by Laura Briggs
“It’s fine,” she said.
“I drove by the other day. Your building looks super nice. Did you do the whole window thing, with the dress, and flowers, and stuff? That looked like you.”
“Ama did some of it, too,” said Natalie.
“The dress, though. That was you, right? You like to put those little tucks along the wide straps. I don’t know what they call them. Like in the dress you made for Mom to wear for my cousin Shirley’s wedding.”
Shirring, Natalie thought. He noticed shirring in a dress?
“Funny story, Brayden,” interrupted Rob. “Remember that weird billboard on the apartment building on Central? The one with the donkey painted on it? Well, they were making them take it down the other day, and they started by removing the middle of the sign—and there was this guy standing there in painter’s coveralls, who was taking down that panel in the pic—and the angle he was standing at totally made it look like he was part man, part donkey for a minute there. Well, you really have to see it to get how hilarious it was,” he concluded, shaking his head. “I sent a picture of it to Natalie. Nat, is that snapshot still on your phone?”
“Look and see.” She held out her cell phone to her brother, who was pulling on his coat.
“I got my hands full, all right? Just text it to him,” said her brother.
“I don’t have his number.”
“I can give it to you.” Brayden eagerly dove his hand into the pocket of his delivery uniform’s pants. “I’ve got yours in my phone—”
“Wait—here it is. In the old contact list from my last one,” said Natalie, who did not want to add it to her new list as a result of Brayden texting her. She pushed the button to send the photo, accidentally hitting the ‘call’ button at the same time. A soft, tender melody buzzed to life from Brayden’s phone.
A snort of laugher from Rob. “Is that Lionel Richie’s ‘Hello’?” said Roberto. He flashed a bemused grin at his friend. Natalie knew her expression was one of slight horror, but she couldn’t prevent it.
Brayden’s face was completely scarlet. “It’s… um… let’s see… that picture should be here any second,” he said, hastily disconnecting the call from Natalie. “I saved it to ‘My Photos’ so…”
“Let’s hear that again, shall we?” Roberto pulled out his cell phone and touched Brayden’s name in his contact list. A Rolling Stones song played on Brayden’s phone. Her brother shot a glance at her, as if confirming a secret suspicion. Natalie pretended not to see him.
“Come on, stop fooling around, Rob, all right?” Brayden’s face was still slightly red. “Are you still going to show me that picture or what?”
“Find the file Natalie sent you,” said Roberto, as he shoved his bowl in the dishwasher. “I deleted mine, so I can’t send you one from my phone.”
It was the Richie song playing a moment ago—and it was chosen just for her. Natalie had always felt it was a stalker-ish song, and now it felt even more so, knowing that wistful thinker Brayden had picked it to represent her number. Not that Brayden ever heard it play, since Natalie never called him, not even to ask him if his mom would like some of the leftover biscotti from the restaurant. And she liked Brayden’s mom, one of the Grenaldis’ oldest family friends, even if she was afraid that Mrs. Carmichael’s sweet smile hid a secret reproach for her son’s rejection by Natalie.
“I know it’s here somewhere,” said Brayden, searching for the photo, which hid the redness of his face better than his feigned normal tone did.
Natalie sighed. “Here,” she said, confiscating his phone and opening the photo folder herself, in hopes that finding this picture would get him and her brother out of the house sooner. There were lots of photos saved there, mostly of friends, holidays, and places on Brayden’s route. Natalie noticed with dismay that there were one or two featuring her, which had obviously been snapped at some of the Grenaldi friends-and-family gatherings.
“Here.” She found the photo of the billboard Rob had tried to describe—not that hilarious, in her opinion—and handed the phone back to its owner.
Brayden chuckled at the picture of a man in coveralls bending over before a giant image of a donkey’s back half—which did trick the eye into thinking he might be some kind of strange hybrid at first glance. Typical choice, Natalie thought, given Rob’s juvenile sense of humor. “You should enter one of those photo contests with that one,” he said to Roberto as he closed the file. “Um… speaking of billboards… isn’t that new one on the bypass for your business, Natalie?” He sneaked a quick glance at her.
