Samira could fob off her cousin’s curiosity, but it was nice having someone to confide in, considering she was in the midst of her first full-blown crush in forever.
“He came back to my apartment, we had amazing sex again, we made Punjabi eggs together, he stayed the night, and I took him for Indian brunch not far from here, then we strolled around Dandenong for a bit.”
By the time she’d finished, Pia’s eyes were wide and her mouth hung open a tad.
“Wow. Are you two dating?”
The million-dollar question, because in what warped universe did a one-night stand with a decade-younger guy turn into any kind of relationship?
“Sort of.”
Pia’s eyebrows shot up. “What does that mean?”
Before she could formulate a response, Kushi and Sindhu bustled out of the kitchen carrying a platter each and bearing down on them.
“This conversation isn’t over,” Pia hissed under her breath. “But for what it’s worth, I’m proud of you, Cuz. He’s hot.”
A blush heated Samira’s cheeks as she remembered exactly how accurate that description of Rory was. Hot and then some.
But as she nibbled on a vegetable samosa and listened to her mom and aunt swap gossip about the latest scandal in the local Indian community, she couldn’t help but wonder if she was reading too much into this thing with Rory. They may have spent two nights together and had a first date this morning, but they could never have anything more than a fling. And while some lighthearted hookups were exactly what she needed, for the first time in a long time she wondered if her mom had the right idea . . . What would it be like to have more?
Sixteen
The train and tram trip from Dandenong to Carlton took about an hour, giving Rory plenty of time to think. If last night with Samira and the way she’d opened up had been a surprise, this morning had blown him away. She’d come alive as they’d strolled the streets where she’d grown up, her enthusiasm rubbing off on him in a way he hadn’t expected. He didn’t get excited about much these days, beyond a sexy brunette who’d got under his skin.
He couldn’t believe she was thirty-seven. Not that it mattered. He’d been out with women older and younger, and while he’d technically never dated anyone beyond a night or two, he knew none of them came close to Samira.
It irked that they hadn’t arranged to meet up again when they parted. He’d hoped she’d say something, because he sure as hell wouldn’t. Not that he didn’t want to, but he’d become particularly tongue-tied at the station, wanting to articulate how much fun he’d had hanging out with her but lacking the words. But then she’d called, and everything had been okay. They’d both been flippant and teasing, but he knew she wouldn’t have called so soon if she didn’t feel the same buzz he did.
Spending the night with her had been rare enough for him; hanging out for the entire “morning after” never happened. It had been the best date he’d ever had. It felt so natural, so easy, but that should make him extra wary. The more comfortable he felt with her, the higher chance he’d become a stuttering mess.
Though he wasn’t a complete fool. If they continued to hang out like he wanted, he would slip up, and she’d learn his secret. If it happened after he nailed the Renegades audition, he’d feel better somehow, like he was more her equal. Because right now, with her job and her lifestyle and her age, she had it all over him, and he felt like he didn’t quite match up.
And he hated feeling not quite good enough. He’d had enough of that shit from his dad.
Samira would never deliberately do it, but first would come the pity, then the questions, then the changes: the waiting for him to complete sentences with the slightest hint of impatience, the occasional awkward glance away when he couldn’t get a word out, or the worst of them all, trying to finish a word or sentence for him. Fuck, he hated that the most.
So while he had no clue where things stood with Samira, he’d stop overthinking it, and what better place to do that than the rec hall?
Amelia wouldn’t be here today, though she dropped in occasionally on a Saturday afternoon like he did to build informal relationships with the kids. Building trust was the first step toward encouraging them to take part in the program once it was up and running. Being migrants and refugees, most of their parents hadn’t heard of speech therapy or they viewed health professionals skeptically.
That was where he came in. If the kids bonded with him over shooting a few hoops or kicking a footy, and he opened up about his own therapy, they’d be more likely to welcome Amelia’s intervention when the time came.
Pushing open the wire door that led to the courts, he spotted a motley crew of boys and girls aged from eight to sixteen. He knew most of them but spied a few new faces. Out of the group of eighteen, at least six kids could do with speech therapy. Two with stutters, four on the spectrum. Those kids tended to hang back and not engage with the others.
He knew the feeling.
It didn’t matter that he’d attended one of the best private schools in the city; kids still mocked the same the world over. It had been easier to shut his mouth than be ridiculed for it, and while he may have been tall and strong for his age when he hit his early teens, it didn’t make the bullies back off. If anything, they taunted more, hoping he’d lose his cool and end up fighting. He never had, but most days the punching bag in his workout room at home copped a beating.
He’d been to these courts several times now, and most of the kids knew him, but that didn’t make them any friendlier. Considering some had come from war-torn countries and witnessed horrific atrocities, he didn’t blame them for their mistrust of adults in general. But he persisted because he wanted them to have every chance of treating their speech impediments.
One of the kids, Davey, a boy of about nine, spotted him and waved. He felt sorry for Davey because Ds were particularly difficult for stutterers, so the simple act of introducing himself to anyone was tough on this kid.
Rory strolled over to the outskirts of the scuffed court where a half-hearted game was in progress, the older kids jostling for position and shooting hoops.
“Hey, Davey, how are you?”
“G-g-good,” the kid said, avoiding his eyes like he usually did, as if ashamed of his affliction.
“Shot any hoops yet?”
Davey shook his head, taking any opportunity to use a gesture rather than speak. Rory had done the same at a similar age. It had infuriated his father. But what was the point of speaking when it would earn him a pitiful glance or a sentence finished by someone else? Later, in his teens, he’d let his fingers do the talking, the middle one in particular.
“Want to join in the game?”
Another shake of the head, but Rory caught the longing glance Davey sent the other kids. One of them tripped, and the others laughed uproariously, but it was good-natured as they helped the kid to his feet and continued playing.