Far From Home

by Lorelie Brown

  Pari squeezes my hand, and I can feel my hope as if it were a radio wave between them. “We aren’t going to make a big deal of it. We’re meeting at the courthouse on Wednesday.”

  “No! Absolutely not.” Niharika slashes a hand through the air so decisively that the camera wavers. “Already this will be …” She lets the sentence fade, and I breathe a sigh of relief for Pari’s heart. There are only so many words that a daughter’s feelings can ignore. “You will have a real marriage.”

  “A traditional wedding?” Pari seems doubtful. “I don’t think that’s wise.”

  “You would ignore even more of our traditions?”

  “No, Amma—”

  “We can have a big wedding. Well. Bigger than the courthouse, at least.” The words fly out of my mouth before I think them through. But the moment Pari’s mother gasps and claps her hands, I know I’ve made the right choice.

  Pari turns to me with her eyes going huge. “You don’t know what you’re getting into,” she whispers.

  “It’ll be fine.” I bump my shoulder against hers. “I can have a white dress this way. I’ve never had a reason to wear a fancy dress.”

  “Not ever?”

  “I skipped prom. I’ve worn nice dresses, but never a ball gown.”

  We’re in our own little world again somehow. I know on one level that Pari’s parents are avidly watching us, but I’m not paying attention to them. Pari’s hand is hot in mine, and she’s rubbing my knuckles with her thumb. I don’t think she realizes, but I do. I realize with every inch of my hand. I’d pull away from the way it’s making me feel, but Sadashiv and Niharika would wonder at our cracks.

  That’s what I tell myself, at least.

  “You don’t want a full Hindu wedding, Rachel. They’re huge. All my family from all over will come. Multiday event.”

  “Even if you’re marrying a woman?” I ask gently.

  Her mouth opens, then shuts. She licks her lips, and I can see that she’s breathing very deeply, just trying to hide it as best she can. “Amma?”

  “They will come.” Niharika is as self-assured as an empress. “If I tell them I approve, they will come. At the very least, to yell at us all for the disgrace of it.”

  “I don’t want you to be disappointed in me,” Pari says. The words are vulnerable, but she has that cool front on again.

  “The wedding will help.”

  “You know your mother’s intentions for you and your brothers,” Sadashiv adds.

  “We can do it,” I say again.

  “Less than one hundred guests,” Pari says as crisply as if she’s negotiating with a car salesman.

  Niharika responds in exactly the same manner. “Anything less than three hundred and everyone will talk about how your father and I are trying to hide you.”

  “One fifty.”

  “Two.”

  I raise my hand. “Does that count my guests? Because I’ll only have about twenty, at the outside.”

  “Only twenty family members?” Niharika looks at me with confusion knitting her brows.

  I squirm a little. “Um. Twenty with family and friends.”

  “One seventy-five,” Niharika says to Pari, and I feel like I’ve somehow given her bonus guest slots. Maybe she’ll like me better for it?

  Pari doesn’t roll her eyes, but she squeezes my hand. “Deal. Six weeks from now?”

  Niharika shakes her head. “You give me no time!”

  Pari crosses her arms over her chest, which has the added effect of plumping her breasts up. I’m sure her parents don’t notice, so I try not to as well. But she’s endowed. There’s no denying that. “Six weeks. I’m not giving on this.”

  Niharika’s jaw sets, and it’s apparent exactly where Pari got her determination. “I’ll check the numbers and see if I can make it work.”

  “You will make it work. Less than seven weeks or I’ll cancel it all.”

  “So willful,” Niharika says. “I didn’t raise you this way.” But she doesn’t seem unhappy either. It’s like she’s hiding a level of pleasure or pride. It’s unfamiliar to me, so I have a hard time nailing it down.

  Pari shrugs, but the tension in her shoulders eases a little. “Blame it on America if you want.”

  “I do.” Niharika sighs, and Sadashiv hugs her shoulders with one arm. “I’ll book my ticket and let you know when you, or she”—she adds, flicking a fast glance at me—“can pick me up from the airport.”

  “Okay, Amma.”

