“I’m not going to argue with you, just like I’m not going to move back into your house. I’ve been on my own since freshman year in college.”
He huffed. “Ha. Ms. Independent.” Then he said to Momma, “Make me some cha.”
Momma, flustered as she put the finishing touches on an elaborate meal, went to grab yet another saucepan to make cha. I lunged for a ladle to ease down the piping hot dhal before it spilled over and asked, “Can I turn this off?”
She gave a brief nod as she moved gracefully across the kitchen to get milk, sugar, cha, mint, masala, and water, all the fixings for a warm, aromatic drink.
“And hurry,” Dad added. “You know I like a cup at this time of day.”
So while she sprinted to make a grand meal—and made sure it was just the right temperature by the time he ate—Dad sat there with nothing else to do except read a paper that wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
I didn’t glance at Momma, because she’d give me that curt shake of the head that said let it be.
I tried.
For about two minutes, until Dad said, looking at me, “And get me water.”
I held up a hand, embracing my unruly, opinionated self. “You get on me for not knowing how to cook three Indian meals a day, but you can’t possibly get off your butt and make your own cha? Or get some water? It’s right there. The fridge even dispenses it for you.”
Dad glared at me. Boy, if eyes could light things up, I’d be on fire right about now. Momma gently slapped my arm as I brought items to the table.
“Watch your mouth,” he growled.
“Don’t be so bigoted. Momma, bless her heart, cooks so much because you can’t tolerate leftovers. You could help out by making your own cha.”
Dad crumpled the paper, his knuckles white. “Liya, you are a girl, perhaps the most rebellious one I’ve ever known, and you should bridle that tongue of yours. I don’t know what I’ve done in my past lives for the gods to curse me with you.”
I raised a sharp brow, my bangled wrist on my hip. “I don’t know about your past lives, but you’ve done enough in this lifetime to deserve some affliction.”
Momma paled at my side. She turned stiff and stared at her feet while Dad glowered. In his head, he knew damn well what I meant, but somewhere in that black-and-white mentality, he still did not think badly of his actions.
I took in a long breath. There was absolutely no one in the world who made me lose my crap the way Dad did. And I thought for sure that sometimes he did it on purpose. But if he was the rash-inducing irritant that set me off, then Momma was the Tiger Balm ointment to my wounds. She had a quiet way of calming me, which inspired me to defuse things, if for no one else, then for her.
“I just mean, Dad, would it hurt for you to get your own water once in a while when Momma is running around? You’d never lift a hand in the kitchen, but maybe a little to get a drink?”
Instead of acknowledging my question, he said, “We have company arriving any minute. Go touch up. You look unpresentable.”
By “any minute,” he meant any second, because the doorbell rang. Since this company was apparently anticipated, Dad answered the door himself instead of expecting Momma to.
I unclenched my aching fists and looked to her for an opening to talk about the “forbidden things,” but she escaped my gaze and took a pitcher of water to the dining area. The table, now fully adorned with five settings, explained why Momma had made so much food.
She rubbed my arm. “Why must you test him like this?”
“What about what he does to me? Don’t you find his attitude demeaning?”
“He does have a point. You must not let your mouth run wild and goad your elders, your parents much less.”
My jaw dropped, but I wasn’t sure why.
Lots of people said things could always be worse. Sure. He could physically abuse Momma, in which case losing my crap would be an understatement. But it could be a lot better.
Dad’s over-friendly voice carried through the hall as it mixed with the upbeat, laughing voices of his company: a man and a woman.
I popped another sliver of radish into my mouth. “I thought it was only us tonight. Who’s here, and do I have to eat with them?”
“Jayesh Shah and his mother, and yes, you do have to eat with them.”
My eyes widened as I recognized Jayesh’s name from Momma’s many WhatsApp messages. “Are you kidding me?”
Her expression turned to pleading, a look I couldn’t ever seem to deny, but this was far beyond acceptable. “Momma, please,” I whispered, “I told you I did not want to meet this guy.”
She clutched my arm, and every instinct in my body told me to do whatever it took to make her happy. She needed someone in her corner.
“Just meet him, please. You can reject him after dinner. But I don’t think you will want to once you meet. Did you see his photos? Isn’t he a handsome boy? I thought you would like him.”
“You know that’s not how things work. There’s even more pressure to say yes after agreeing to meet. You can’t use passive aggression to force me to marry someone.”
I scoffed at the voices mingling in the foyer. I still had time to grab my purse and slip out the back door.
“Please,” Momma begged, her voice trembling. “Dad will be so upset if you leave like this.”
I clenched my eyes shut, struggling with the prospect of Dad berating Momma because of me.
“He cannot manipulate me every time I come here. I told him no. I’m sorry,” I breathed. The words splintered my heart the moment they left my lips.
Before the shadows in the hallway crested into the family room, I fled out the back door. Ignoring my instantly damp socks, I cut through the gate and went around to the front yard. I grabbed my boots on the front porch, slipping one on and hopping haphazardly on one foot before securing the second boot. I hurried to turn the corner of the front porch, around the granite pillar, my attention caught on the stupid pebbles in my right boot instead of looking straight ahead.
My quick, clean getaway hit a wall. A very hard, solid wall of flesh as I bulldozed all six-foot-plus of finely tailored man to the grass. I wish I could’ve fallen gracefully, or at the least knocked him down and somehow remained on my feet. But no. My body was splayed on top of this stranger, the air knocked from my lungs as I fought to catch my breath. Sugary laddoo and saffron peda rolled across the front yard.
The man beneath me had a hand on my waist and the other above his head holding a red-and-gold box with the lid crushed open. His blue, fitted, button-down shirt scrunched up at the collar.
Momma had been right. He was quite handsome, with pitch-black hair, rich light brown skin, dazzling dark brown eyes, and a jawline that could cut glass.
My heart beat against my chest, and not in an insta-crush way. It beat the way it had when I came dangerously close to getting a less-than-perfect grade. It beat as if I were in trouble, as if I had gotten caught doing something bad.
And that feeling did not sit well with me.
“You must be Liya. Would you like a sweet?” he asked in a voice so deep and rumbly, it could’ve made my legs wobble. If I were still standing.
He brought the nearly crumpled box to my face.
Um…