by Farah Heron
She leaned over and kissed Travis’s forehead. “You’re amazing. I don’t think I’ve said this to any of you, yet, but I’m so glad the four of you turned up in my basement. I wish things could be different for you.”
He smiled. “Thanks, Amira. I’d better get some sleep, though. Go do your lumberjack.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“THEY BROKE UP,” she said as she opened the door to her bedroom, glad Duncan was there. This news was worse for him. She couldn’t see how they could possibly win the competition now. She sat at the desk chair, looking at the floor.
“Shit,” he said. “Is Travis leaving?”
“No, he’ll stay for the competition. Your rehearsals may be tense tomorrow.”
“They’ve been tense all week. This isn’t going to help us win this thing.”
“No. If it’s any help, it doesn’t sound like a particularly fiery breakup. Travis seems more sad than angry.” It wasn’t much of a consolation. Her chest tightened at the memory of the wretched, dejected look on his face when she found him on the sofa. Amira picked at a loose thread on her pants, feeling completely helpless. She wished she could go back in time and prevent the quartet from coming here. She should have insisted Nanima ask them to leave when she got home from Kingston that day. The fact of it was, if the boys hadn’t been here for that damn barbershop quartet competition, she wouldn’t have come up with that terrible beard idea, and Sameer and Travis would still be happy and together, like they belonged. She’d gladly give up her friendship with them for that.
But then again, this barbershop quartet competition was the only reason Duncan was here, too. It was a confusing paradox, and Amira was glad she couldn’t go back in time, because she didn’t really want to change the past. Four days ago, she would’ve been happy never to set eyes on the garden gnome again, but now . . . she looked at him . . .
And Amira noticed for the first time that he was topless. In her bed. The sheet covering his lower half was riding low enough that she wondered exactly what, if anything, he was wearing underneath it. He slowly raised his hands to rest on his chest, and she saw that they were tied together. She swallowed.
“Are you naked?”
He laughed. “Maybe. Why don’t you come take a look? Why do you have Lady Guinevere hair all of a sudden?”
“Travis did it. How did you tie up your own hands?”
“They aren’t really tied up, see?” He freed one hand out by stretching the elastic that was binding them.
She pointed at it. “What is that?”
“I wanted to use your pretty blue scarf but didn’t want to wrinkle it. These are my suspenders.”
She stared at him, blinking as he slipped his hand back into the knotted suspenders.
“So . . .” She wasn’t sure what to say. She wasn’t sure what they had been talking about in the first place. Who turned the heat up?
“You too upset to play?” Duncan asked, shifting a bit and causing the sheet to slip an inch lower. “I understand that. But I’m leaving in two days. We don’t have much more time together.”
“I know.”
“And having sex isn’t going to make things worse for Sameer and Travis.”
“I know. I just feel helpless.” She got up and moved to sit on the edge of the bed. “Obviously, Sameer and Travis’s problems run deeper than just what happened here in Toronto, but those two belong together. I wish Sameer could be honest. He doesn’t even live here, who cares if his family here disowns him? His mother accepts him, shouldn’t that be enough?”
“I know. But it’s not so easy to give up your family. They’re family, Amira. Means more than geography. Growing up, it was just him and his mom. He told me he always loved that he had a big, crazy family to fall back on. I know I’d think twice before doing something that would disappoint mine.”
She absently stroked the skin on his wrist where the suspenders bound him, wondering about the strength of the restraint. Amira had the usual family conflicts, but nothing like this. It was hard to put herself in Sameer’s place. But just like Sameer, her own mother was hiding a relationship because she was worried about her family’s censure. Amira couldn’t imagine doing that. Even though Mum said Nanima wouldn’t be thrilled if she found out about her and Duncan, she would never let that stop her from doing what she thought was best for herself. She would never allow other people’s outdated prejudices to influence any part of her own life. But there was a world of difference between Nanima not being thrilled about her relationship with Duncan, and Shirin disowning Sameer because he’s gay.
And it was probably a moot point—she wasn’t ready to tell Nanima about this thing with Duncan anyway.
“It’s probably more than just disappointing his family,” Amira said. “I’ll bet there’s a small dose of shame in there, too. He’s probably not one hundred percent okay with being gay yet.”
Duncan nodded sadly. “Yeah, I figured the same thing. One thing I’ve learned is it’s a lot of work to escape your upbringing. I can try to be so many things, but the small-town gentleman I was raised to be is still in there. Speaking of which”—he wiggled his bound arms—“you going to keep talking when you got a farm boy tied up in your bed? I am sure Sameer and Travis won’t mind.”
She bit her lip. Slowly, she pulled the sheet down another half inch. Definitely naked under there. “Travis just told me to go do my lumberjack.”
He laughed. “So, what are you waiting for? Do me.” He raised his bound hands over his head, stretching his tight abs and firm pectorals. The stretch caused the inevitable to happen—the sheet was no longer covering anything interesting.
Damn . . . how is it possible that she found a man who saw right into her innermost desires on a broken-down train in the middle of nowhere?