  “I’ll be there in two weeks,” she says with a sharp nod.

  “Amma, what? No!” Pari lunges toward the screen, but it’s too late. Her parents—or particularly Niharika—have already ended the call.

  I stare at the computer. “Did she mean that? The two weeks?”

  “Most assuredly.” Pari hits the button, trying to call them back, but they aren’t picking up. The digital ring goes on and on.

  “So she’s going to be in California for a month?”

  “I knew she’d want to be very involved with the arrangements, but I didn’t expect this.”

  I’m not doing so well at the breathing thing. “Will she … will she get a hotel room?”

  Pari looks at me. Her eyes are filled with equal measures concern and panic. “I’m sorry, Rachel.” She folds both my hands in hers.

  “That’s a no. Where will she stay?”

  “Here. She’ll stay here.”

  The next two weeks aren’t exactly easy, but they go pretty quickly. My commute to the studio is faster from Pari’s condo, not because it’s any closer than my place on the other side of San Sebastian, but because I have easy freeway access. Pari works even longer hours than me, so she isn’t always home when I come in, but things are slightly different in the way that’s proof of another person living in the same sphere. The curtains left open instead of closed. The dishwasher having been run and magically full of clean dishes that I didn’t have to hand wash. Groceries lined up neatly in the fridge.

  Pari shops for us—or has a service do the shopping, I’m not quite sure—almost exclusively at Whole Foods and Trader Joe’s. I absolutely adore the variety of food she keeps on hand. Every basic staple ingredient for the pantry, plus a wide range of perfectly ripe in-season fruit. It’s like living in foodie heaven, except she isn’t obnoxious about it.

  My favorite Pari-sourced treats are dried mango slices. I nibble them slowly, the better to enjoy each bright bite. I’m curled up on the chaise-style end of the couch with the mangoes and a tumbler of ice water on the ottoman next to me while I watch TV.

  “No! Annalise, you don’t need another orphan!” I resist throwing a mango slice at the giant flat-screen. It’ll probably stick, and then I’ll feel all weird about cleaning the glass. What if I use the wrong product and ruin it forever? Better to wrinkle my nose and groan.

  “What was that?” Pari calls from the kitchen.

  “Nothing.” I snuggle deeper into the couch as if it can hide how juvenile I am.

  Pari appears in the archway. Energy burns off her. “You weren’t talking to me?”

  I hit Pause on the On Demand. “No, but would you like me to talk to you?”

  “No. Yes. That is …”

  “Is everything ready for your mom?” And no, I am very intentionally not thinking about the fact that we’ve hauled my dresser and a few other items into Pari’s bedroom. The rest we figured we’d pawn off as being in the spare bedroom because we’ve called it my office. It isn’t like six years of school and a year in a studio apartment have given me much chance to accumulate the detritus of life.

  “Yes. I have fresh sheets to put on your bed in the morning. All the foods she likes. Her favorite chai.”

  “Are you ready?”

  “Not in the least.” The words explode from Pari like rockets at the Chinese New Year. “It was so hard to tell her I’m gay. To have that talk. I had a year before I saw her in person to let it sink in. I thought I would have the same about marrying a woman. One step
at a time. Then you agreed to a wedding, which was frightening enough, but now I’ve only had two weeks to adjust to her knowing. Tomorrow I have to pick her up and look at her looking at me, knowing that her daughter is twisting her dreams.”

  Part of me wants to hold my arm out and have Pari come snuggle up beside me, but she doesn’t really seem like the snuggling type. So I push my snack away and go to her instead. I hold her shoulders. It seems like she’ll vibrate apart in moments, and she isn’t quite looking at me.

  I flex my knees so I can duck into her line of sight. “Hey. It’s going to be fine.”

  “Sure. Yes. I’m certain.”

  I can tell it’s only rote assurance. The kind of thing women are trained to say, the kind of thing I say all the time. “You know what this calls for?”

  She doesn’t actually answer, but she finally looks at me instead of somewhere over my left shoulder.

  “It means we’re going out for tequila and dancing.”

