Accidentally Engaged(15)

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about our problems. Or about our parents.”

He nodded, still frowning. “I’m all for that.” He sipped his cocktail. “And I’m all for this drink.”

Reena swirled hers around in her hand, watching the lime wedge crash against the ice cubes. “Can I ask you something? No obligation to answer me.”

“Um…”

Reena patted his hand reassuringly. Ooh, that skin was soft. She patted him again. Hand cream maybe? He laughed as he inched his hand away.

Right. Questions. Gin on the brain had distracted her from the topic at hand. And the topic at hand was not Nadim’s hands.

“Okay,” she said, straightening. “Why is your British accent so strong? My father said you were from Dar es Salaam, but you said you had a flat in London?”

A small smile appeared. “Yes. I am technically from Dar es Salaam. I attended a British private school there and transferred to a boarding school in England at age twelve. I went to the London School of Economics for both undergraduate and graduate degrees. Afterward, I moved back to Africa but ended up in London again a few years ago. And now”—he grinned widely—“I’m here.”

“So, do you consider yourself English or Tanzanian?”

“Tanzanian, one hundred percent.” He lifted his sleeve to show her the tattoo of the African tree on his forearm, smiling fondly at it. “I’ve moved a lot, but my soul knows when I’m home.” He chuckled as he pushed his sleeve back down. “I tend to pick up dialects and accents easily wherever I am, though. Give me a month in Canada and I will match your eh’s and aboots.”

“I don’t aboot!”

“Yes, Reena, you do. What about you. Were you born here?”

“Yup. Toronto girl, through and through. Both Mum and Dad are from Tanzania, though. And going further back, my great-grandparents are all from India. I’ve been to Tanzania a few times. Pretty country.”

“I love it.” He looked wistfully sad at that thought. “I’d like to move back one day. I’ve lived in a lot of places, but it’s hard to really feel at home, you know? Tanzania did that for me. I am surprised at how much I like Toronto, though.”

“Remind me, one day I’ll take you out to see all the underrated sights.”

Reena bit her lip. She shouldn’t have said that. She should be distancing herself from him, not offering to be his Toronto tour guide. “Why do you want to go back to Africa?”

“I don’t know. I feel the most…me, there. I told you I pick up dialects easy, right? I think I’m a little too adaptable. I acclimate to environments so easily that I forget who I am, sometimes. I think I’ve only felt like me, really me, at home in Tanzania.” He looked down. “I’m not making sense. Ignore me.” He sipped his drink.

Reena smiled sadly. She understood exactly what he meant. She was also the adaptable one. The amiable one. The one who made friends easily whenever she changed jobs. Adapted her interests to whoever she was dating. Cosplay, hockey, barbecue, tabletop gaming. She even played in an axe-throwing league once with a boyfriend. She never faked interest—she honestly enjoyed those things. But she understood what Nadim meant when he said he didn’t feel like himself. She only felt like herself when baking bread.

She felt for him. But at the same time, his revelation raised new questions. Like: Why did he move here if he wanted to be in Africa? And more importantly, did her parents know that this potential husband wanted to return to Africa at some point? Was this their way of shipping Reena off the continent?

She took a gulp of her gin. Can’t ask those questions. She closed her eyes, feeling a sharp prickle behind them.

She. Fucking. Lost. Her job today. She could move to Africa, and no one would care.

A squeeze of her hand jolted her eyes open. “Hey,” Nadim said, concerned. “You okay?”

“Yeah…just really crappy day. Let’s talk about something else.” She gently removed her hand from under his.

“Okay.” He grinned. “Can I ask questions then? Don’t feel you have to answer them.”

“Deal.”

“Why do you make so much bread?”

She shrugged. “I love bread. Always have. There is nothing like the feeling of creating something so complex with my own hands. Sourdough bread is pretty much three ingredients—flour, water, and salt. But when you play with the other variables: hydration, fermentation, wild yeasts, temperature, or flour types, you can create something that tastes nothing like—and is nutritiously nothing like—the original ingredients. Bread is truly magic.”

“I fully support and enable your habits, so long as you share.”

She smiled.

His hand waved in the direction of her head. “Another question: How long does it take you to do that with your hair?”

“Do what?”

“Make it so perfectly curly.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t do anything. Just a bit of hair product. It grows out of my head this way.”

“Bullshit. My ex used to curl her hair with this weird hot cone-shaped thing.”

Reena laughed. “I assure you, my curls are natural. I don’t need a curling iron.”

“But yours are like, perfect. They’re like little springs. Like bungee cords.”