Dating Dr. Dil (If Shakespeare was an Auntie #1)(91)

She could make out her father’s crooked smile in the dark. “I’ve decided to hold off selling the house for another six months. It gives you time to save money to buy it from me. And if you still fall short, I’ll lower the sale cost.”

Kareena didn’t know what to say for a full minute. She put her hot chocolate down on the shed floor because her hands began shaking.

“Why?” she whispered. “Why would you do that?”

“It’s what your mother would’ve wanted. And what’s six more months?”

Kareena looked up at the house with glowing lights accented by moonlight. She could feel the tears burning in her throat again. Oh my god. She could stay here, stay in her home like she’d always wanted. If she worked hard, she could save more than enough money for the down payment. And then it would be hers.

“You mean it?”

Her father rested a hand on her shoulder. “I loved your mother,” he said quietly. “But I love you, too. I’m sorry I’m so hard on you. Take the six months, Kareena.”

“Thank you, Daddy,” she said with a sniffle. “I really appreciate it. I’m going to make Mom proud.”

He grunted. “You already have, beta. You already have.”

They sat in silence for a moment longer, with the midnight breeze rushing through the grass and the surrounding trees.

Her father finally got to his feet. He cleared his throat. “So. When am I going to meet this man’s parents? Do you know his birth date, and the time he was born?”

“I appreciate the questions, Dad, but I think that ship has sailed.”

“Nonsense,” he said, flexing his hand again. “If he has as thick of a skull as I know he has, then he’ll come around.”

“I’m going to focus on other important things,” Kareena said. “Like getting ready for home ownership.”

Kareena stood and looped an arm through her father’s. Her heart still felt broken, but at least she knew that she was handy and could work on fixing it herself. She didn’t need a cardiologist after all.





Chapter Thirty-Two

Prem




The last time someone dumped a bucket of ice-cold water on his nuts was when he was a junior in high school and about to be late for the SATs. This time, it was much, much worse.

He woke with a startling gasp and bolted off the couch. Then, because he was still in shock, he missed the empty pizza boxes, jabbed his toe against the coffee table, and fell flat on his ass in front of the TV.

“Fu—”

“Prem Verma!”

The sharp, high-pitched tone was enough for him to stop mid-expletive and jump to his feet. “Mom!”

Prem looked up to see his primly dressed mother in tan slacks and a cream-colored blouse with a small rolling suitcase at her side. In one hand was the mop bucket from his utility closet. The other hand was propped on her hip.

Her mouth thinned. “I let you come to the East Coast so you could study and be a contributing member to society. And this! This is the son I raised?”

He looked down at his soaked, stained shirt and boxers. The living room was filled with empty cartons and boxes, half-drunk beer cans and bottles. Of course, it had to be the one time that he didn’t clean his condo that his mother showed up.

“It’s been a long . . . er, weekend,” he said. “What’s with the shower?”

“You needed it,” she snapped. Then dropped the bucket. “Don’t you have a TV show today? Aren’t you going to be late?”

“They’re doing a rerun today.” He rubbed his eyes, then winced when he touched the bruise on his cheekbone. “Mom, what are you doing here?”

“I came to talk to my son! And here I am, seeing that I’ve failed as a mother.” She motioned to the living room. “What kind of a woman would want to marry a man who doesn’t know how to take care of himself?”

“I can take care of myself just fine.”

“I have yet to see proof,” she said. “Go shower, brush your teeth, and get dressed. I’ll make some breakfast.”

Prem was soaked to the skin, still slightly hungover, and his head was full of thoughts of Kareena. He glanced at his disaster of a kitchen and back to his mother. “Aloo paranthas?” he asked.

She sighed, then reached into her bag and pulled out an unmarked jar of pickled mango achar. “This was hell getting through TSA. I’m assuming you have potatoes. I sent your friends to buy ginger, but if they need to get potatoes, too, tell me now.”

“I have a few potatoes.”

“Fine. I’ll boil them. Shower. Then we’ll talk.”

Prem didn’t need to be told twice. He hobbled across the room and into the bath. When he saw the bright purple bruise on his cheek, he winced. He was surprised that his mother didn’t ask him about that first.

He got in the shower and remembered holding Kareena under the spray. He leaned against the tiled wall and let out a sigh as the memory and the scalding hot water coursed over him. God, he missed her.

He picked up his body wash and began scrubbing the sticky sweat and alcohol smell off his skin. After showering and brushing his teeth, Prem moved through his bedroom, past the bed he couldn’t sleep in anymore, and walked into his closet. He put on fresh clothes, thinking how his very shirt smelled of the woman who asked for more time apart.