Page 38 of Not Your Basic Love Story

She looked at me as if she were the victim. Once again, she opened her mouth but shut it in a rare demonstration of self-control.

I was beginning to sweat.

My dad broke the silence, setting his elbows on the table. “I’ve always wanted to restore an old car, you know? Something classic, like a Chevelle or a Stingray.”

Dev hid a smile in his drink. “Those are a lot of work to keep running.”

“Well, I have nothing but time on my hands. How much do you think it’d cost me?”

“Probably more than it would be worth, to be honest. But it’s not about the money. Restoration is a labour of love.”

The men prattled on about cars for a while, either missing or ignoring the tension between my mother and me. In her eyes, I’d missed the mark as a daughter. Ever since I was twenty-four, she’d been pressuring me to date, pressuring me to get married, and pressuring me to have kids. She’d had her first baby at twenty-two and her last at twenty-five, so for me to be unwed at twenty-nine gave her endless anxiety of ever getting grandkids at all.

Did my brother receive the same pressure? Nope. He lived in Australia, living the ultimate playboy bachelor lifestyle, surfing and partying like he was still in his twenties. But he was a boy, thus no clock ticking, and he visited Canada so rarely that when he did, it was as if Elvis Presley had entered the building.

Our food arrived, four plates of colourful steaming dishes that smelled and looked fantastic. I glanced up from my plate to see the uncertain looks on my parents' faces. Why didn’t they order the butter chicken? Everyone likes butter chicken!

I took a bite, and it was delicious, as always.

“How’s your, um. What did you order?” I asked Dev.

“It’s called Madras. Potatoes, cauliflower, peppers. Want to try?” he slid his dish towards me.

I took a bite. “That’s delicious!” I said, helping myself to more.

“How do you like yours, Karen?” Dev asked, trademark adorable brow-furrow appearing.

She’d taken maybe one bite. Mouth pressed into a firm line, she shook her head. “I don’t know what spice is in there, but it’s going to make me ill. The smell, I can’t— waitress?” She snapped her fingers. Holy hell. She actually snapped them. I wanted to disappear.

The server approached. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Honey, I’m sorry, I can’t eat this. Can you take it back?”

The server went to take the dish, but Dad interjected. “I’ll eat it. Can you pack it up for us, please?”

She nodded. “Of course. Can I get you something else?”

Mom shook her head. “No, thanks. I’m not hungry anymore.”

I spoke up. “How about some naan bread, mom? Try some of mine. It’s really good.”

“No,” she said, waving her hands. “I’m fine. Please take it.”

The server looked concerned, probably worrying that her tip was going from marginal to nothing, and left with my mom’s uneaten plate.

“Sorry for the recommendation,” Dev said.

“No, it’s fine. It’s the spices or something. I can’t place it. I’m going to go to the washroom.” She pushed her chair back noisily and left the table.

Deflated, I looked to my dad. “How’s yours?”

He gave me a thumb’s up, his plate already half empty.

Well, at leasthewas enjoying the food. Internally I berated myself, wishing I’d suggested we go somewhere for dinner where I knew Mom wouldn’t complain. Like Olive Garden. Or White Spot.

When Mom returned, she looked paler than usual. My dad rubbed her back, a sweet gesture. “You okay, dear?”

She nodded, forcing her lips into a smile.

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