“Roberto, you’re going to be late for work if you don’t leave now,” said Natalie.
“It is,” said Rob, answering the question for her. “Though I think it looks pretty cheesy, having that giant ad for newlyweds walking in the woods, or whatever that’s supposed to be. Hey, where’s my sack lunch?” he said, checking the fridge. “Did somebody eat my salami and cheese on rye?”
“You need a sack lunch to go to work at five o’clock at night?” Natalie retorted.
“I get hungry, and I don’t like to cook at the station,” he answered. “I forgot my gear. Hold on a second, Brayden.” He disappeared from the room again.
Roberto was so thoughtless, making a friend wait this long. But Brayden was used to it. He was the kid who always told the teacher that the playground bully had some victim pinned, and got pinned himself next time, the kind of guy who helped angry little old ladies at the bank teller’s window. But Brayden’s just the type that doesn’t put up a fight for himself… he just takes it like it is, even if it’s unfair. A magnet for bad luck.
Brayden cleared his throat. “So, I think somebody has a birthday coming up,” he said. “Any big plans?”
“Me?” said Natalie. “You know me, Brayden. There’s always something.” Maybe chapter two of her textbook had some insight she should absorb during this moment. She opened its cover and tried to look engrossed in its words.
“Yeah, but this is special, Nat. We’re talking special here. You’re not doing nothing on that day… or that evening… are you?”
We’re not going to dinner, Brayden. Get it through your head. Remember the dead dandelions? That was the symbol of our future, right there on the playground swing.
“I am sure I have plans, Brayden,” she said, with emphasis. “I’m not available on that day. Or, for that matter, any day. You know me. That’s how it is.”
She met his eyes with a look that should shut down any further birthday hints that might be coming her way. Brayden was an adult, who knew how she felt about him, and that she was dating other people, so he had to assume she would make plans with one of them, and not be open to dinner at his mom’s kitchen table, for instance. Right?
“I’ll have to remind my mom about the day, since she won’t forgive herself if she doesn’t send you a card,” he said, after a brief flicker of hurt or disappointment that made Natalie feel guilty. “I… uh… hope you find time to squeeze in some chocolate cake, though. Always your favorite at birthday parties.” He smiled at her. “The richer the chocolate, the better.”
Natalie managed a smile in return, though it felt awkward. “Like I need the extra calories,” she said. “Um—you can wait in your truck for Rob, if you want,” she hinted. “So you have a head start on delivering my worthless brother to his workplace. Fine with me.”
“No.” He shook his head. “What would Roberto think? I mean, a gentleman never leaves a lady sitting alone, right? It’d be pretty rude of me.”
This lady would be fine with it, trust me, Natalie wanted to say, but instead replied, “You don’t have to remind your mom about the birthday card. We’re kind of past the age where celebrating them is a real thrill.”
“Who’s having a birthday?” Roberto had returned. Natalie rolled her eyes. “Not you, is it?”
Brayden shook his head. “You’re hopeless, Rob,” he said. “Ready to go, I guess?” He sneaked one more look at Natalie, who was busy paging throu
gh a helpful study guide on inventory logs. “See you around, Natalie.”
“Bye.” She didn’t look up from her textbook until she was sure Brayden was gone, then she breathed a deep sigh of relief.
Lionel Richie. How could he make that her song? She shuddered and turned the page, trying not to imagine Brayden’s fantasy about someday embracing her in his arms as part of his utterly hopeless romantic crush.
Nine
“I can’t believe he called me,” said Ama. “Why would he do that? Does anything about me seem like the kind of girl a straight-laced Tamil would like?”
“Will you relax?” said Jaidev. “It’s a date. It’s not like you agreed to marry him, Ama.” He sniffed a sample of garlic powder from the vendor’s stall. “That won’t happen for at least two weeks.”
Ama swatted him. “Some support would be nice,” she said. “Please. You know how much I hate this idea.”
