by Sonya Lalli
OMG. You are in a cute boy’s bedroom!
Do you even remember how to have sex?
You’re going to get hurt.
Niki, just go for it, you sex positive goddess!
“Niki?”
I snapped my head toward Sam. I had no idea what he’d been saying a moment earlier, nor had I noticed him lie down on the bed.
“Sorry,” I blushed, taking a step backward. “What did you say?”
He smiled up at me and tucked his hands under his head. “I asked you why you didn’t give music a go as a career.”
I didn’t feel like talking about Jasmine just yet—our fight was still too raw—and so I didn’t tell Sam that majoring in music after Jasmine picked art would have been too hard on my parents.
“You think it would have been fanciful,” Sam said before I could think of a reply. “Ridiculous, even.”
I opened my mouth to speak, sitting down at the edge of the bed. I didn’t want to offend Sam and his decision to chase after his dreams, but I was also reluctant to lie to him.
“You and my father both,” Sam mumbled.
Sam turned his head away from me, toward the window.
We hadn’t spent a lot of time together, and he hadn’t shared many details about his life, nothing someone snooping couldn’t find on Instagram. He had two siblings. He was close with his mother. He’d spent his first five years in London sharing a house with his bandmates in a neighborhood called Peckham, although now he shared a “flat” with an accountant and his cat, Tipsy.
I scanned his face, trying to decide how much to probe. I wasn’t Sam’s friend or his girlfriend. If he didn’t want to tell me about his relationship with his father, then I knew I shouldn’t ask.
“Hey,” I said, squeezing his hand. “Let’s do something fun. Beach?”
Sam tilted his chin, gazing up at me. “Tomorrow. I promise. Diya says the whole crew is going to come up to see us tomorrow. Mandrem Beach is her favorite, too.”
“Great.” I smiled.
“By the way, I overheard Smita and Priti being pricks to our waiter. I’m sorry about that. They can be rather rude.”
After I told them off at the restaurant, Masooma had also apologized for their behavior, sending me a DM over Instagram beneath the table. Apparently, everyone in the group thought they’d become too uppity in recent years, but no one had yet found the courage to tell them off.
“Don’t worry,” I said dismissively. “I don’t judge you guys for being friends with them.”
“You should judge us a little.” Sam smiled. “But the thing is—we’ve known each other for so long, at this point, they’re basically family.” He paused. “You take it or you leave it.”
“I get that.” I shrugged. I was still feeling weird about dinner, and I couldn’t find the words I was looking for. “I just . . .”
Sam squeezed my hand, prompting me. “What is it, love?”
“Our waiter tonight . . .” I trailed off again, breathing hard. “When I looked at him, I didn’t just see some waiter, you know? I saw myself. My family.”
“What do you mean?” Sam asked quietly.
“We come from humble farming communities. Most of my family isn’t well off.” I paused. “A lot of them work in service roles for people like your friends. For people like you, Sam.”
“That might be the case,” he said quietly. “But not everyone—”
“I know not everyone is like Smita and Priti. I know people can have money and also be kind and good, but that doesn’t mean it’s fair. Why do some people get everything and others . . . don’t? Why did I get to grow up in America, and my cousins here . . .”
“You feel guilty,” he said plainly.
Rationally, I knew I shouldn’t feel guilty. My parents had worked for the life they built in the US for their daughters’ futures, but I wasn’t feeling all that rational these days.
“I don’t know how I feel.”
“Are you looking forward to Punjab?” Sam asked. “To meeting your family?”
“Sort of . . .”
Sam reached for my hand and interlocked our fingers. I had meant to steer clear of serious subjects, like my relationship with Jasmine or Sam’s father. Somehow, we still ended up talking about a different, tenderer one. Me.
“I guess I’m afraid,” I said quietly.
“What are you afraid of?”
“I’ve had a better life than them, and I’m scared of seeing something hard.” I looked down at our palms. “That’s terrible, right?”
