Page 48 of Not Your Basic Love Story

That wasn’t what I meant. I tried again. “I thought this was going to be a meal with your family. I mean, the family you live with.”

“It is. They live in the other wing, but we spend a lot of time together.”

My eyes widened. The... other... wing?! How big was this house, exactly? I eyed the huge table laden with piles of food, all the people talking over one another boisterously, most of it in Punjabi. To be honest, it was overwhelming having so many people at a family meal. I was used to my little family of four from childhood, so having twelve there, plus me, as an average family meal was a lot to take in. I gave up trying to follow along with the conversations and focused on keeping a pleasant look on my face, turning instead to my food.

Unsure of where to start, I picked one thing and spooned a huge mouthful in.

Holy hell.It was spicy as FUCK.

I sipped my water. It didn’t help. I took a bite of naan, which was fresh and piping hot, and only made things worse. Unable to handle the fact that my mouth was on fire, I pushed myself back from the table, chair squealing in protest, and walked quickly out of the room to the kitchen.

Dev was close behind. “Sorry, Rebecca, please—what’s wrong?”

I gestured at my mouth, my face by now a deep shade of red, sweat prickling out of every pore in my body.

“Oh!” He said, cluing in. A moment later, he had a glass of milk in my hand, which I chugged gratefully.

He gave me a moment to recover. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I'll be fine.”

He shifted on his feet. “We can leave if you want to.”

“What?” I reached out and squeezed his arm. “No. It’s fine! That one dish was super spicy, caught me off guard. I’ll just eat the other things and bring some more milk with me.”

“No, I mean, if you’re not comfortable here.” He looked a little deflated.

I set my glass down and then took his face in my hands, fingertips coming to life with the prickle of his beard. He placed his hands around my waist and then lowered his forehead to mine. I closed my eyes and sighed. It was nice escaping the chaos of the big family meal for a minute, enjoying the relative quiet of the kitchen with Dev, grounding me.

“Everything’s fine. I promise. Your family is great.” I pulled away to look into his eyes. The uncertainty was back, the questioning. I wished I could read his mind but was also grateful that I couldn’t. He was probably wondering how much of a future we could have if I couldn’t even eat a simple home-cooked meal at his family’s house.

The sound of someone’s throat-clearing disrupted the moment. Dev stepped away from me quickly, looking embarrassed.

Shawan stood there, arms crossed. “Everything okay, dear?” Her concerned voice did not match her expression.

“Yes,” I said quickly. “I needed a glass of milk. Delicious food, Mrs. Singh.” Glass in hand, I left Dev with his mom, took a steadying breath, and made my way back to the table.

The cousins eyed me as I walked in. For the first time since coming to Dev’s house I felt very much aware of my pale white skin. I practically glowed in the dark next to everyone else. I sat down and turned to Dev’s little sister, feeling most comfortable talking to her. “So Priya, you’re graduating this year, right? Any plans for when you’re done school?”

Her back straightened. “Well, I really want to go into this awesome arts program.”

“You’re an artist?”

She nodded, excitement bubbling out of her as she wiggled in her seat. “I really want to be a tattoo artist. Do you have tattoos?”

“Yep, two. One on my lower back, and one here,” I said, showing her the little Douglas Fir on my ankle, a homage to my love of British Columbia.

“I love it!” she gasped.

“Do you have any?”

“No. Becausesomeonewon’t let me get one!” She glared over at her father.

Jag sighed, having apparently gone through this conversation many times and had long since tired of it. “We do not desecrate our bodies, Priya.”

I cringed at the word ‘desecrate,’ wishing I’d kept my tattoos to myself. The table quieted at the unfolding drama, watching Jag and Priya with interest.

“It’sart, Papa!” she argued.

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