  I’ve worked a smile out of her. Her cheeks go round. “Make it gin, and you can count me in.”

  She’s a woman of her word. Once we’re at my favorite almost-local club, she strides right for the bar and waves down the bartender. I take my time working through the crowd. It’s only a half-hour drive to get here, and it’s a little bit of an adjustment from lying on the couch in my PJs. Pari has cleaned up seriously well. She’s tossed on one of those dresses that shows off her amazing curves, and run some mascara through her already-sable lashes.

  I don’t feel like I’ve made the same evolution. I tug up the belt loop of my skinny jeans and tug down the hem of my halter top to try to get them to meet in the middle over the two inches of bare skin showing. I normally don’t wear the combo together. I like this top because it makes me look like I have something like cleavage with its plunging neckline, but I don’t want to be distracted by tummy pooch. At least I managed to find the time to do a French braid so the bend from the hair tie that held my ponytail all day isn’t as obvious.

  I catch up to Pari at the bar. The crowd means that I have to slide in right next to her. She is made of softness. Does she notice my pointy angularity? I try to hold my shoulders in tighter.

  “Talk quick,” she says. “The bartender is bringing my drink, but then he’ll probably try to run away. He seems like a rabbit.”

  “He’s busy.” Even as we watch, a woman with a crisp undercut in her white-blonde hair tries to wave him down, pointing at the taps next to him.

  “Such an optimist,” Pari says, but she’s smiling, so it feels fine.

  When the bartender drops off her drinks—yes, plural, because he lines up two—I take the hint and order a vodka and Diet Coke.

  “I’m glad we took an Uber,” I sigh once I take the first sip. “That tastes way too good to stop at one.”

  “Do you drink much?”

  It is so freaking weird that we’re still at that stage of getting to know each other. Come to think of it, it’s probably something we should have mentioned before diving in. But I shake my head. “Not usually.”

  “Me neither. I can’t abide the lack of control.”

  “Me, it’s kind of the opposite. I like it a little too much. I feel like I could drop off the earth.”

  “That seems extreme.”

  I laugh to make it a joke. “I’m an extreme person sometimes. At least in my head. If I start drinking, part of me is convinced that I would be on skid row in 2.4 hours, begging for change for another bottle of Hpnotiq.”

  “Well, don’t worry.” Pari nudges her shoulder into mine. We’re both bare. Her skin is like silk, even softer than mine. I want to snuggle into her. “You’re in my circle now. I’ll take care of you.”

  “You won’t let me hit skid row?”

  “Nope. I’ll even buy you all the peculiar blue liquor you want.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s enabling,” I say between giggles.

  “You’re probably right. We should try to avoid that fate.” She knocks back the bottom half of her first drink and picks up her second. “Let’s try to find a table. I want one near the dance floor so I can watch for any baby dykes.”

  I follow her through the packed room. She doesn’t push anyone out of her way, but she somehow gets a path opened for her. She’s got presence. “Is that what you like?”

  “What?” She looks back at me over her shoulder. Her hair is a dark frame for her questioning face.

  I have to shout a little. “Baby dykes. Is that your type?”

  She runs a fairly good chance of finding one here, though maybe just one. Killy’s is a nightclub run by some athlete or another. The clientele is varied in that most excellent California way, with everyone who’s anyone and who also has ten bucks to drop on a beer.

  I don’t like the strange little feeling that knots under my breastbone. My fingertips lift to rub there, but it doesn’t help. I never drop my smile, but Pari looks at me as if she has some kind of inside track to what I’m thinking anyway.

  “No,” she finally replies. “They’re fun to look at, but my life is a little too complicated to break in anyone new right now. They always come with drama when they’re that young, even if they think of themselves as drama-free. I’ve been there already. Taneisha was enough.”

  Taneisha. Her ex-girlfriend has a name. And probably a face and a personality too. I don’t know if I want to know more or not. Pari leads us closer to the music end of the huge setup. I’m not sure what kind of alchemy she uses, but three women leave a table as we approach, and they say we can have it. I drag my chair close to Pari’s. This near to the dance floor, the thumping bass beat makes things difficult to hear, and I want to know more.

