Say the Word(58)

With that, his right hand disappeared from my chin and his left released my fist, which I let fall to my lap like deadweight. He turned without a backward glance and headed for the elevators, leaving me sitting on the conference room table like a naive little girl — legs spread, skirt rucked, hair tousled.

Like I was a cheap, five-dollar f*ck you didn’t bother to ask for a phone number or even a first name.

Only when the elevator doors had closed at his back, did I hop down from the table, smooth my skirt, and allow the tears to fill my eyes. I was a fool. He hated me for what I’d done to him all those years ago. And, clearly, he wasn’t the same man I’d loved back then. I needed to let go, to harden my heart against him.

If only he’d give it back, first.

Tears of humiliation and grief — for both myself and for the man Sebastian had become — streamed down my face as I collected my things and headed for the elevator. It was time to go home.





***


I set the carton of Ben & Jerry’s down on the countertop, staring forlornly off into space.

Mrs. Patel had already bagged my Doritos, but had yet to reach for the ice cream. When I looked up, she was staring at me from her chair with her hands planted on her hips. Her beautiful bright orange sari was concealed from waist down by the lumpy brown crocheted blanket she always kept over her lap for warmth, her shock of silver hair was groomed impeccably, and her dark brown eyes were narrowed at me with suspicion. I wasn’t sure how she managed to look intimidating from down there, but the stern expression on her face was enough to make me un-hunch my shoulders and stand up straight.

“Wine.” She made a disapproving tsk sound, her eyes focused on the bottle I’d had cradled like a precious babe in the crook of my right arm since I left the liquor store. “Is not a food group, Miss Lux.”

I thought about it for a minute.

“But wine is made of grapes, Mrs. Patel,” I countered. “And grapes are fruit. So technically, I’m pretty sure wine is a food group.”

She stared at me, her hands still firmly planted, apparently unmoved by my words. I sighed.

“Okay, fine. It’s not a food group,” I admitted. “That’s what the Doritos and ice cream are for.”

Mrs. Patel made a face — I’m not sure I could classify it as pure disapproval, because there were strains of disgust and revulsion woven in as well — and called out to her son, who was stocking the shelves. She rattled off several orders in rapid Hindi, and I watched avidly as he nodded in acknowledgment before scurrying away and disappearing into the back room. When I turned back to face her, her lips were pressed together in a mysterious smile and she made no attempt to explain herself.

“$8.99 please,” she said, extending one hand for payment. I shook my head back and forth, dumbfounded. I swore, every time I was in here, the little old lady behind the counter got more bizarre. Laughing lightly, I handed over a ten-dollar bill.

She was passing me my change when her son, Ravi, returned from the back room with a basket in his arms. I was stunned when he appeared next to his mother behind the counter and handed it to me. I looked from his outstretched offering to Mrs. Patel, who was nodding emphatically.

“Take it,” she insisted.

Mutely, I reached across the counter with my free hand and took hold of the basket handle. Whatever was inside smelled amazing, and my stomach rumbled immediately in response. Then again, since I’d skipped my lunch break earlier, I was so ravenous I could’ve gnawed off my own arm to appease my appetite.

Ravi grinned and hurried back to his stocking tasks.

“Naan, chole curry, and chicken tikka masala.” Mrs. Patel nodded at me, pleased with herself. “That is a dinner — not wine and snack food.”

My eyes watered at the gesture. I guess, after a year of watching me purchase nothing but junk, Mrs. Patel was familiar enough with my eating habits to know that home cooked meals were few and far between. And after the day I’d just had, her timing couldn’t have been more perfect.

I set the basket down on the counter along with my bottle of wine and the bag of unhealthy contraband I’d just purchased. When I walked around and approached Mrs. Patel, her eyebrows drifted so far up her forehead they nearly disappeared into her hairline.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her face once again set in a frown and her arms crossed over her chest in an unapproachable manner.

“I’m hugging you,” I told her, smiling as I leaned forward and wrapped my arms around her petite frame. She was stiff as a board in my embrace and didn’t even feign an attempt to reciprocate my hug, but I didn’t really care. That wasn’t the point.

“Thank you,” I whispered, squeezing her lightly. When I moved back a step, she was staring at me with wide eyes, but I could tell by the twitching of her lips that she was fighting off a smile. I winked, moving back around the counter and grabbing my items, just as another customer walked through the doors.

“Bye, Mrs. Patel,” I said, beaming at her.

“Don’t get any ideas,” she told me, trying to maintain her stern face. “It’s just one dinner.”

“We’re totally friends now, Mrs. Patel.” I laughed. “You like me, don’t deny it.”

She harrumphed. “You talk too much and only eat things that come prepackaged. Your insides are probably rotten. It was a civic duty, nothing more.”