sort of drifted apart, sometime after high school.”

  “Did you know he was going to show up today?” Clayton asked.

  “No! Not at all. It was a total surprise.” I shook my head vigorously.

  “Tia,” Clayton said. He turned me around to face him completely, pulling me closer toward him. “It’s okay. So you dated before.”

  “What?” I yelped. “How’d you know?”

  He laughed, his hands seeking mine. “You have the most expressive face of anyone I’ve ever met. Your face is your captions. Anybody would have known how awkward you felt when we were in your office. You two have a weird dynamic, so I just assumed.”

  Sighing a breath of relief, I sorted through my head what I could admit at this moment. “It ended rather badly between us.”

  “Of course,” Clayton said. “Are there any good breakups? If it had ended happily between you two, you’d still be together. You didn’t do something silly like marry him back then, right?”

  “Ha ha,” I forced out, trying to join in on his joke. “That’s funny.”

  Ai ya ya. Maybe I would tell Clayton about Andrew when we were eighty. Or ninety. He might have a chuckle then. Or, drag my wrinkly butt to divorce court. To be clear, my butt would presumably be wrinkly when I was ninety. My current butt was perfectly non-wrinkly. Ahhh, now I would think about wrinkly and firm butts while teaching my students about the importance of data visualization as a tool to communicate results in data science.

  Visualizing butts.

  Chapter Six

  Tia

  December 1, 2009 (never sent)

  Andrew,

  I cleaned my room today and found a stash of red envelopes that had contained money that my parents and relatives had given me over the years. The envelopes are empty now—all of the money has been safely deposited into savings accounts. I don’t think I’ve ever spent any of those gifts.

  I’ve been thinking a lot lately. I might have panicked too much about the lack of money when we were married. I shouldn’t have made you feel guilty and should have trusted you that we would be okay. At the time, it was scary. I was so afraid of getting cut off from my parents and maybe … too used to having them pay for everything I wanted. Nice purses and pretty necklaces seemed way too important. How silly of me.

  Ting

  “You’re feeling okay? Ready to have dinner with my mom?”

  “Yup, yup. Right as rain. Fit as a fiddle. Easy as pie. Pleased as juice.”

  A small smile tipped Clayton’s mouth. “Punch.”

  “No, no! I don’t want to punch your mom. I want her to like me. Why, did she say something to you?” I frowned, trying to think of my last interaction with his mom. Was interaction even the right word? At the time, it had felt more like a battle, where Judy Davenport was the commander and I the loyal soldier as we strategized through walls of blindingly white wedding dresses. Or rather, she critiqued while I served as the mannequi
n.

  “No, the saying goes ‘pleased as punch,’ not ‘juice.’ You don’t have to be nervous about my mom. It’s just dinner,” said Clayton as he helped me step out of his BMW. He handed his keys and a bill to a nearby valet.

  It was a reminder of how much I had to learn about Clayton’s world. You see, in a regular world, you tip the valet after you pick up your car and hope that there were only small nicks on the bumper. In Clayton’s world, you front a tip to ensure that your brand-new BMW got preferential treatment, as well as a tip after when you find that, yes, indeed, your car came back with no suspicious extra mileage.

  Unable to stop the rush of words, I asked, “By the way, why is it ‘pleased as punch’? How can punch be pleased? The only time I’ve seen punch is at frat parties, and that punch was sketchy.”

  “Hmm, I’m not sure.”

  “Right as rain? Is that a judgement that rain is good and sunshine is bad? What about those in-between moments of cloudiness or snow? Unless snow is considered rain since it’s water too?”

  “Tia, there’s no need to—”

  My brain told me to shut up. As usual when I was nervous, my mouth didn’t listen. “Fit as a fiddle? Is a fiddle supposed to be lean? I thought fiddles were curvy with a thin neck though curvy can absolutely be fit too. Also—”

  “Tia.”