He was right, of course. Whatever she did with Duncan now wouldn’t change anything in the future. Wouldn’t solve Sameer and Travis’s problems, wouldn’t win the competition, or help with her project. It wouldn’t even prevent Duncan from leaving Toronto in two days.
Everything was still uncertain. Everything still hard.
But she could at least forget all that for a few more nights. She could take the pleasure offered to her, for the time being.
She smiled. “Yeah.” She leaned down to gently bite his chest as he hummed with appreciation. “Should we have a safe word or something if you’re going to be tied up?” she asked.
He laughed. “I’m not really tied up, though; it’s an illusion.”
“Still . . .” She ducked her head to nibble some more.
“Biryani,” he said.
Her head jerked up. “What?”
“That’s the safe word. Biryani.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Why?” He looked hurt.
“You do realize we serve biryani at every gathering and celebration ever, and if we use it as a safe word, then every time someone offers me some, I will turn the colour of . . . well, biryani.”
He laughed. “Okay. Bad choice, then.”
She giggled, letting her forehead drop onto his chest.
“How about Port Hope? Remind us of where we met.”
Sentimentality overcame her. That was barely two weeks ago. She hadn’t felt safe that day, nervous about travelling and worried about her final report, and that creep had been harassing her at the train station. But Duncan had swept in and made things safe for her. In two days, he would be gone. And she would be alone again.
“Hey, Amira, you sad?”
“No.” She sat up, blinking. “I’m fine.” She smiled. “Now that I have you tied up in my bed, what will I do with you?”
“Whatever you want. I’m your farm boy, Princess Buttercup.”
Later, after Amira had untied him, he turned on his side, facing her. He threw the blanket over them before wrapping his arms around her, holding her close.
“How the hell am I ever going to leave you?” he whispered into her cheek.
She had just been wondering the same thing.
* * *
AMIRA SLEPT IN the next morning, the sunbeams seeping through the high basement window and stroking her face like warm silk. She felt a heavy weight on her bed and stirred.
“Morning, Princess.” Duncan was sitting on the edge of the bed, showered and dressed, a large mug in his hand. “For you.” He placed the mug on her nightstand and bent for a kiss.
She could get used to this. “Thanks,” she said, propping herself up and inhaling deeply. Chai again. She could get really used to this.
“You were so out, I let you sleep. We’re just taking a break. We started rehearsals early this morning. No practising at all tomorrow to save our voices.”
Amira sat up and lifted the mug. “How are things going out there? The guys are . . . okay?”
He nodded. “Yeah, they are. Everyone’s being a mature adult, but”—he rubbed his neck—“the tension is there. Hope it doesn’t affect our performance tomorrow. Time will tell.”
Amira sipped the chai. It was perfect, of course. “You know what I’ve never asked you? Why’d you join up with these guys you’d never met for this barbershop quartet, anyway? Why is this competition so important to you?”
He rubbed his hand on the back of his neck. “They don’t feel like strangers; they’ve become great friends since we started singing together online.” He paused, thinking. “I’ve been making music for years, I know how rare it is to find a group you connect with that well. We have magic together. But honestly, I need this win for personal reasons.”
“Why? What reasons?”
“My resumé.” He swung his legs onto the bed next to her. “I live in a small town. We don’t even have a school in Omemee anymore, but I substitute teach for the board in neighbouring towns. Lindsay, Port Perry, even Haliburton sometimes. But none of those towns is all too big either. Anyway, there is a school in Peterborough; it’s a different school board, so I don’t work there, but there’s this amazing music teacher. He does band and vocals, but he also brought in a top-tier guitar program and even musical theatre. He’s retiring this year, and I’ve applied for his position.”
“And winning this competition will get you that job?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. These opportunities don’t come up often in the sticks. It’s close by, so I wouldn’t have to move out of Ryan’s place. I know some of the other teachers applying, and I’ve been teaching longer than most of them, so you’d think I’d have it in the bag. I have tons of experience: local bands, music camps, private lessons. But some of these other teachers? One woman was in a major musical production here in Toronto. Another guy had a successful touring band. I even heard someone from one of the big performing arts schools here in the city was applying. I wanted something more unique and prestigious on my resumé. Something other than I sang in a Tragically Hip cover band at the Red Dog.”
“Where?”
“A pub in Peterborough.” He smiled sadly. “Not much I can do now that I haven’t already done. I always tell my students: the feeling you get when making music is the reward, not the fame. Not the recognition, not the contest wins, not even album sales. That’s not why we should be doing this. But”—he shrugged—“sometimes you need some prestige in order to get a leg up.”
While Amira had become intimately familiar with every square inch of his body, this was a side of him she wasn’t familiar with. Duncan had insecurities? Felt less than his peers? Since the day they met, he had been nothing but cocky, confident, and sure of himself, but it turned out Duncan Galahad was human, with human uncertainty, just like her. It was humbling he let her see this. Especially since . . . tomorrow was the competition. And then, he would leave. And they would have to figure out what the hell they were going to do next.
Every moment she spent with Duncan, things felt more real. Stronger. Right now, she couldn’t imagine walking away from him. She wanted more. But . . .