“Who are you to say that you’ve had a better life than them, huh?” Sam pinched me playfully on the nose with his free hand. “You sound like an American.”
I laughed, leaning my weight into him. “I do. But guess what?”
“What?” he whispered.
“I am an American.” I threw my hands up. “Or Indian-American. Or whatever you want to call it.”
“Here in India,” Sam said, “some might call you an NRI. A nonresident Indian.”
“A nonresident Indian,” I repeated, considering the label. Growing up, I’d always wondered what to call myself. Punjabi-American. Indian-Sikh. Jat. Desi. Brown Girl. I hadn’t heard the term “NRI” before, and as I considered it, I started to wonder out loud why these labels even mattered so much to me. What should matter is how I thought about myself.
I felt lighter as we talked, the way I had on Diwali, and a weight lifted from my chest as it became clear to me that Sam was right. As I figured out a way to articulate feelings that I hadn’t ever said out loud.
I didn’t have a better life than my cousins who grew up here in India. I had a different life. And it wasn’t for me to say who was right and what was wrong, or to carry the weight of what was so fucked up about the world on my shoulders, like a would-be savior.
All we can do is stand up for what we believe in, be a good person, and do our best not to harm anyone in the process.
“I love Punjab,” Sam said, smiling at me as our conversation veered back to the subject of my family trip. He tucked my hair behind my ears. “I think you’ll love it, too.”
“You’ve been to Amritsar?”
“Twice. The first time, I was too young to remember. It was a family trip.” Ever so briefly, Sam’s face went dark. “But I went back a few years ago with friends. It’s a beautiful city.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” I didn’t want to think about parting ways already, but my family was expecting me, and we needed to plan for it. “What day should I leave?”
“That’s up to you. There’s still time to decide.”
“But when will you be going back to London?” I paused, weary of prying, of disrupting Sam’s plans. “Do you have any shows coming up?”
“Not imminently,” he said vaguely. “And I’m not quite sure yet. I might wait and see how long this cute girl I know sticks around.”
“She’s cute, huh?”
“Rather dorky. But a bit cute, yeah—”
I grabbed a pillow and smacked him in the face. Laughing, Sam wrestled it from me and then pinned me down on the bed, his left hand gently pressed around both my wrists.
His face was only inches away as he hovered above me, most of his weight balanced on his arms. Without thinking, I arched my hips upward and practically groaned as he lowered himself onto me, our stomach and thighs pressed together.
“Am I squishing you?”
“Yes.” I closed my eyes and played dead, letting my tongue loll to the side. “You’ve killed me.”
“Still cute,” Sam said quietly. “Even dead.”
I opened my eyes to find him staring down at me, and my heart literally skipped a beat. God, he was hot. I was so nervous before that I’d almost forgotten about the way his eyes sparkled when he looked at me. The way his lips naturally pouted i
n a sexy sort of smirk, which I was beginning to think wasn’t so much aloof as it was thoughtful. The way he looked at me, his eyelids heavy, and somehow still managed to see everything.
Sam lowered his face a fraction, those dangerously kissable lips close enough for me to pounce. I licked my lips, trembling, and when Sam kissed me, my mind went blank. Every thought and question and doubt slipped away, and all I could feel were his lips pressing against me.
My heart raced as he released my wrists, and I wrapped my arms around his back, pulling him closer. I could feel him pulsing against me as we kissed more deeply, his hand finding the small of my waist, grazing upward from my ribs.
I was melting. I was hot and desperate for more, writhing aimlessly as his lips traced the soft skin of my neck, landing in a gentle kiss on my collarbone.
“Sam,” I moaned. He looked up at me in a daze.
I opened my mouth, panting, ready to throw caution to the wind, to Jasmine’s words of warning, and jump headfirst into a pool of unknown depth and proportion.
“Niki?” he whispered. He rested his chin lightly against my chest, breathing hard and fast, and just then, something . . . clicked.
