by Alisha Rai
“You haven’t met him face-to-face yet,” Devi argued. “It could be magical.”
“Yeah, well. He’s not going anywhere.” Should she have been more excited about the guy? More dismayed they couldn’t get together tonight? If it wasn’t for Micah, she might have been. Rana tried to manufacture some enthusiasm. “He can be my date tomorrow. Or next week.”
“You’re really sticking strong to this date-a-week thing, huh?”
“Until one of them works out? Yes.” She had considered taking this week off, but then decided to keep it business as usual, treating her night with Micah as nothing more than a twelve-hour detour from her ultimate goal. She wouldn’t forget the best sex of her life, but she wasn’t about to start pining after the man. They’d agreed on the parameters of this deal, and she wasn’t a welsher.
So there was no reason to change up her normal schedule. Since she’d decided a year ago to tackle her love life with the grim determination of a general, she’d scheduled one date a week. One date, with a completely appropriate and eligible man she would not be ashamed to bring home to Mama.
“Did Mama pick tonight’s guy?”
Speaking of which. “That’s not something we joke about.” Judging the paste to be the proper consistency, she began to scoop it out, rolling it into smooth balls and setting them aside.
Upon learning her eldest daughter was giving up her promiscuous ways to search for Mr. Right, their mother had practically fallen to her knees in joy and attempted to “help” despite Rana’s gentle rebuffs.
Rana shuddered. Mama’s help wasn’t always…helpful. Not when it came to this.
Devi chuckled, the way only a desi girl who had two unmarried older sisters and a serious relationship of her own could—with utter freedom and confidence that their mother hadn’t yet painted a matrimonial bull’s-eye on her. “It was a legit question.”
“Uh-huh. Like I’d go out with anyone she picked.” She adopted an accent that was uncannily similar to their mother’s. “Rana, you need to act quickly on this boy. A lawyer with such light skin?”
Devi mimicked her. “He is tall too. You need someone tall, because you have so much height.”
“No, you cannot email him. Call him. He will not last long.”
Devi nodded sagely, dropping the accent. “Everyone knows men are like Groupons.”
Rana snorted out a relieved laugh. “Thank God I can bitch about her to you. Leena always takes her side.”
“You’ve been really good at not snapping at either of them.” Devi shot her a quick smile. “I’m proud of you. It’s been so peaceful lately.”
Rana and her mother didn’t have the most amicable history—the older woman had never approved of anything Rana did. Rana, in turn, had spent most of her life pretending she didn’t care if she was tweaking her mom with her clothes, her men, her partying.
Of course she’d cared. Now that she’d discovered what it was like not to live with constant dismissal and chiding, Rana didn’t know if she could go back to how it had been before. Not perpetually disappointing your only living parent was weirdly pleasant.
All she’d had to do was bury herself.
She flinched away from that thought. Silly, but it felt vaguely treasonous. To what, she wasn’t sure. The Republic of Her Mama?
No, she wasn’t burying herself. How overdramatic. She was improving herself. She’d thoughtlessly damaged some important relationships over the years. Clawing her way back, earning everyone’s trust and respect would take some time and pain, but it was okay if it was her pain.
Plus, it was working, if Devi had noticed. Rana placed the sweet mixture on top of the dough and folded the edges around to cover it completely. “I’m trying.”
“Well, I bet your guy is right around the corner,” Devi said emphatically.
Or next door. “I’m sure,” she managed.
“And he’ll be kind and funny and generous.”
Or rough and silent and really good at giving head. “Yeah, right.”
“And you’ll fall madly in love.” Devi gave a gusty sigh. She’d always been the most romantic of the sisters.
Rana’d fallen madly into something, all right. “Mm-hmm. Yup. Love.”
“And…”
“How are your lover boys anyway?” Desperation prompted the low question. Every word Devi spoke was only making her think of Micah more. Wasn’t it enough her entire house reminded her of the man? She needed her workplace to be her solace.
At the silence, Rana looked up to find Devi’s gaze far away, a small smile playing about her mouth. “That good, huh?”
Devi modestly dropped her eyes. “That good.”
A rush of warmth distracted her and brought the slight sting of tears to Rana’s eyes. Her youngest sister was her baby. She’d sheltered her, pampered her…and hurt her.
Once upon a time, Devi had dated a cheating worm of a man, Tarek. The asshole was sweet as pie around Devi, but the minute her back was turned, he’d hit on anything in a skirt. Rana had tried to tell herself not to interfere, but her sister had seemed to be falling for his line of bullshit.
She should have trusted in Devi, but she’d been blinded by her desperate worry for her sister. She’d thought there hadn’t been any other expedient option but for her to make the dude’s assholic tendencies crystal clear…by engineering a setup with herself cast as the other woman.
Rana swallowed, the bitter taste of regret tainting her mouth. She’d found out later that Devi had been well aware of everything and planning to break things off with the guy. Of course she had. Because even when Rana tried to be helpful and noble, she managed to fuck things up.
