The Vibrant Years(42)
“Hot and funny?” He did an elbow pump.
Unfamiliar flutters sparkled in Cullie’s belly. Could one fall in love at first sight? She felt lighter than she had in a long time.
Her Neuroband was in its perfect zone. Heartbeat, blood pressure, adrenaline, dopamine, all of it nicely buzzing along in harmony.
Good thing Binji had forced her to put on lipstick, because she even felt hot.
Let’s highlight that gorgeous mouth, her grandmother had said.
You’re only saying that because I have your mouth, Cullie had whined, but she’d let Binji hand her one of those glossy lip stains that stayed put until you scrubbed it off with industrial cleaner. Binji was a vocal fan of specialized cosmetics for aging faces. Cullie agreed: her grandmother’s cosmetics were the best things ever.
Now, thanks to Binji, Gaurav’s gaze did a quick and adorably discreet dip to Cullie’s mouth. The bubbly feeling in her belly did another happy skip.
“So Cullie is an Indian name, right?” he asked.
She wasn’t thrilled it was his first question, but he looked so earnest, she decided she was going to stop judging him and follow Bharat’s advice from their phone call this morning and “let this date happen.”
“Yup. But my parents decided to spell it using American phonetics. I believe the Indian spelling is K-A-L-I. Which would turn into Kaali on our American tongues.”
She was babbling, possibly for the first time in her life, but he grinned, so she couldn’t bring herself to care. “That would make you the goddess of war instead of an unblossomed flower bud.”
“Yup, completely different vibe.”
“You look like a Cullie,” he said, a sincere smile crinkling his eyes.
She smiled back. “Honestly, everyone who knows me thinks I’m more Kaali than Cullie. You speak Hindi?” He’d known the meaning of her name without her having to tell him.
“Yes, my parents refuse to speak to me in any other language. It used to annoy me when I was younger. But it means I can speak the language my family speaks and my parents can’t keep secrets from me by speaking in Hindi. So win-win.”
“You should teach me. I speak very little Marathi, but I understand it. My parents and grandmother use Hindi for secrets. My childhood was filled with, ‘Is ladki ka kya karna hai?’” She knew her accent was terrible, but it made him laugh that adorable laugh again. “But I do know the words to all the Hindi songs because my family is obsessed with those. And I only know what those mean because my grandmother loves translating the lyrics.” Binji could spend hours explaining every nuance of the romantic ballads.
He started humming a song, and to both their delights she recognized it. “Dekha tujhe to ye samjha jaana . . . ,” he sang, his accent sounding like Dad’s and Binji’s.
“Hota hai prem mastaana,” she joined in, sounding terribly off key.
They laughed, their laughter threading together seamlessly, unlike their singing voices.
“I love that song,” she admitted.
“Really? It’s terribly cheesy,” he said with a scoff. But the smile that followed was so warm and inexplicably familiar, she ignored the scoff.
Stay in the moment, her therapist’s voice said in her head.
They did a tour of the food trucks, studying the chalkboard menus as they chatted easily. Turned out he, like her, had grown up in Florida. In West Palm Beach, not far from where Mom had grown up. He’d recently moved to the Fort Myers area for work.
They picked up their food: vegetarian tacos for him and sweet potato fries for her, because she just couldn’t order meat around someone who was vegetarian. Certainly not around a vegetarian veterinarian.
They settled into a bench, where an older couple scooted over to make a place for them. They had three dogs with them, all of whom headed straight for Gaurav the moment he sat down.
The frail old man tried to pull them away, politely scolding the pups. But Gaurav lowered himself to the dogs’ eye level and patted their heads and said it was okay. This somehow led to three tiny dogs pressed into him as he ate.
The fries were good. She asked him if he’d like some, and he complied, eating one and then offering a few to the dogs. Then letting them lick the heck out of his hands. Which he then used to eat his tacos.
When he offered Cullie a bite, she feigned disinterest. Dog-slobber tacos were on her no-no list, but she was determined not to judge him, since both Bharat and Dr. Tandon seemed to be perched on her shoulders, whispering in her ear not to do it. The conversation meandered lazily, touching on people they knew in common from West Palm Beach, friends of her grandparents.
“So, your profile said you loved animals. I thought you’d enjoy a trip to my sanctuary.”
“Sanctuary? I thought you were a veterinarian.” She watched as he fed pieces of shredded cabbage to one of the mouth-breathing pugs.
The couple got up to leave. The dogs did not like that. They started whining, and the owners had to drag them away. Gaurav bid them farewell with at least an equal amount of regret.
“I’m a veterinary therapist,” he said, shoving his dog-slobber-covered fingers into his food. “But my life mission is to rescue and foster traumatized animals. The ones no one wants to adopt. I’ve built a sanctuary for them.” He reached out and patted her hand with those very hands, and she reminded herself that she’d meant to wash her hands anyway.