  “Oh, hi, Mrs. Da—Judy!” Drat, we were already inside the country club’s lavish dining room.

  “Darling Clayton, you look well.” Judy Davenport stood and reached over to press an adoring kiss to her son’s cheeks. Her blue eyes turned to me, significantly cooler as she remarked, “Tia.” Pause. “Do you have pumpkins dangling from your earlobes?”

  My hands reached up toward my ears. I tried to shrug Judy’s censure off. “It’s Halloween next Thursday. I was going for festive.”

  “Next time, why don’t you try for elegant?” she said, smoothing her slacks as she sat down in one of the dark green velvet chairs in the large dining room. I called the things you wore on your legs “pants.” She wore “slacks.”

  Heat blazed across my cheeks, as I stared at my brand-new loafers. From the top of my head, I heard Clayton cut in. “Mother, I think they look cute.”

  Judy sniffed, as she studied the menu. “Puppies are cute. My future daughter-in-law should be a source of pride for our family.”

  I shook my head slightly at Clayton, to stop him from protesting. Clearly, I was not Judy’s ideal woman for her firstborn son, and all three of us knew it. I was simply going to learn to deal with this. It wasn’t worth arguing over.

  My nerves were already frayed from Andrew showing up in my office two days ago. He hadn’t tried to contact me since, but just knowing that he was still in Boston and coming to the engagement party had resulted in higher, late-night ice cream consumption.

  Survive the engagement party! Afterward, I could try to figure out how I could be more before the wedding in June.

  The waiter came and took our orders. Clayton kept up a steady pace of conversation, while I watched silently except to agree at appropriate moments. Though different in temperament, Clayton resembled his mom physically. Their blond hair shone under the chandeliers, as blue eyes rested under light brown eyebrows. They both had khaki slacks and button-down shirts, though Judy had a cashmere sweater draped around her shoulders. They looked like walking, talking Brooks Brothers models.

  Under Judy’s watchful eyes, I refused the waiter’s offer of dessert and opted instead for some hot chai. While we sipped our digestifs (the fancy word for drinking after food), Judy turned her attention fully to me.

  I swallowed my tea. That was a mistake. I clenched my teeth against the pain of scalding hot tea going down my throat.

  “Tia, did you get my message this morning? I made those changes you had asked for.” One elegant eyebrow arched up in question.

  “Yes, Judy. Thank you for considering my feedback to add some Chinese food to the menu. It does mean a lot to me and to my parents. But, um, could we pick different food options? Not to be difficult.”

  Her eyebrow rose higher, as if that eyebrow doubted my claim of not being difficult. “It was very fortunate that the hotel was able to accommodate those late menu changes.”

  Frustration brewed. Clayton’s mother, his mother. Remember, she matters more than food. Yet, my mouth came back with, “That was very fortunate indeed. It’s just that, crab rangoon and fortune cookies aren’t authentically Chinese. Actually, there are some theories that say that crab rangoon was invented by a Caucasian American and that fortune cookies stem from the Americanization of a Japanese tradition. Some historians even think that fortune cookies became more closely associated with Chinese-Americans around World War II when Chinese manufacturers started producing them when Japanese-Americans were sent to internment camps. So you see, it just feels odd to serve just those two dishes when there are so many other, more authentic options. How about Beijing roast duck, or maybe even steamed dumplings? Those are Chinese and from where I’m from in China.”

  I stared at Judy’s disapproving face. Hastily, I added, “Both dishes are pretty palatable and common in the US too. You don’t even need to have a server cut the whole duck in front of you—you could have it pre-cut beforehand. I mean, taco bars are sort of the rage. You could think of it as a hip, make-your-own-duck-wrap taco thing … No?”

  “Tia, you’re marrying my son, whose father is a United States senator. This party is in Boston. For goodness’ sake, we’re not trying to fly everyone to China for an immersive experience. You insisted on wearing that, whatever that dress is called—”

  “Qi pao.”