“You were the one who said yes to him,” said Jaidev with a protesting laugh. “What can I do about it? Look, you only have to go out with him a couple of times, then you’ll probably both see that you’re totally incompatible. He’ll stop calling when his parents finally object, Dad will stop nagging you, and everything will be fine. You’ll see.” He tasted the garlic. “Try some of this, Ama. It’s really rich, like browned butter.”
“No, thanks.” She drifted on in the Saturday market, leaving her brother deep in negotiations for his spices.
“Hey, Ama, it’ll be okay.” Deena linked arms with her now. “Romantic love is still out there waiting for you. This isn’t going to crush your dream or anything.”
“I know,” Ama sighed.
“It’s like the Bollywood movies where the second suitor she meets at random is always the perfect one for the girl. Your dream guy is going to sweep up and save you before you’re in danger of getting married to some sensible guy who knows his way around software data or the family business.”
“You watch Bollywood films?” Ama said, surprised.
“Sure. Jaidev and I have a BigFlix subscription.” Deena hugged her closer. “Unlimited streaming. Ooh, look—is that girl over there wearing a pair of Louis Vuitton pumps?”
Deena understood certain aspects of Ama’s personality better than her siblings, even though they had grown up with the same experiences as Ama herself. But her sister-in-law loved romance novels to the point of obsession, wore saris only when working as the restaurant’s hostess, and lived for designer jeans. Her father had owned a hotdog snack truck down by the waterfront, where Deena had lacked a traditional Indian community to influence her upbringing—which meant there were other aspects of Ama’s life that she didn’t get at all.
“Make it one date, maybe,” suggested Deena. “Tell him you have a… I don’t know… a baking emergency or something, and you have to leave.”
“I already did that,” said Ama. Both she and Deena giggled. “Besides, how plausible is a baking emergency?”
“I’m trying to have your back,” protested Deena. “Okay, maybe he’ll pick someplace where you don’t have to talk too much. Like a sports event. I think the Panthers are playing at the arena, only an hour away.”
“An undignified sport like basketball? Isn’t there a cricket match in the park?” asked Ama teasingly. “A rugby tournament at another stadium?” Then again, Tamir had mentioned playing football as a teen, so maybe it was unfair to assume he would consider this an inappropriate date site.
“How about a movie?”
“It’ll be a Bollywood film,” Ama guessed. “And with my luck, it will probably be a dull comedy about matchmaking somebody’s daughter, with lots of lungi dancing and a mridangam soundtrack.” Not even romantic, lovelorn scenes between couples at Indian train stations or exciting duels over honor or whatever else might give it some spice to hold her attention given the circumstances of this date.
“What’s ‘lungi’? And a ‘mridangam’?” Despite whatever films she had been watching, Deena’s awareness of Indian culture and music was still as low as her knowledge of denim labels was high, apparently
“You know. Dance style. Indian musical instruments, folk music types?” hinted Ama. “Isn’t this in any of the movies you’ve watched?”
“I read subtitles,” explained Deena. “I don’t speak any language but this one, remember? It’s all sitar music and belly dancing as far as I’m concerned.”
“Never mind. I’m just making the scenario sound worse, probably, because I’m dreading it,” said Ama. “What I really wish is that a knight would ride up on a horse, snatch me out of the marketplace, and take me to a beautiful Georgian manor, where we would talk about our future dreams while I baked him crumpets. Or scones, or something.”
Deena giggled again. “Isn’t a knight on horseback kind of a dated concept?” she said. “You need a modern figure for this fantasy.”
A beep beep interrupted their conversation before Ama could reply, as a motorcycle eased its way through the marketplace crowd. A sleek retro black bike with chrome finish, and with a guy riding it who was possibly the most stunningly attractive man Ama had ever seen. Tall, dark, and handsome didn’t even begin to cover it, as he parked near the stall selling imported pottery and climbed from the bike, removing his helmet to reveal a tousled mane of short, dark hair.
A Euro-Mediterranean hunk in an old leather jacket and denim, who would look equally amazing standing below a balcony in Verona as he did in the part of a rebel movie heartthrob walking away from his bike.
Ama had been watching way too many films on the classic movie channel lately.
