Page 3 of The Biker and the Baker
This Vivaan person isn’t even family. Just a neighbor. Yet the Saxenas have shut down their business hours early to go see their neighbor shave their one-year-old son’s head. Why? “Because we’re all family.”
“You people are ridiculous,” I mumble to Ramesh, then continue to the side of the house which leads to my apartment.
“Aunty Pia! Do you have any sweet bakies?”
Glancing up, I see my two nieces—ages six and five—on the upper balcony of the beige two-story house next door. Yep, Preeti is our neighbor, while Mira lives two cul-de-sacs away with her “roommate.” Ramesh lives in the house with our parents, and I rent the two-bedroom basement apartment downstairs.
“Why of course, lovies,” I say, patting my work bag. “I’ll bring them over soon,onlyif your mommy tells me you’ve been good.”
“We have been good all day, Aunty Pia!” they say within seconds of each other, jumping up and down on the balcony. “We promise!”
“Well, if that’s true, you'll be getting your sweet bakies real soon.”
I skip down the steps to the entrance of my apartment, laughing as they squeal at me to hurry and call their mommy.
Nope, I’m not ashamed of living in a basement apartment at thirty. When you choose a career in the restaurant industry, you do so with the understanding that very few end up with a high-class lifestyle. Food is a labor of love. Long hours, low pay, high turnovers. You’d be hard-pressed to find a cook, baker, mixologist, or server who are paid what they’re worth. It takes a while, if ever, to find that perfect job. Which is why most shoot for restaurateurship.
I absolutely love what I do, but before landing a position at Cookie’s Treat, I made crap money. From that, I dutifully saved every penny to be able to afford an accelerated culinary degree and then pastry school. I lived unabashedly frugally for a long time. Anything if it meant I wouldn’t owe Sallie Mae a penny at the end of it all. I’m not about that loan-and-debt life.
Only after I began working at Cookie’s Treat on a proper salary with regular bonuses did I begin seeing some real progress with my finances. In another year or so, I should be able to buy a house,notin this neighborhood. For now, I’m grateful and have no complaints about my life as it is. With my only debt being my rent, I’m good.
My apartment is Boho-Chic. I’m loud and colorful and my home matches that. Bright colors, mismatched furniture, mandala printed rugs and throw pillows, kitschy art, and plants.
Plants, plants, plants. Tall plants, small plants, hanging plants, dying plants, striving plants.
I love life, love living things. But I’m allergic to pets and it devastates me, so I fill that gap with plants. Not the perfect replacement, but at least they aren’t crapping all over the place.
I deposit my work bag on the rustic dining table then grab a bottle of coconut water from my yellow retro fridge, quaffing half its contents in one go. Once I’m quenched, I pad to the bedroom and plug my drained cell into the charging station on my nightstand. As I wait for it to juice up and power on, I strip out of my work clothes, throwing them onto the bed.
Once my phone is up and running again, I video-call Mira.
"You're calling about the mundan ceremony, aren't you?" she immediately answers, her face filling up my phone screen.
In appearance, Mira is the opposite of me. Small. Small waist, small nose, small mouth, small everything. But she's my favorite and I love her to death.
"You're going?" I ask in reply.
"Better to go and get it over with than have an argument about it," she says. "Kim and I are still fighting and I can only deal with one drama at a time."
Kim is Mira's roommate. But no one, except me, is privy to the fact that Kim is Mira'sliteralroommate—as in her bedmate. To everyone else, they're merely two good friends renting a house together. In actuality, they’ve been dating for over three years. Both are still in the closet and don't intend on coming out anytime soon. Kim's parents are super religious, homophobic Catholics, and while our parents are diluted in terms of tradition and culture, homosexuality is not a reality they've warmed up to.
Mira, regardless of how much I’ve urged her to come out and be the fearlessly unapologetic person I know she could be, is terrified of how our parents will take it. Especially now that they’re on this path of re-embracing their traditions to save face with the die-hard patriotic judgmental hypocrites in this neighborhood.
"Well, have fun," I say. "I'll be home watchingGuy’s Grocery Games."
"No! Pia, youhaveto come," she begs. "I'll suffocate if you aren't there. Preeti and Ramesh are so annoying now, following their rules like blind lambs. I don't want to go but I kinda have to, and Ineedyou there to keep me sane."
I drift my eyes to the ceiling and drum my fingers along my chin.
She groans. "Oh, great. You're thinking of what I'll owe you for this, aren't you?"
"Yep."
"You're a terrible sister."
"I know."
"By the way, Calvin came by the deli today looking for you."
