In the village, where everyone was divided and united by caste, religion, and economics, she knew of another group. A woman’s freedom was tangible, measured by her choices. In this group, there were no choices. They were their own caste, and if they had a name, Asha thought they should call themselves “The Choice Less.”
Chapter 12
Nick kept glancing at Shyla as she read the newest pages. “We can always change it. It’s just a rough draft,” he said.
“I would tweak the paragraph about her depression. She wasn’t depressed. She was …stoic.”
“I disagree,” Nick said. “She accepted her fate, but it would be natural for her to be dejected. She lost her mother, she discovered the shocking secret of her birth, and then she was married off without her consent. She was a victim of her circumstance.”
Shyla carefully set the pages on the coffee table and turned to him. “Nick, we are not writing a story about a victim.”
“Then what are we doing?”
“Writing a story about a survivor.”
“Is it still like that?” They had been careful to keep the story separate from their relationship, but his mind constantly wondered. “You said you based it on women you knew.”
“Old stories, but still true in some cases.”
“What about you?”
“I don’t have to worry about it.”
“Why not?”
“I own my choices. I have that luxury.”
“That’s a right, not a luxury.”
“It should be a right…but it’s not. Not everywhere.”
“Then how do you know you’ll get to choose?”
She took a deep breath. “I just do. Anyway, speaking of the story, I think we could just edit it a bit.”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“Because I’ve already answered your question, Nick,” she said, the exasperation reflected in her tone.
He sighed, putting his arm around her. He drew her close and kissed her temple. She tilted her head back, giving Nick the prefect angled to trace her lips with his thumb. “We’ll tweak it. Do you want to work on it now?”
“We’ve done enough today. Shall we do something else?” she asked, teasing him with her dimple-creating smile.
“You ask a wicked question.”
She arched her brow. “Do you have a wicked answer?”
“Let’s go out.” Her pout almost did him in, but he refused to yield to it. “It’s a nice day. I want to take my girl out on the town.”
“I’d like that.”
“Good.”
The air was crisp, but the wind behaved itself. Nick’s fingers twitched when her hair captured the light of the sun.
Armed with light jackets and matching smiles, they walked down Bleecker. They held hands, except when the narrow sidewalks became crowded, then he let her lead, resting his palm against the small of her back. First, they went to an early lunch at the Rothman House, a tiny café with checkered curtains and strong coffee, Nick’s favorite place to eat, both for its eclectic and ethnic food choices.
The stout middle-aged waitress immediately scowled at the state of their table and the scattering of tiny crumbs on its polished wooden surface. Her spiky, frosted blond hair with its hot pink tinged tips and her apologetic demeanor slowly etched into the creative part of Nick’s brain, which was dusty from lack of use.
“I’ll clean it up straight away,” she said, marching away before completing the sentence. She rushed back and wiped the crumbs, sprayed the table, and ran the rag over it once more. Then, as if to double check her work, she took a step back and surveyed the surface with a sharp eye. Nick immediately found a place for the woman’s unique physical traits and compulsive tendencies in his next novel. Your name will be Odessa Del Ray, he thought for no particular reason, except he liked odd names and odder characters.
“Thank you,” Shyla said, bringing Nick back to reality.
The waitress finally stopped wiping and took out a pad of paper. “Sorry, it’s a pet peeve of mine. I hate messes. What can I get you folks?”
Shyla ordered the grape leaves and lemon rice soup. Nick stuck with his old standby, the good ol’ cheeseburger, complete with spicy relish.
“You looked far away just now. What were you thinking of?” Shyla asked when the waitress departed.
“I was writing.”
She arched her brows. “In your head?”
“That’s where every story begins for me. I’m here with you, and there’s no place I’d rather be, but sometimes my mind wanders, and I have to pull it back.”
“You’re not blocked anymore then?” Her happiness for him was clear in her beaming smile.
He grasped her hand and caressed her palm with his thumb. “I guess the freeze is thawing.”
The waitress set down their drinks, eyeing the table carefully before she left. Shyla twirled a straw in her Mango smoothie. “I suppose you are never lonely.”
“How so?”
“Because you always have people with you.”
Nick frowned, adding a packet of sugar to his coffee. “In a sense, but you’re wrong. I am lonely.” Or at least he was. “Enough about me. Are you excited about graduating in a few months?”
“Yes. I’ll be sad to leave New York, though.”
“Have you ever considered staying?” he meant the question nonchalantly, but as soon as he asked, he realized how desperately he wanted the answer.
“I need to go home.”
Nick felt a sudden surge of jealousy. He dismissed the ridiculous nature because its aim was not at another man or anything he could compete with, but an entire country, one on the other side of the world.
“How long since you’ve been home, sweetheart?”
“I haven’t. Not since I arrived.”
“You must miss it.”
“It’s funny, I thought I wouldn’t, but the place where you’re from is like a limb. You take it for granted, complain about it when you get aches or pains, but if you lost it, you’d feel unbalanced. I guess that’s the way I feel about India. It’s part of me.”
“You feel lost?”
