Far From Home

by Lorelie Brown

  Riptide Publishing

  PO Box 1537

  Burnsville, NC 28714

  www.riptidepublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All person(s) depicted on the cover are model(s) used for illustrative purposes only.

  Far From Home

  Copyright © 2016 by Lorelie Brown

  Cover art: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com/design.htm

  Editors: Sarah Lyons, Gwen Hayes

  Layout: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com/design.htm

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Riptide Publishing at the mailing address above, at Riptidepublishing.com, or at marketing@riptidepublishing.com.

  ISBN: 978-1-62649-451-0

  First edition

  August, 2016

  Also available in paperback:

  ISBN: 978-1-62649-452-7

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  My name is Rachel. I’m straight … I think. I also have a mountain of student loans and a smart mouth. I wasn’t serious when I told Pari Sadashiv I’d marry her. It was only party banter! Except Pari needs a green card, and she’s willing to give me a breather from drowning in debt.

  My off-the-cuff idea might not be so terrible. We get along as friends. She’s really romantically cautious, which I find heartbreaking. She deserves someone to laugh with. She’s kind. And calm. And gorgeous. A couple of years with her actually sounds pretty good. If some of Pari’s kindness and calm rubs off on me, that’d be a bonus, because I’m a mess—anorexia is not a pretty word—and my little ways of keeping control of myself, of the world, aren’t working anymore.

  And if I slip up, Pari will see my cracks. Then I’ll crack. Which means I gotta get out, quick, before I fall in love with my wife.

  For the people who love me. I’m consistently amazed to find there are so many.

  About Far From Home

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Epilogue

  Dear Reader

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Lorelie Brown

  About the Author

  More like this

  “I would marry you,” I say.

  Naturally, the entire party goes silent.

  The bottom drops out of my stomach. What used to be pleasant, cooling condensation on my glass suddenly becomes lube-levels of slickness. I could drop my wine at any moment.

  Worst of all, Pari Sadashiv is looking at me. In the small group of four people standing around the useless fireplace of an acquaintance’s apartment, Pari’s green eyes are the only ones that matter.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Rachel,” Krissy says with a laugh. “No one would believe you. You’d have INS on you in an instant.”

  I manage to smile a little bit when Krissy and her friend Chase laugh. Pari doesn’t look away from me though.

  “It’s not INS anymore, since the Department of Homeland Security took over. But why is it so unbelievable?” Pari’s mouth tips into a tiny smile. “I’ll have you know my amma would be happy if I married anyone at this point. She doesn’t even know I want to give up my H-1B visa just to be independently employed. If she knew that, she’d find the first breathing person who’d marry me.”

  Krissy grins. “It’s Rachel. She’s not gay.”

  “Weren’t you dating that one guy? Who ran that club?” Chase helpfully offers.

  My cheeks are flaming hot. Krissy is talking about me as if I’m not even here. Or as if I’m a child. Not like Krissy would allow children in her ultramodern apartment. They might try to color the begging-for-it matte gray walls.

  Why am I here, for that matter? It’s not as if I’m actually friends with Krissy. We went to film school together, though she had her daddy’s money funding her. The tiny production company I work with is too precarious to risk upsetting one of Hollywood’s inheriting golden girls, though. Showing up to her birthday party is mandatory if I don’t want to feel a knife in my back sometime in the next year. She’s that sort of girl.

  “She could be bisexual,” Pari says calmly. “They aren’t required to wear signs any longer.”

  I narrow my eyes. Had she just subtly compared our host to a Nazi? Not that it’s undeserved, but Krissy’s usual guests aren’t often so willing to throw shade.

  Krissy giggles. “That’s so true. You know, I kissed a girl once. At a sorority party. I was sooooo drunk.”

  I turn my wineglass in my hands. “Was that the night the Jell-O shooters wouldn’t set, so you bought a brand-new trash can and poured them all in together?”

  “Wasn’t college the best?” Krissy sighs.

  Well, no. That isn’t what I meant. More like how half our friends nearly gave themselves alcohol poisoning that night. Fifty grand in student debt well spent in order to learn to never mix alcohols. Lovely. Glad I tossed away my time on that.

  It worked for Krissy, at least. After graduation she took a job as an assistant in her father’s studio and has spent the last three years making money, working her way up rapidly to assistant director. I stupidly went on to grad school to tack another twenty grand on my debt, leaving me too skilled to be entry-level. Who’s the smart one now?

  I knock back the last of my red wine so I can say, “I’m going to get a refill.” I wave my glass as I leave.

  Maybe I’ll live wildly and mix wines.