Not us.
A freaking doorknob.
In a flash, Sam and I were off the bed, and I tugged my shirt down as we raced over to the keyboard, footsteps echoing on the stairs just outside.
“I’m home!” Aasha Auntie called. “Are you decent?”
“Yes,” Sam barked, a half laugh, half-mortified yelp.
I ran my hands through my hair just as she appeared in the doorway, her hip cocked to one side.
“How was your night?” Sam croaked. I wasn’t sure how he was speaking. My heart was pounding so fast I could barely breathe.
“Such fun!” Auntie took one step into the room, her purse swinging at her side. “Niki, I have a ladies group here—all of our children have left home, and so we cook for each other.”
“Sounds lovely,” I managed. I didn’t sound like myself, but at least they were words.
“Niki was just playing for me,” Sam said. “She’s very good.”
“I am not surprised. Will you play for me, too?”
“I uh . . .”
“Later, Mom.” Sam smiled at her, and Auntie started nodding profusely, taking the hint.
“Aacha. You kids have fun.” She turned around, hips swaying as she left. “These walls are soundproof, Niki, in case you were curious.”
As soon as Auntie closed the door behind her, my face collapsed into my hands. “Well,” I groaned, my palms muffling the sound. “That was mortifying.”
Sam pressed his face against my cheek, kissing me. “That was close. It’s like high school all over again, huh?”
“I didn’t sneak around with guys in high school, Sam.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot. You were a little dork.”
I swatted him away, but he just pulled me closer.
“Did you have sex in high school?” I asked teasingly.
“Lots.”
I guffawed, and Sam squeezed me accusingly.
“Indian people have sex, you know.” He pressed his hands together in namaste and thickened his accent. “You Americans—you think we are all so pious?”
“I meant it’s surprising that you had sex in high school,” I fired back. “I’ve seen pictures . . .”
I teasingly pinched his cheek, thinking about that adorable, chubby little boy Diya grew up with. He’d grown up into a straight-up hottie.
A hottie who, for the first time in my life, made me feel completely out of control.
CHAPTER 23
I woke up to bird songs and the low hum of the generator. Smiling, I threw the covers off, grabbed my phone, and headed into the kitchen. It was just shy of seven in the morning, and so I quietly rummaged around the pantry until I found everything I needed to make a big pot of Punjabi tea—cardamom, cinnamon, black pepper, sugar, fennel, cloves, and Mom’s secret ingredient, ginger.
I set the water to boil and then sat down at the kitchen table, scrolling through my phone. Jasmine still hadn’t replied, although I knew she was alive because she’d checked in on our family group chat. I fired off a quick text in there myself and then logged into my e-mail.
My pulse quickened as two new messages appeared. Overnight, two of the companies I’d applied to had gotten back to me: they wanted me to come in and interview.
A few days earlier, these e-mails would have had me popping the metaphorical champagne and blaring Beyoncé in celebration, and so the knot of uncertainty in my stomach was a surprising one. Wasn’t this good news? I was unemployed. I needed something solid to step on, a foothold to get back on track.
And here, right here in my hand, could be the answer.
I glanced up when I heard footsteps running down the stairs. A moment later, Sam shot around the corner.
“Good morn—”
He interrupted me with a kiss, his hands cupping my face in his palms, and a beat later, he pulled away.
“What was that for?” I asked, breathless.
“Mom’s up.” Sam kissed me on the nose, then whispered, “She’s right behind me—”
“Yoo-hoo,” she called, thundering down the stairs. “No funny business, aacha? Your Aasha Auntie is here!”
She entered the kitchen giggling at her own joke, while Sam rolled his eyes and I tried not to die.
“Oh, beti. What is this tasty smell?”
“Cha.” I hopped off the chair, still embarrassed that she yet again nearly caught me macking on her son. “I hope it’s OK that I helped myself in the pantry?”