“Sometimes.” She knitted her brows, and Nick felt a tug of remorse for asking the question. She swallowed and lifted her head, her smile sad. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I’m sure you can sympathize.”
“I can?”
“You must feel the same way about New Jersey.”
His laughter bellowed throughout the restaurant with such volume the other diners stopped in mid-conversation to stare at him. He reared his head back, the laugh traveling so deep it became uncontrollable. When he faced her again, she looked confused and…pissed? That made him laugh even harder.
“Something funny?” she asked, crossing her arms.
“I’m sorry. I know you were being serious.” He let the last chuckles die down before clearing his throat and regaining his composure. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m proud to be born in Jersey, but I would hardly describe it as a missing limb.”
She looked away from him out the window. “It’s just one way of putting it.”
“I’m not as sentimental as you.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I assure you, I am not.”
She leaned into the table, focusing all of her attention on him. “You have playing cards in an archival frame displayed prominently in your home to honor your grandfather’s memory. You still have his record player, and you prefer vinyl because you like the natural scratches in the music. You remember not only the plots of books but what you were doing when you read them. And you always root for the New Jersey Devils because they are your home team. Don’t tell me you aren’t sentimental. I don’t purchase that for a moment.”
How was it possible she knew him so well? “The phrase is ‘I don’t buy that’ not ‘I don’t purchase that.’”
“Whatever it is, you are a poor salesman, Nick Dorsey.”
“And you are a very astute girl.”<
br />
The waitress came back with their food. She picked up Shyla’s discarded straw wrapper and Nick’s sugar packet before leaving them. She eyed the table once more and frowned at the miniscule dots of sugar next to Nick’s coffee. The rag made another appearance as she swiped them away. “Pet peeve,” she explained once again.
Shyla leaned into the table. “Speaking of sayings, isn’t that an odd one, too?”
“What saying, sweetheart?”
“Pet peeve. I wonder what it means.”
“You don’t know?”
“I can figure it out from context, but it sounds strange, as if you’re angry with your dog or something.”
Nick grinned, grateful he had an answer for her. “Pet doesn’t refer to an animal, but rather something you favor, such as a teacher’s pet. And of course peeve comes from the word peevish and signifies an irritation. It’s a recently coined term…probably within the last one hundred years. It literally translates into my favorite annoyance.”
“How do you know so much?”
Nick shrugged. “I’m a writer. I know a lot of useless information.”
“It’s a strange combination of words.”
“I suppose it is, but it makes sense. The stuff that pisses us off is as subjective as the things we like.” He gestured to the waitress, who was busy scrubbing another table near them. “One person’s crumbs are another’s chaos.”
“What are some of your favorite annoyances, Nick?”
“I have more than my fair share. For one, I get annoyed when people name their pet’s people names.”
Shyla arched her brow.
Nick continued, “The other day I was jogging and this guy was yelling, ‘Nick, hey Nick, get over here now.’ I turned, wondering who the hell was calling to me. Turns out it wasn’t me he was barking at, but his dog. And the worst part—it wasn’t even a strong dog like a Great Dane or a Boxer. Nope, he was talking to a Chihuahua. Can you believe it?”
Shyla giggled, cupping her mouth. “Ironic your pet peeve actually has to do with pets.”
“Yeah, I guess it is.”
“Anything else on the list?”
“People who talk in the third person.”
“I understand what third person is, but what exactly do you mean?”
“Like if I was to say ‘Nick’s really enjoying his day out with Shyla.’”
“I get it.” She rewarded him with a gracious smile.
“I sound like a nut job, don’t I? These are dumb examples of the little things that get on my nerves. Do you have any?”
“Any pet peeves?”
Fresh drinks arrived, and Nick wondered if the peculiar waitress would once again wipe their table, but she left after asking them if they wanted anything else. “I can’t think of any right now.”
“That’s good. It means you’re a patient person.”
After their meal, Nick took her to the corner bakery. It was the kind of place that nourished every sense. The rich, decadent aroma of fresh pastries and bread greeted them. Shyla stopped just inside the door, closed her eyes, and inhaled the air. He watched her, wanting to take her in his arms just then. She treasured simple things. All the things he took for granted.
“I think this is what heaven smells like,” she said.
In Nick’s opinion, heaven would smell like her, not decadently sweet but temptingly provocative, yet subtle—the scent of coconuts, vanilla, and something decidedly hers alone. They made their way to the long counter where hundreds of frosted bites of blissful goodness lined glass cases, each one a work of art. She took her time, studying them, pointing out their features.
“Nick, look at this one. It has tiny birds on it.”
The clerk, who also happened to be the baker, stepped in. The young girl took her time explaining how they molded the bluebirds from fondant. It was obvious the counter girl was proud of the creations and happy someone was taking an interest. Nick ordered coffees and took a seat at one of the small café tables, waiting for Shyla to make a decision. Instead, she asked more questions, which spurred the offer of a tour complete with detailed explanations of the recipes. Normally, this sort of thing would bore Nick out of his skull, but her enthusiasm deterred any objections.
“They’re so beautiful, I don’t want to eat one,” she said.