  At least the kitchen is quiet. Krissy—or her catering company—set up a dizzying array of snacks and wine near the picture window in the living room. The sparkling lights of Los Angeles spread beneath the window as C-list stars compare casting call notes. No one wants to be so passé as to hang out in the kitchen. I like my wine cold, though.

  To be honest, I like silence better, as well as not having to look at the orgy of food that’s laid out. I open the glass-fronted fridge and snag the bottle of wine I’ve hidden for myself. I hope Krissy has a drawerful of takeout menus somewhere, or that she has the DoorDash app loaded on her front page, because otherwise I’ll have to admit she lives on cucumber water and plain Greek yo
gurt. My jealousy probably isn’t healthy.

  “Thank you for saying you’d marry me.”

  I yelp and spin. Because I’m graceful like that. I try to clap my hand to my chest, but cold wine splashes over my knuckles instead. “Jesus.”

  “I’m sorry to startle you.” Pari’s standing in the doorway. Even though her dress looks like silk, she doesn’t seem to mind that the flared skirt brushes against the doorjamb. Her dark brown hair spills around her shoulders, turning the dark-blue boatneck into a bejeweled setting.

  I shrug. “Awkward is my personal brand. I probably shouldn’t have said that. About marrying you. I’m sorry if it was weird.”

  “It wasn’t weird. I promise.” Pari tips her head enough that long hair slides over her shoulder. “I’m the one who was crass enough to talk about my visa difficulties.”

  I love her voice. It isn’t only the lilting cadence of her native India mixed with crisp Britishness, it’s the sweet kindness that is absolutely letting me off the hook.

  I lift the wine bottle I’m still holding, only to realize there’s some on my fingers. I transfer the bottle to my other hand and lick my knuckles. “Would you like some? I’ll let you pour so I don’t make any more of an ass of myself.”

  “I’ll take some, but not for that reason.” Her charm flashes as she moves, like she carries a bubble of rarified air.

  As Pari stands next to me at the slate counter and reaches for one of the hanging glasses above us, my breath catches. Pari has the elegance that I have always lacked and always admired.

  “So are you bisexual?” Even the question that would have been unbelievably rude from someone else seems mildly curious from her gentle tone.

  “Oh! Um, no. Sorry?” My heartbeat drowns all my other senses out.

  “You certainly don’t have to apologize for that. Though I have to admit I’m a little disappointed.”

  The tips of my ears tingle, and my stomach takes a funny swoop. “Disappointed? Why?”

  Pari glances sideways at me. Her throat is long and lovely. “I’m sorry if this is forward, but Krissy said you have large bills and a job that doesn’t keep up.”

  “They’re student loans.” The swoop of my stomach turns into the hot coals of embarrassment that Krissy has implied I’ve been recklessly spending. “I have a master’s. I didn’t have any family to help.”

  “A master’s,” Pari echoes. She nods. “A master’s is excellent.”

  “Not when it’s an MFA in film. Even with a job, I can’t afford to make my minimum payments.” I try to make my smile wry, but based on how awkward I feel, it’s probably somewhere on the pitiful spectrum.

  “Which makes me wonder if we could come to a mutual understanding after all.”

  It’s my turn to echo Pari. “Mutual understanding?”

  “You see, I’m not rich per se,” Pari says as if those words make perfect sense in that combination. “But I’m comfortable. I wouldn’t be considering entering consulting and giving up my work visa if I didn’t have a cushion.”

  “Uh-huh.” I nod as if I have even a slight hint where this is heading.

  “And I am a lesbian.” Pari turns and leans a hip against the counter. “A gold-star lesbian, as a matter of fact.”

  “Congratulations?”

  “It works for me.” Her pale-green eyes glow with amusement. Especially against the rich, clear brown of her skin, they’re magical. “No one would be surprised if I marry a woman.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re …” Except I do know. I have an idea I know exactly where this is going in that split-second way where I could shut it all down or maybe change the entire course of my life with one conversation.

  It’s happened once before, when I admitted to my friend Nikki soon after graduation that I had a problem. A problem with a big old capital P, a life-changing Problem. That had been the right choice too. I’m not one to shy away from change.

  I hold up a hand. “No. Wait, that is … Will you marry me, Pari?”

  “Why don’t we start with a first date? A chance to talk about it in depth?” She grins, suddenly more minxish than elegant. “After all, if we get married, we’ll need to get our stories straight. And we really ought to find out if we can be friends at least.”

  Pari has the most beautiful smile. Her teeth are perfectly straight and even. I’m dazzled.

  I lift my glass in a toast. “To first dates that aren’t first dates.”

  “And to the American immigration process.”

  My hands start shaking the moment I ring the doorbell of Pari’s condo even though I was fine until now. I immediately shove them in the pockets of my hoodie. She answers the door quickly, as if she’s been hovering and waiting.