“Be my guest! Punjabis make the best tea.”
Aasha Auntie and I finished off the cha while Sam prepared breakfast, cutting up mangoes, papayas, and melons into a large ceramic bowl. I watched him, kind of in awe, especially when he returned from the pantry and started adding spices to the mixture.
“This is Sam’s specialty. Masala fruit salad.”
I leaned over the bowl and took a big whiff of the spicy-sweet aroma. “Smells great.”
“Are you veg or non-veg, Niki?” Auntie asked me.
“Non-veg,” I answered. “I’ll eat anything.”
“Perfect. Sam cooks delicious chicken curry I am most eager to try again.” She looked over at him curiously. “Tonight, beta? I will call the butcher.”
“Sure.” Sam sprinkled a bit of salt over the fruit salad. “Do we have aloo?”
“We are running short. I will also call the vegetable waala.”
“You can cook,” I said to Sam. It was more of a question, but I said it like a statement.
“A bit.”
“He is very accomplished chef—so modest, Sam.” Aasha Auntie handed me the tea strainer. “When did you learn, beta? I am forgetting.”
“When I left for college,” Sam answered, as he peeled another mango, “I had to. I missed your cooking too much, Mom.”
My chest felt all light and fluttery as I admired his domestic prowess, the way he prepared the fruit salad and hashed out a meal plan with his mother. Traditional South Asian mothers tended to dote on their sons. And while pampering was one thing, spoiling them rotten was entirely different. And I’d met my fair share of Indian boys, one in particular, who were barely capable of tying their own shoelaces, practically debilitated by the pedestal on which they were placed.
After breakfast, Auntie Aasha volunteered to drop off Sam and me at Mandrem Beach, as it was on her way out. I was desperate to sneak in another kiss, but Diya, Mihir, and the others had already arrived, and Sam and I didn’t have a moment alone together.
We found a pristine stretch of sand that fit the whole group, and I laid my beach towel out next to Diya and Masooma. Mihir had brought a cooler full of coconut water and beer, and a Bluetooth speaker, and we spent the rest of
the morning basking in the sun, cooling down in the ocean, and listening to everything from Benny Benassi to Dr. Dre to Bollywood classics like “Bole Chudiyan.”
By midday, we were on our third dunk in the ocean. I stayed back when the group went ashore, enjoying the swell and dip of the waves. Curious, I searched for Sam and wasn’t at all surprised to see that he’d stayed behind, too. My stomach lurched as he swam toward me in an effortless front stroke, his muscly arms rising in and out of the water. All morning, we seemed to have had an unspoken agreement not to inflict PDA on the group, although I’m not sure whether it was for the sake of modesty or to avoid prying questions. Luckily, I remembered to bring sunglasses, and I could discreetly ogle him as much as I pleased.
“This is quite a spot,” I said once he was close. “How long has your family been coming here?”
“Years,” Sam said. “Since I was a teenager, at least.”
“Must have been quite the babe magnet.”
“The girls created a rota. There were queues down the pavement, Niki. They all wanted—”
“All right, all right,” I said, splashing back in the water.
“I’m kidding.” He threw water right back at me. “As you pointed out yesterday, girls didn’t pay much attention to me when I was younger.” He paused. “I only ever brought Amanda.”
Oh yes, Amanda.
I lay flat on my back, floating on the waves. I didn’t know her, and it sounded like she and Sam had been over for years, but I couldn’t help but feel jealous. I knew I shouldn’t. It didn’t matter. But the feeling washed over me like one of these damn waves that kept flinging seawater into my mouth.
“Tell me about her,” I said, staring up at the sky. The sun was bright and I closed my eyes. “Was she American?”
“We studied together at UCLA.”
“A California girl.” I paused, licking the salty water from my lips. “Did she like it here?”
“Not really,” he said. “She said she liked the food, but that was about it. The beaches, the culture, the nightlife—she thought LA had it better.”