  “That thing. I think you’ve made your point clearly. No one is forgetting that Clayton is marrying a Chinese girl. At least, your name is pronounceable.”

  Silence.

  “Mother, I don’t think Tia is trying to—”

  “Clayton darling. I mean it. I want our guests to feel comfortable too.”

  “Mother, the guests can deal with having dumplings or whatever food Tia wants. No one is coming for the food,” Clayton pressed, looking more and more uncomfortable with the exchange.

  “If no one is coming for the food, then why is it a big deal what we serve?”

  Breathe.

  Contorting my face into a placating smile, I cut in, “You’re right, Judy. I’m sorry to have made a fuss. As you said, it was very nice of the hotel to make changes at the last moment. I really appreciate you changing the menu.”

  “Good, I’m glad that’s settled. One more thing that I wanted to discuss with you, Tia.” She folded her hands in front of her as she studied me. “I was hoping you would have signed the prenuptial agreement before the engagement party. Considering it’s tomorrow, it doesn’t seem likely. Was there an issue with our proposal?”

  “Your proposal,” muttered Clayton, red tinging his cheekbones. “Mother, I don’t think we should talk about this here. I’m not sure we even need one.”

  “It’s fine,” I said. Had I been slightly offended when Clayton’s parents had their lawyers draft a prenup? Sure. But I understood. The Davenports had a lot of assets to protect. It was my lawyer’s review of the contract that had unearthed my non-divorce. In comparison, what was a prenup request when compared to the fact that I wasn’t legally allowed to marry Clayton?

  “My lawyer is still reviewing it, Judy,” I hemmed.

  “You’re still okay with the background check? It’s not that we don’t know you, but you never know.” Judy’s voice was gentle, yet her blue eyes looked at me in challenge. In my periphery, I could see Clayton open his mouth to protest.

  “Yes,” I fibbed, keeping my toes crossed. As soon as I get a divorce and burn the evidence. Would the almost-kiss show up in a background check? Maybe Andrew had security cams, and someone hijacked it, and then that person sold it to the Davenports. Had I been watching too many British detective shows? Or was that my guilt talking?

  “Good, good, then.” She glanced subtly
at her probably Swiss-made watch.

  “I’ll grab the check.” Looking relieved that we hadn’t caused more of a scene, Clayton waved our server over enthusiastically.

  With my mind unsettled and filled with discontent, I let Clayton steer the conversation back to safer ground. He quickly paid for dinner, and the three of us left the cavernous dining room for the valet station. After seeing his mother into her Mercedes, he turned to me, with a boyish smile on his face.

  “How about a walk, before I drive you home?”

  I smiled in response. Without Judy around, it wasn’t hard to remember why I was planning to marry this charismatic, handsome man.

  Clayton: the perfect man, the perfect boyfriend, the perfect fiancé. He would probably be the perfect husband, father, son-in-law. And I wanted that perfect life.

  So what if I wished that he defended me more in front of his mom? I knew that he stayed silent to keep the peace, not because he actually believed his mom.

  I had lucked out when I met him during a visit to my friend Pippa in Manhattan. I had tagged along on a sunset cruise chartered by Pippa and chanced to sit next to Clayton during dinner. He had no one else on his other side, and it had been too loud to converse with other people across the table. Unlike most of my attempted conversations with men under the age of eighty, this conversation was easy.

  A few months later, Clayton accepted a job at a law firm in Boston, and we reconnected as friends. We commiserated together while he studied for the Massachusetts bar and I despondently procrastinated over writing my never-ending thesis. Before I could write, there had always been one more puppy video to view or another book waiting to be read.

  Writing a thesis was like finding matching socks after doing laundry. You were forever putting more socks into the washing machine than what you would end up with when the cycle was done. Likewise, I was endlessly typing and researching, and after what felt like a million words later, my word count would mysteriously increase by only two hundred. There must be a black hole filled with charts and words from my dissertation floating somewhere in space.