“If everyone felt that way, this place would go out of business, so pick one or ten,” he responded.
“Since we’re sharing, you should pick,” she suggested.
“Nice try. Pick one already.”
She took her time but returned to the table with a large cupcake, decorated with sugar shaped shamrocks and glossy white butter cream frosting. “The girl told me its whisky and Irish cream flavored.”
“Nice,” Nick said.
He fed her pieces of cake and, being a little sloppy in his technique, gave her an apologetic expression while wiping the frosting from the corner of her mouth.
After they’d had their fill of sugar and caffeine, he took her on his own personal walking tour of the village. He showed her the places once frequented by Mark Twain, Truman Capote, and Edgar Allen Poe. Also, the venues where James Taylor, Bob Dylan, and Jimi Hendrix had performed.
He took her hands and pressed her palms against the brick façade of an old building—one of the oldest structures in the city. His mouth hovered over her ear. “Close your eyes.”
She complied, her breath hitched, his hand against hers.
“Do you feel it?” he asked.
“It’s almost tangible…like holding history in your hands.”
He nipped her ear until she moaned and his erection pressed against her. “Exactly.”
They ended at the Old Town Bookstore. Just like in the bakery, Shyla sniffed the air. The place smelled of old paper, binding, and words.
“I changed my mind. This might be the way heaven feels. Or maybe this mixed with the bakery.”
“Old books and cupcakes are your version of heaven, huh?”
She nodded. “I can’t think of a better image.” She swayed to the piped music. Nick caught the question in her expression before she even asked.
“The song is called ‘I Can See Clearly Now’ by Johnny Nash.”
“It feels so…”
“Appropriate.”
“Yes.”
A look passed between them as they listened to the music. Nick vowed to search for the record and download it to each of their phones. The lyrics and music were in tune to their lives. To whatever they had become.
It was their song.
The loud chatter of other shoppers broke the moment. The voices of two giddy girls carried through the shop.
“I told you they’d have the newest Keegan Moon book here,” a tall brunette said.
“I love his books,” her blond companion answered.
Nick took Shyla’s hand and led her toward the counter area. He pretended to look at the periodicals there. “You could make them very happy,” she whispered.
“How?”
“Tell them you’ll sign a copy.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because today is about me and you. Not Keegan Moon. Not Max Montero.”
The man behind the counter with a silver lip ring and intricate neck tattoo greeted them, his eyes resting on Shyla a little too long for Nick’s liking.
“May I help you find something?” he asked her specifically.
“Do you have any books on poetry?” she asked.
The man cracked a grin, sucking in his lip ring. Nick rolled his eyes.
“You’re in the right place,” he said, coming from behind the counter. “Who do you like? Frost, Dickenson, Whitman? I’m guessing you’re a Sylvia Plath girl?”
“Yes to all, especially Sylvia Plath,” she said.
“We have poetry readings on Wednesday nights. Do you write?”
“No,” she said, “but I’d love to listen.”
“We’ll be there,” Nick replied in a brusque t
one.
“Fine, let me show you the poetry section then.”
“I’m very familiar with the layout.” As an added gesture to clear up any confusion lip-ring guy might have, Nick put his arm around Shyla and led her toward the back of the store.
“This isn’t where the poetry is,” she said, studying the shelves. “These books are about tax codes.”
Nick smirked. “Yeah, no one ever comes back here.”
“So why are we here?”
He placed a hand on each side of her hips and backed her against the wall. He ran his nose down the length of her neck, inhaling her scent. He pressed his mouth against hers. Her body tightened in surprise at first, but soon her fingers threaded through his hair. She drew him closer. His hands moved against the curves of her body. He lifted her, holding her legs around his hips. She moaned as his tongue found hers. She tasted like whisky and cupcakes—he longed to get drunk on her mouth. His hand traveled up until he reached the curve of her breast. Her body responded, welcoming his touch.
As far as Nick was concerned, they were in the poetry section, the architects of their own work.
“Someone’s coming,” she said, as the sounds of footsteps echoed close.
Yeah, and it’s not me. Nick muttered a few obscenities, setting her down and backing away. He noted the darker shade of her chapped lips. She brushed her hand through his hair again, but in a way meant to smooth it back from the mess she’d created.
Their breaths weren’t visible this time, but they were audible, intermingling with each other in the warm air of the dusty bookstore. A potent look of lust passed between them before Nick remembered where they were once more.
The bejeweled bookseller cleared his throat. “This is a bookstore. If you want to make out, don’t do it here.”
Nick didn’t acknowledge him. His eyes stayed on Shyla. “Sorry,” Nick called out finally, hoping it would send Mr. Tattooed Piercings away.
“Most sorry,” Shyla said, looking sufficiently guilty, her eyebrows drawing together.
She bit her bottom lip, causing Nick to laugh at her worried expression. The clerk muttered as he walked away, ranting about how they should go to 6th avenue if they were looking for a sex shop. “You got us in trouble,” he whispered against her ear. “What am I going to do with you?”
Unwanted Girl Page 11