But . . . all the concerns her mother had expressed yesterday came crashing in. Her demanding job. His unstable one. Where he lived. Their commitments to helping their families. Plus, they were from different worlds. Religion, culture, family, everything. Was she caught in a fantasy?
She looked at him, knowing he could see all the warmth, uncertainty, and confusion about the future in her eyes. The emotions were reflected in his gaze. He kissed her, so softly, with so much affection.
He pulled closer, gathering her in his arms as she twisted to close the gap between them. She wanted it all. She wanted to zip open this man and climb inside him forever. She pulled away. The want was terrifying.
“You have to rehearse,” she said, leaning against his forehead.
He smiled as he pulled away. “I came here to ask you something. I know your paper is due Monday, and you’re probably busy, but Sameer wanted me to check if you’re coming to watch the competition tomorrow.”
Amira frowned. “Why does he want me to come?”
“His grandmother is coming.”
She groaned. “Are we going to do all this again?”
Duncan took her hand. “I know it’s weird, but . . . I want you to come too, for me. We can’t let his grandmother know about . . . us, but, be there as my friend?”
Amira thought about it. “Who else will be there?”
“Barrington’s fiancée, Marcia, is driving down from Waterloo. Sameer’s grandmother and one aunt are coming. My brother and Maddie. Plus, Travis’s sister decided at the last minute to drive in from Ottawa. I’m thinking Travis told her about the breakup, and she’s coming so he’ll at least have someone on his side.”
“Sounds like an awesome sister.”
“Yup.”
She would love to go. To see the guys perform, to support Travis, to root for Duncan, and to be there for Sameer when his family inevitably overwhelmed him with expectations he couldn’t come close to meeting.
But . . .
Did she want to be there to see those expectations? Did she want to pretend to be there as Sameer’s girlfriend, or did she want to announce to the world she was really Duncan’s . . .
Duncan’s what, exactly?
She closed her eyes.
“I’ll think about it,” she finally said. “Let’s see what’s going on with my report. It’s due Monday, and I haven’t heard from my dad yet.” She got up and put on her furry bathrobe.
He headed to the door. “Okay. I’ll be heading to Omemee in a few hours to bring Maddie for her sleepover. She’s about to explode with anticipation. Hopefully the girls aren’t too noisy tonight, and we’ll all be productive.”
He smiled again before leaving the room.
Amira fell back in bed and lay on her pillow. She stared at her ceiling.
Just like Travis, she had always loved the unusual ceilings in her home. The plaster swirls were arranged in concentric circles spiralling towards the centre, focusing her thoughts. The ceiling had personality. It was exactly what she needed.
The world wanted flat; Amira needed texture. When her friends took dance classes, she wanted a guitar. She loved old rock and new alternative music, while her friends were into pop or Bollywood. She liked the swirled ceiling instead of the flat. But over the years, her tastes had changed. Conformed. Maybe normalized?
And floating just below the surface of her consciousness, she knew why she had changed. As the world became more intolerant of people like her, part of her found ways not to be so different, not to stand out. The parts of her she couldn’t change would always be in the minority, so she may as well conform with the things she could change.
She wasn’t ashamed of her culture, her religion, or her skin—far from it. Amira loved being Indian. Loved her brown skin and her rich culture. Loved that she rarely got a sunburn and her everyday food was a hell of a lot more interesting than meatloaf and mashed potatoes. But she’d grown weary of dealing with the preconceptions people had about her when they saw her or learned her religion. She was tired of hearing, Wow, I
didn’t know Indian girls played guitars! Or, Why don’t you like Bollywood? Or, A Muslim woman who likes to be dominant? Cute. Until the world woke the fuck up and realized that her culture and religion did not define her, but rather were just part of what made her the person she was, it would be easier to just conform to what everyone expected her to be. Just like her mother had advised her, she had taken the opportunity to make life easier for herself.
But the honest truth was she wanted unconventional. The burly singer, instead of the clean-cut, stable professional. The kind of man who played Black Sabbath on his ukulele and watched princess movies with his niece. She wanted the man with the red beard and suspenders, and she wanted him with her for a long time.
A Sufi saint had helped her that day on the train and presented her with her deepest fantasy on a platter, with the challenge to accept herself enough to accept him.
Maybe they would have a future, maybe they wouldn’t. But Amira was done fighting against it. He didn’t experience the world in the same way she did. He couldn’t feel what it was like to fight for rights that others took for granted. To fight to merely exist. But he empathized. And given the chance, he could understand. He already understood her better than anyone else had—even despite their differences.
After the competition tomorrow, she was going to have a long talk with Duncan Galahad. She was going to tell him she wanted to keep seeing him. Omemee was only an hour-and-a-half drive from Toronto. And after the look he just gave her, Duncan would agree. It was worth it to try to make this work.
Chapter Twenty-Five
AMIRA’S PLANNED LUNCH with Shelley from Hyde Industrial was that afternoon, and after ordering at the hot new Italian small-plates restaurant Shelley picked out, Amira discovered she was still afflicted by that little transparency problem.
Shelley flashed a knowing smirk. “What, or should I say who, put that grin on your face?”
Amira scoffed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Shelley laughed. “Girl, I doubt that. I know you, Amira. Spill.”