Devi had forgiven her of course, and assured her countless times she didn’t blame Rana. But that terrible scene would haunt Rana for a long time. It was possibly the most heinous thing she’d ever done. Impulsive, dramatic Old Rana. The instant she’d looked up from Devi’s ex’s arms, she’d known that her plan had been butt stupid.
After that disastrous relationship had imploded, Devi had closed herself off from companionship, a choice that had spilled more guilt onto Rana’s conscience.
You made up for it. She’d had no choice but to fix things. Rana’s plan had been to enable a hot poly one-night stand for her sister with the tall dark wolves who came in and made googly eyes at their chef every Tuesday.
To everyone’s surprise—meaning her and Leena, since Devi and the Callahans managed to keep their relationship fairly discreet—the fantasy threesome had become permanent for Devi. Devi had never looked happier and more content, and it was obvious to anyone with half a brain how much the two men adored her sister.
Even if it hadn’t worked out exactly as she had planned, Rana still counted it as a checkmark in her favor. Granted, the relationship was unconventional and their mother would probably murder Devi—and Rana, when she found out who had introduced the three of them—if she ever found out, but other than that small chance of homicide, it was practically perfect.
If there was a sting of jealousy mixed in with her happiness for her sister…well, Rana would do her best not to acknowledge that any time soon.
Rana pressed too hard on the rolling pin, and the dough split under the pressure, revealing the sugary filling inside. “Damn it. I messed it up.”
“Redo it.”
She pulled off another chunk of dough and started the process again. “You should have gotten Leena to help. I don’t have the patience for this.”
“I know you can do it.”
Rana bent her head. Saint Devi. Filled with confidence for other people, even her screw-up of a sister. They were silent for a while, the sounds of the kitchen surrounding both of them. The other occupants in the room murmured to each other in low tones while Devi started the oil sizzling on the griddle.
Finally, Rana managed to roll out a perfect poli. “Griddle hot?”
“Yup.”
Rana transferred the poli to the ungreased pan, watching carefully as the doug
h turned a pretty yellow brown. She could feel the rush of words on the tip of her tongue, and she tried to control them, but they burst free. “Do you think…?”
“What?” Devi asked when Rana trailed off.
Do you think there’s something wrong with me? Because I had the best sex of my life last week with this weird hermit guy who lives less than a hundred feet from me. We agreed it would be a one-night thing, but I can’t stop thinking about him, and I’m scared Old Rana’s going to grab a hold of me and I’ll march over to his door and demand more. Did I mention that we met because I was spying on him? Yeah, I could have been arrested for that shit. It was pervy as hell.
How do you think Mama would feel about all of this? Like, would she disown me right away, or wait ten minutes?
Rana cleared her throat. “Do you know your neighbors?” she finished lamely.
Devi shrugged. “Of course. Why?”
She flipped the poli, heating it for a moment before moving it off the stove onto a waiting plate. The circular sweet was perfect, no cracks or blemishes revealing the secret deliciousness hidden inside. “New guy moved in.”
“Oh. You should take him some baked goods. That’s how I made friends with all my neighbors. Bake cookies.”
Or some muffins.
No, no, no. She’d gotten her fucking muffin, her single cigarette. She was finished. Rana pulled off another chunk of dough and began the laborious process of turning it into a perfect poli. “I’ll think about it.”
Devi stirred the curry in one of the pots on the stove, the steam making the small hairs around her face curl. “It’s important to be neighborly.”
Rana smiled, though it felt like a shadow of her usual grin. “Right. Neighborly.”
Chapter 9
Micah stared at the phone on the couch next to him. He had both a landline and a cell phone, though he barely used either. His parents had insisted on them as a condition of his moving here, and though he was thirty-five and well past the age where he should care what his parents thought about anything, he understood his situation was peculiar.
His family had been through enough because of him, and it caused them a great deal of heartache that he now lived an ocean away. He couldn’t deny them this small measure of comfort.
Which was why he was sitting here on the couch in his studio, staring at his phone. Though his mother called any time she grew anxious over him—which was quite a bit—his father only called him Thursdays, after he’d eaten dinner. Micah suspected the scheduled call was an effort to counterbalance his mother’s more erratic behavior.
Right on time, the phone buzzed. He snatched it up, and Papa’s face filled the screen. “Micah,” his father boomed. The booming was normal. The man didn’t know how to speak at a quieter volume.
The older man’s broad face crinkled, his smile beaming through the video. Micah gave a tight smile, the now-familiar mix of love, shame, and frustration running through him. “Hello, Papa.”
“Angie,” his father said over his shoulder. “I told you he was fine. Come see.”
His mother’s worried face appeared over her husband’s shoulder. Ah, more guilt. Before his injuries, his mum’s face had never had so much as a wrinkle on it. Now there were lines around her lips and mouth. They were always creased when she looked at him. “Stop yelling, David. Hello, my love.”
“Mum.”
“You didn’t call me back yesterday,” she chided.
“I know. I apologize. It slipped my mind.” He was speaking formally, sitting up straighter. Look normal. Be normal.
His mum tsked. “I would have called the police if you hadn’t picked up today.”
“Please don’t do that,” he said mildly. She’d called the police twice in the past year when he ignored her calls in London.
