Page 13 of Bad At Love

Shaking her head, she backtracked what she’d said and pouted. “Noticed that my current look matches a hooker whose best days are behind her, huh?”

“Or you could be a supermodel? You have the body and the bones for it,” he said, without missing a beat. His gaze did a quick sweep of her body that left a hot trail in its wake. “Not that there’s anything wrong with sex work.”

“Exactly. It was my last resort all those years ago if the cleaning thing didn’t work.”

His smile vanished as he remembered her desperation. In the end, it had been the small loan he’d given her that had enabled her to pay for Kaasi’s after-school care and buy cleaning supplies, his recommendations that had gotten her the first cleaning job. For some reason, she’d been too ashamed to tell Mona, even though she’d been camping in her guest room for weeks by then. Of course, her best friend had blasted her later for not asking her for the loan.

“Did I ever tell you how proud I am of you?” he said, his throat moving.

She smiled, feeling as if the world was right again. God, please let them keep this even footing.Please.

She vowed to donate a hundred dollars that she could ill afford on her next visit to the temple and cook a giant pot of Lemon Rice for Sunday’s free meal service. Without the usual passive aggressive reminder texts from her older sister.

“I know how much you love my biryani.” Turning around, she peeked into her refrigerator and searched for the right box. “I packed it separately, in a non-transparent container, so that Kaasi doesn’t eat it all. Let me heat it up for you.”

When she emerged victorious with the right box, he was standing behind her.

“I can do that,” he said, grabbing the box from her. Then he popped the lid open and took a sniff. His chest expanded, and he licked his lower lip with a relish she felt deep inside her. “Shall I leave some for you?”

“No. I’ll heat the pizza.”

“Great!” he said, pulling out cutlery and even the lid she used inside the microwave. As it beeped, he walked into the entry foyer and ran his fingers over the vintage mirror. “That biryani should give me the second wind I need to bring this upstairs.”

“Thank you,” Chaaru said, watching his thick fingers trace the scroll edges of the frame with a dry mouth, her flesh eager for the same attention. “You know where the towels are in the downstairs bathroom,” she said over her shoulder as she took the stairs. “You got caught in the drizzle too.”

Pausing at the top of the stairs, she watched him like a besotted fool, tracing the breadth of those wide shoulders. His familiarity with her kitchen, his very presence in her home, had always felt natural, so much that she couldn’t imagine another man in this space.

Every inch of her wanted to walk to him, to ask him to hold her, and beg him to not let things change between them. And yet, she knew that the moment she touched him, her body would betray this new awareness. God help her but she didn’t know how to turn it off.

6

DP looked at the round steel box sitting on the island, condensation gleaming on the outside, and chuckled at the thought of Chaaru hiding leftovers from Kaasi.

For him.

He scooped the fragrant biryani onto a plate.

Turning the tap on, he squeezed soap onto the sponge and washed the box and its lid. A warm glow spread from his chest to his cold extremes, his low mood fizzing away like bubbles out of a soda bottle that had been opened too many times.

Absently, he rubbed the linoleum top of the island that he and TJ and Kaasi had installed last year, surveying her home with fresh eyes.

The comfy old couch draped in so many blankets that sinking into it felt like a warm hug surely had the imprint of his body. Chaaru had bought it on Craig’s list and when they had gone to pick it up, out in some seedy, dinghy suburb, the house had looked like something out of a slasher movie.

Of course, Chaaru had brought leftover chicken tikka masala and ghee-roasted Naan for the old lady selling the couch, after learning that she was eighty-two and lived alone.

Then there was the rectangular, solid oak coffee table that she’d found at a thrift store years ago. He and Mona, and even Dom who was a workaholic, had spent countless hours scrubbing away gunk and dirt from it, to get to the hand-finished grain beneath.

The soft sage-colored walls, the blush pink linen curtains, even the shiny steel water faucet at the sink, and the cheap, local art pieces on the wall, she’d handpicked every single thing with such pride and joy.

Then there was the townhome itself, with two tiny bedrooms, one bathroom upstairs, and a stand-in shower downstairs. He’d used it once, after Kaasi and he had stayed up until dawn to play a new release of Space Battle, and had almost gotten stuck in it.

Every piece of Chaaru’s home had been painstakingly crafted and put together from pieces someone had thrown away as junk, with love and a fierce sense of independence. And he’d been present for every choice she’d made, offering his opinion or help or both.

She never brought a lover here and it wasn’t just because of Kaasi. This space was her boundary, her hard limit, her haven. It was a statement that she’d never share it with a man. And yet, he’d always been welcomed here.

Rubbing a hand over his face, he scoffed at himself. Being ‘Friend-Zoned’, TJ said, was a curse.

How long could he continue this way without his feelings spilling over? Why was he dawdling here, risking more awkwardness and tension between them?

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