Page 86 of Ablaze

Karine’s face morphed into confusion as she tried to comprehend what her nine-year-old had said. She even looked down at his pants in shock and disgust. This just made holding back our laughs even more difficult.

But it was our dad who spoke up first. “Darian, that is extremely inappropriate, especially at the dinner table. What is going on with you? Please go and get yourself cleaned up.”

Darian nodded, turning around to head to his room, when Karine ran after him. “Darian jan, let me help you.”

Darian shook his head violently but glanced at us, knowing he couldn’t say anything besides what he’d agreed to. “I poopied my panties!”

Karine stared at him like perhaps there was something wrong with her son’s head, in addition to the apparent loss of control of his bowels. “Yes. I understand, jan. You’ve made that very clear. And stop calling them panties.”

It was then that both Garrett and I bowled over, not being able to hold our laughs any longer, getting an unamused look from our dad, who’d just realized we were the culprits.

I hold back my grin, thinking about that day. As much shit as we gave him, he took it like a champ, but if there was one thing we impressed on him, despite the incessant brotherly ragging, it was that we would be there for him, no matter what.

We loved him not an ounce less than we loved each other. Which is why when his life turned upside down a few years ago, and he lost Sonia abruptly in the most heart-wrenching way, mere hours after she gave birth to his son, we were all there for him.

I took off as much time as I could from the fire station, and Garrett did the same from the airline to be at our brother’s side.

His life was in complete shambles until his current wife, Rani, showed up. If Darian is like a quiet night, then Rani is his complete opposite–bubblier than the sun’s rays. The way that woman washed his gloomy world with all her sunshiny smiles and kindness is beyond explanation.

The waitress drops off our beers, and Darian tells us a little about how he’s been having to get up multiple times through the night because his newborn daughter–my niece–likes to party through the night and sleep during the day, and Hudson gives him some experienced fatherly advice.

The conversation changes to us talking about Garrett’s sour mood. He’s been unusually irritable lately, like a fucking bear with a toothache. He tells us about his current predicament with his wife, Bella.

“You need to talk to her,” I say, seeing the heartbreak on his face.

Garrett scoffs, “As far as I’m concerned, I’ve said everything I needed to, everything I could have.”

“Well, then you need to be there to hear her response. Has she even tried to reach out to you since?”

“Yeah, but–”

“So don’t be an idiot. That was probably her way of breaking the ice. Women are complicated like that.”

Don’t I know it?

They are complicated as hell, but pretend to be all simple and shit. It’s all a ruse.

Garrett chortles, and I know he’s trying to dodge any more attention. “You’d know. Care to tell us about your current relationship status?”

I run a hand over my neck, twisting it this way and that. I’m not having this discussion again. “No. This isn’t about me.”

Over the past year, everyone from my brothers to Grams to my mom, and even Rohan, have tried to broach the subject about Mala in terms of where we both stand.

Of all of them, Grams is the only one who knows that lines were crossed when I drove her to LA, but even she doesn’t know the extent of it.

Even she doesn’t know that a month after dropping her off, I drove eight straight hours to go back and see her. That I couldn’t stand another fucking moment without her knowing how I felt. That I was fucking withering away to nothing without her.

That first month was excruciating, like trying to figure out how to live without your sense of sight all of a sudden. But if that first month was brutal, then the next few were worse.

I still remember parking at the corner of her street to avoid having her notice my car. I was going to surprise her. But as soon as I did, she came bounding down the stairs, smiling at someone inside another car.

For a second she didn’t look like herself–the woolen black skirt hitting above her knees, the black stockings and heeled booties, the light V-neck sweater. Had I ever seen her wear something that so boldly displayed her scar in all the eight years?

And as happy as I was that she was able to do that–that she was more comfortable in her own skin–there was a part of me that felt left out. Like I was a spectator on the sidelines when I used to be a starting player.

I knew it was my own fault–I wasn’t coping well with her leaving. With us having slept together in what was the single hottest night of my life. With knowing the feel of her against me, over me, in every fiber of my being, and yet not being able to do anything to keep her there.

I wasn’t coping well with burying my truth–my fucking feelings–for her, knowing I could do nothing about them.

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