  “Then what is your type? Now?”

  I don’t know why I’m insisting on the topic, until she slides a glance at me. “Beautiful women. Smart women. I do have a thing for blondes.”

  My heartbeat trips, and I know it’s that right there. I needed a hit of appreciation. It’s probably not fair of me. In a way it’s using her, because I’ve pushed her into the corner of admitting that she finds me attractive, and I’m not going to give her anything in return, not really. Even though in this moment she’s so beautiful that I can barely look straight at her. The flashing lights off the dance floor pick lines of color out in her dark hair. Her eyes seem to glow. Her dress has a neckline that doesn’t plunge like mine, but it doesn’t need to at all. Her breasts are so perfect that they only need the barest underscore for everyone to drool over her.

  I admire her. I appreciate her body. That’s not the same thing as actually wanting her.

  So why am I not backing away?

  It’s Pari who backs off, who looks away with a miniscule shake of her head that I pretend not to see. It’s easier. I usually do choose the easy way out, after all.

  Until I have no easy way left.

  I shift in my chair and also pretend that I’m not a thousand percent aware of the precise number of inches between her thigh and mine. I finish off my first drink. It hits me quickly.

  Probably because I never got around to eating dinner. I had it planned down to the macronutrient, but I forgot to throw my salad together. I kept pushing it off and pushing it off and nibbling on a piece of mango. Instead we’d gone out.

  All hail the Uber. I’d have made a shitty designated driver for the night, because I don’t say a word about my lack of sustenance. I drink my vodka instead. Happily.

  I suggested this night out for Pari’s benefit, but it isn’t as if I’m without nerves about her mother’s arrival too. I need the time to unwind.

  “Have you been here before?”

  Pari shakes her head. “Nightclubs are so loud. They hurt my ears after a while.”

  “That’s why I picked this place.” I point up toward the balcony, which is walled off with plexiglass. The place is built in an old-fashioned dance hall, and the balcony rings the entire room. It’s an entirely different vibe up there. The windows keep everything quiet, and it’s
all comfortable couches and dark corners between mazes of velvet curtains. “We can go up there if it gets too loud for us. Or we can dance until we drop. Your choice.”

  “My choice?”

  “Sure.” I shrug. “I figure you’re the one who’s melting down. You’re the one who gets to choose our night.”

  “I am not melting down,” she says with astonishment in her voice. It’s kind of adorable.

  “Okay.”

  “I was a little upset.”

  “Understandably so.” I take a sip of my drink. My fingertips are chilled by the glass. “What should I expect? Will she be nice to me?”

  “She’ll be polite at the very least. It’s her disappointment I’m scared of. How about you?” She’s deflecting. Done with talking about herself, and that’s fine. “How is your mother going to take the news that you’re marrying a woman?”

  “I already told her. The whole conversation took about five minutes.”

  “Wait, what?” Pari’s eyes are wide and catch the flicker of a strobe light. She swirls the ice in her glass. “Even if she’s progay, how is that even possible? Five minutes?”

  I shrug. Three feet in front of us is a hetero couple who are dancing like it’s prom and the chaperones turned their back. Her arms are wrapped around his shoulders, and his hands are shoved in the ass pockets of her tiny shorts. I don’t understand how people dance like that. I’ve done it, because dates have dragged me, and it obviously made them happy. But it’s never made me hot and bothered the way the two in front of us seem to be.

  “It was easy. I said I’d met someone, that you were nice, and we were getting married. Told her an invitation would be in the mail. Six weeks is tight notice for her though.”

  “She doesn’t have any questions about me?”

  “Your name and what you do.”

  I think Pari makes a little noise, because her mouth shapes into a circle, but I have no chance of hearing it. Not with the blazing cavalcade of noise that is the sound system. Maybe she feels bad for me. I kinda want her to. I like sympathy. Doesn’t everyone? But this night isn’t for me. I wave my hand. “It’s no big deal. She’s just always been like that. She’s got a really hands-off parenting style.”