“Sorry I’m late, George,” he said to another man standing by. “Let’s strap this thing on.” He peeled off his coat and lifted a heavy-looking crate, then heaved it onto the back of the bike. Beneath the carelessly rolled sleeves of his white cotton shirt, well-defined muscles rippled.
“Hello,” said Deena, in a dusky, soft voice. She nudged Ama.
“I know,” said Ama, just as quietly.
“Here’s the two hundred.” As he tucked his wallet back into his pocket, he noticed them, and smiled. “Sorry, ladies,” he said. “I’m taking up too much space, right? I’ll move, so you can enjoy Jack’s great selection of merchandise.”
“No, no,” said Deena quickly. “We can admire the view just fine with you there.” Ama poked her in the ribs, hard.
“We’re fine,” said Ama, with a smile that was hopefully not too gushing. “We’re just… wandering. Looking at these really nice pots.” She gestured toward some glazed ceramics, which were painted with desert-style lizards.
“Those are great, aren’t they? They’re American-made, actually, from a friend of his in a tribe in Nevada.” He lowered his voice and leaned closer. “Between us, I think he finger paints them in his basement, then charges a hundred dollars.”
“I heard that,” said Jack, who was making change for a customer.
“That bike is awesome,” said Deena. “Is that a Harley?”
“Nope. Nineteen sixty-seven Triumph Bonneville T120,” he said. “I fixed it up myself. I do restoration work at a shop downtown. If you’re a Harley fan though, come check us out sometime. Or maybe if either of you have a boyfriend…” he said, glancing from Deena to Ama.
He would be impressed by Deena, Ama imagined. Guys always were—she had been engaged to an attractive but stereotypical ‘all-American’ boy before she met Jaidev at a local restaurateur’s convention. That long dark hair, big coffee-colored doe eyes, and those long legs encased in tight denim tended to draw a second glance from guys of all backgrounds—whereas Ama was more the ‘cute’ type with her hair cut short at her shoulders, and her tie-dyed sneakers and denim overall capris.
“Married,” announced Deena, flashing her ring. “Ama’s not. And she has no boyfriend.” She nudged Ama before she could say a word. “My husband’s allergic to exhaust fumes, but Ama’s totally into motorcycles.”
“Are you?” he asked, hiding a smile. Ama blushed.
“Bugs against your helmet?” he said.
“Sucked the romance right out of it,” said Ama, with a tsk of disappointment.
He laughed. He had a great laugh. “Come on,” he said. “Come for a ride.” He reached for the helmet strapped in a bag on the motorcycle’s side. A spare, Ama realized.
“Oh, that’s okay,” she said, holding up her hands. Deena’s elbow pierced through denim bib and tie-dyed t-shirt to Ama’s ribcage. “You’ve got your box strapped in place. Some other time, maybe.”
“No problem,” he said. He lifted the box with a single heft, and placed it by the stall again. “Box gone, problem eliminated.”
“Ama, go,” said Deena. “You always wanted to ride one. Take a chance.”
“Do you really want to?” he said. “’Cause I’m happy to give one.”
Ama hesitated. “Maybe a quick one,” she said. “Hold my bag.” She handed Deena her sequined shoulder bag, receiving a discreet thumbs-up from her sister-in-law. She popped the helmet on her head and climbed on behind their new acquaintance.
“Wrap your arms around me tight,” he instructed. “And hold on.” He put on his helmet and started his bike. It purred through the marketplace’s narrow pathway until it reached the street’s opening, then zipped with speed into traffic. Ama felt a jolt as her body kicked backwards, then braced herself firmly against the stranger she was hugging as they sped along through the green light at the intersection.
His physique was strong and solid beneath her arms. Even without the speed of the motorcycle, her heart would still feel as if it were racing a mile a minute, she thought, at hugging someone like him. He was like a fantasy come true—the kind that was only in movies and the occasional romance novel cover on the rack at the corner grocery—and Ama might be in danger of the aforementioned swooning spell if her arms weren’t wrapped so tight around him. Tight enough to feel the rock-hard abs beneath that cotton shirt.