  She looks great. And I am severely underdressed. I’ve worn shorts and a shirt from H&M under the hoodie, with my hair in a ponytail. Pari is wearing another of those stunning dresses. I’m glad we’re eating in her apartment or I’d be even more self-conscious.

  “Nice building,” I manage.

  “Thank you. Would you like to come in?” She has killer heels on, in a light brown that’s nude on her and makes her legs look like they go on for miles.

  “I don’t live super far away. On the other side of San Sebastian. The side that’s farther away from the ocean.” I think I’m babbling. Of course I am. “I bet you have a hell of a view.”

  “It’s not bad. Come this way.”

  Pari leads me to the right, into the living room. A wide expanse of blue is the decorating focus.

  “‘Not bad’? Okay, so you speak in understatements. Got that, at least.” The view is mind-blowing. I’ve always loved the ocean, and seeing that just-right blue makes me breathe a little easier. Makes my shoulders loosen up.

  “To be fair, I saw much better when I was house hunting. They were directly on the sand, not across a road.”

  “Yeah, but that’s not just any old road. That’s the Pacific Coast Highway. It’s part of the view itself. History is on that road.”

  Pari looks back out the window as if she’s seeing the gray bottom border and the zooming cars in a whole new way. The condo is too high up to hear more than an occasional buzz, so the noise isn’t too much. The balcony is long and narrow.

  “Did you grow up around here?” Pari asks.

  I nod. This is supposed to be about finding compatibility. I can do that. “Born and raised. I graduated from San Sebastian high school, and then I stayed nearby for college.”

  “UC Irvine?”

  I’m not surprised she’d guess that. UCI is a respectable branch of the University of California system, but certain ones have more cachet than others. “A little farther than that, but not much. Just UCLA.”

  “Why do you downplay it like that? UCLA is a fantastic school.”

  “I was dumb enough to get a film degree without having the passion needed to claw my way up in Hollywood.” I drag my gaze away from the ocean and give her a sidelong glance. “And then I followed it up with an MFA from USC. Because the only thing better than a useless degree is a useless degree that costs a hell of a lot of money.” I emphasize my self-depreciation with a flashy spread of my hands.

  Pari looks at me for a moment. She’s unreadable, but I don’t know if it’s because I’m not on her level or because she’s closed off. “Would you like something to drink? I have tea, wine, or water.”

  It would probably be strange if I ask for water. “Tea sounds nice.”

  Pari leads the way to the kitchen, and I try not to be too obvious as I crane my neck to take everything in. The condo isn’t huge, but it’s roomy enough. Without seeing the bedrooms, I can’t pinpoint a square footage, but it’s certainly more than enough space for one woman. Maybe even two if the second is careful and self-contained.

  The kitchen is lovely. Cast iron and copper and silver pots hang from a rack above the island, which is topped with natural-stained wood. They obviously were chosen for use instead of appearance, but that doesn’t keep them
from being beautiful. “Do you cook a lot, or is this for show?”

  “Somewhere in between. I do love to cook, but I don’t often have time.”

  “I love to eat. This could be a good thing.” Or terrible. Because while I do love to eat, I don’t exactly have a healthy relationship with food.

  Pari pings on that immediately. Her glance skims over me from my head to my oversized hoodie to my toes. “You don’t look like you like to eat. No, I shouldn’t have said that. That was rude.”

  I pull my mouth up into a smile, but it doesn’t feel the least bit happy. “So I don’t usually mention this the second time I meet someone, but I’m a recovering anorexic.”

  “I’m so sorry for what I said.” Her cheeks turn ruddy. Her fingertips rise to her collarbones. “I’m … Oh. Wow. I’m really, really sorry. I didn’t use wheat, because it seems like everyone is avoiding it, but I didn’t ask about anything else.”

  It’s kind of adorable that I can shake her at all. Maybe I’ll be able to remember this rather than the burn of her accidental stinger. I rub her shoulder. “It’s okay. I’m in recovery. There’s lots of stuff I eat. That’s the point.”

  Pari touches her temple. “Now I’ve caused you to reassure me. I’m sorry. Again.”

  “And it’s okay. Again.” A real smile takes over me. “Though this is kind of why I don’t tell people this quickly. Normally.”

  “I can see why.”

  Pari fusses over serving the meal. She takes a copper dish from the oven and sets it on a trivet. When she opens the lid and the warm, rich scent of potatoes wafts toward me, I try to distract myself. The handle is printed with the name Mauviel and the year 1830. She buys her pots from a company that’s been around that long? I wonder how many years T-fal has racked up.

  The main meal is summer vegetables layered in a beautiful spiral and baked. Once we’re seated across from each other, I serve myself a modest portion.