The Vibrant Years(67)

Ashish was back from his cryptic business travels, so their family gatherings were about to get awkward again. Why hadn’t he gone back yet? Where was the “call of his homeland” now?

“I didn’t tell him about it. He just remembered that we do Tagine Tuesdays and invited himself,” Cullie said when Aly didn’t respond. She sounded so unsure, so young. Her absurdly precocious daughter hadn’t sounded young when she was young.

“Cullie, beta, you don’t have to apologize for wanting to have dinner with your dad. Of course you want to spend time with him.”

“Thanks, Mom. But Tagine Tuesdays are ours, you know?” Cullie’s voice went flat again, and Aly knew there was more.

If Mummy hadn’t just gouged out all the things Aly should have put away long ago, she wouldn’t have hesitated. She would have put her breeziest voice to good use. They were both Cullie’s parents. He was Bindu’s son. They were a family.

“I know Tagine Tuesdays are ours. This doesn’t change that. He’s not going to be here long.” Then, before she could stop herself, the question slipped out. “Is he?”

Silence stretched as her child tried to figure out how to not betray either parent.

“I’m sorry,” Aly said quickly. “I should not have asked you that. I didn’t mean to put you in the middle of this.” But she needed Ashish to go back to India so they could go back to their lives. And she could stop doing stupid things to show him up. She almost groaned at the memory of the naked bodysuit.

“I am literally the actual middle of this,” Cullie said, her voice more pissed off than hurt now.

“I really am sorry.”

She made a classic impatient Cullie sound, back in all her glory. “Why are you sorry, Mom? I’m an adult. You have the right to live your life.” Another frustrated groan, this time laced with a laugh. “I just sounded like Binji, didn’t I? What I meant is it’s not like I wanted you or Dad to stay in a marriage that made you miserable.”

They’d never been miserable. That was the thing that kicked the hardest. There had just been miserable parts. That also meant that she needed to be a grown-up and let Cullie and Bindu have a family. It struck her that Ashish had made the effort to stay out of her space when she was with Cullie and Bindu.

“Thank you. And of course your dad can come. I’ll be perfectly civil.”

Cullie laughed. “Isn’t that the default Aly Menezes Desai state?”

She meant it as a compliment, but it still stuck like a thorn in Aly’s side.

Be nice.

Be nice.

Be nice.

Mummy’s voice whispered in her ear.

“But thank you,” Cullie said happily. “And since you are in such a generous mood, can you also give Dad a ride?” There it was, the thing Cullie had been trying to figure out how to slip in.

“You don’t have to do it, but he’s on your way. He can’t get a rideshare because the drivers are protesting that new law and disrupting service. Binji and I are already here. But of course he can—”

“Cullie. I got it. I’ll pick him up.”

Cullie’s relief was palpable. “Thanks, Mom. Just sent you his location. You’re the best.”

“I am, and don’t you ever forget it.” Then, with a fierceness that made her grip her steering wheel, she added, “I love you, Curly-Wurly.”

“Love you too, Mom.”

There, Mummy, His will be done only when you help Him do it.

Like the cresting and ebbing of waves, her mood went from upbeat to subterranean when Ashish let himself into the car that had been his dream car before he’d switched up his dream.

He was wearing khaki shorts and a white linen shirt. The jerk!

It was his 100 percent get-lucky clothing choice. That’s what they’d called it. Because, well, something about Ashish in a linen shirt was unbearably sexy. And a white linen shirt? He was the beach and the surf of their Goan ancestors given human form. She suppressed the urge to scream into her fist.

For him, it had been her in a sari. Well, her in anything, but if she put on a sari, Ashish was going to take it off her. They’d been late for many a party. They’d even missed the first dance at her cousin’s wedding because they’d stopped at the hotel to change between the church and the reception. They’d worn “Western formal,” as Indians called it, to the wedding, and the reception dress code had been Indian wedding wear. She’d had to drape her sari twice. Because . . . Ashish.

One quick glance, and he knew exactly what his clothes had made her think about. He handed her a brown bag. “Got you something.”

“Why?” she said, bewildered.

“They’re Miller’s cookies.”

Aly’s heart did a painful twist, and her grip crushed the paper bag, leaving her with zero dignity. “You shouldn’t be buying me things. Let alone food. Don’t buy me food, Ashish!”

His jaw tightened. His eyes softened. She hated that she could read his face this way, this stranger with her husband’s mannerisms and memories. “I was in Gainesville. And Miller’s was right there. How could I not grab you some?”

In college, Aly and Ashish had stayed up many a night studying and stuffing their faces with these oatmeal raisin cookies from a store tucked away at the edge of campus. Aly had consumed them by the truckload when she was pregnant, then craved them after they moved to Fort Lauderdale halfway through her pregnancy.