He’d tried to be understanding, but he couldn’t deny that had been tiring. A benefit of moving here was that his family didn’t have his local emergency numbers memorized. Yet.
“Then you need to keep in touch,” she said sternly.
“Angie, don’t lecture the boy,” his father practically shouted. He leaned in closer. “How are you doing, son?”
“Well, thank you.” Be normal.
“You look pale.” His mother frowned at him.
“I don’t get pale.”
“You’re lighter than you were when you lived here. It’s called the sunshine state, isn’t it? Not because it rains all the time, surely. If you were leaving your house, you wouldn’t look like that.”
The woman should have been a detective, not a nurse. “I leave my house.”
She harrumphed. “Your hair is getting longer.”
How she could tell, he wasn’t sure. Before the call, he’d ensured his hair was tightly restrained, solely because his mother was mildly obsessed with its length.
There was a barber not far from the flat where Micah had grown up. He’d visited the old man once a month since he was fourteen until about two weeks before the incident. He’d used to wear his hair shorn close to his skull, hating the hassle of how thick and fast it grew.
He didn’t wear it long now out of fashion, but because the idea of someone standing behind him with a sharp object made him want to throw up. He couldn’t use an electric razor on himself, because the noise unnerved him. So, long hair it was, for the indefinite future. At least that way he could tie it back and forget it for a while.
“Boy looks like a warrior. The ladies like long hair,” his father piped up, saving Micah from a reply. Papa winked at her and patted his now-short hair. “Remember how beautiful my hair was when you first saw me? Made you fall in love at first sight.”
“Who says I fell in love with you at first sight?” his mother groused, but she covered her husband’s hand with her own, darker brown over light.
Micah dropped his eyes, a pang in his chest. His parents were poster children for a happy marriage, the best role models he could have had. He’d always been blithe about the fact that someday he would have a relationship like theirs. Now, though…
He studiously avoided looking out his window. He knew Rana’s blinds would be shut, as they had been for the past week. A couple of times, he had thought he heard her car in the driveway, and he’d had to bitterly argue with himself not to go out and drool all over her like an overeager puppy.
One night only, Cinderella. Now you’re done.
They weren’t soul mates like his parents were. Silly to imagine her sitting next to him with her hand on his leg.
“If you came home, I could trim your hair for you,” his mother said.
His shoulders tensed. She’d cut his hair once, because he’d hoped he’d at least be able to tolerate and trust the woman who had birthed him. He hadn’t had a panic attack, but he’d still had to drug himself for the experience. It was far easier to hack it off himself when it grew to an unmanageable length. “I’m not taking an international flight for a haircut, Mum.”
His father cleared his throat. “We miss you.”
The weight of his guilt pressed down on him. “I know. But I— This place is starting to grow on me.”
His mother’s lips tightened, and he didn’t miss Papa bolstering her by wrapping his arm around her waist. “The weather’s nicer, eh?” his father joked, but there was a deep sadness in his eyes.
“Yeah.” That was the excuse he’d given: he needed to get away before the chill of England worked its way through his bones.
It wasn’t all a lie. He’d always preferred warm climates. Florida had been the warmest place farthest away from everyone who knew him.
“If you want nicer weather, why don’t you go to Oahu? It’s paradise,” his mother asked, a trace of desperation in her voice.
He was shaking his head before she stopped speaking. This was an old argument. “No. I don’t want to go to Hawaii.” Both sides of his family were huge, but the maternal branch had some sense of typical British reserve—not much, but some. His father’s people, on the other hand, were so l
oud and boisterous, Micah could barely think when he was around them.
They would take care of him, of course. Of that he had no doubt. He could imagine his closest cousin Noah throwing a beefy arm around his neck and dragging him—on his paternal side, Micah was considered small—into his favorite bar. This is my cousin. Don’t make fun of his accent, he’s got an English mother. Micah, come meet this girl.
His aunts would shove food in front of him and demand he eat every bite, and he’d spend long, lazy days basking in the sun, with toddlers running around and over him while every adult and contemporary smothered him with pampering. He’d want for nothing.
Except uninterrupted time to himself.
Micah shuddered. He deeply loved every member of his extended clan. But he couldn’t imagine being the center of attention amongst a giant group of people who were aware of what had happened to him and genuinely cared for him. They would watch him the way his parents and former friends watched him. With worry and wariness that racked him with guilt and inadequacy.
His father pursed his lips, but his mother sighed. “How’s therapy?”
He didn’t hesitate with his standard response. “Great.” He wasn’t lying. The two appointments he’d kept since he’d moved had been unobjectionable.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like the American doctor. Dr. Kim had a gentle manner about him. Micah’s old psychologist had been one of the best in London, but his reserved and clinical attitude had made Micah dread visiting him. Kim, with his messy hair and worn office, was a vast improvement.
That didn’t mean he wanted to go.
Micah controlled his instinctive grimace. He’d never been the most verbose of men. He had always just done things, accomplished things. Before he became stuck in place.
He hated talking, the way it made him hyper-aware of his problems. The problem was his whole life. He knew that. He didn’t need to hear himself lay it all out for some stranger every week.
