Chapter 27
Danni
On Monday, I wake up at five till eight, put on my unicorn slippers, make some hot tea, and slide into my “office,” which is a chair at my dining room table, and log into my Wi-Fi. I tested my VPN at work on Friday. It connected perfectly, no hiccups. So, of course, it throws an error today.
I try various remedies, none of which work, then I call JetAero’s help desk and pipe the guy through my phone’s speaker while he has me log off and on again, among other things. Eventually, he gives up and says I need a re-image, techie speak for “I’m going to take your computer for three days while you sit there falling farther and farther behind on your projects.”
The benefits portal app is due soon. I don’t have time to sit around while the help desk wipes my computer and tries to reinstall my development environment, which they can never do without copious hand holding. In other words, no bueno.
I sit in front of my fairly useless computer and contemplate my options. Obviously, I could go into work. But I’d get there late and have to use annual leave to make up for my travel time.
Or…
Hey, I type into my phone.
Seconds pass.
Hey, Chance answers. You’re not online.
Are you?
Yes. Your dot says you’re offline .
My VPN software is hosed.
More seconds passed.
Mine’s not, he finally types.
You know what I’m going to ask.
You can’t use my wifi unless you’re in my apartment, otherwise it’s stealing.
Does that mean I can work over there?
If you don’t mind sitting at a kitchen table while I sit in my epic gaming chair.
I’m sitting at a table now.
Then come over.
I don’t need any more convincing. This won’t be weird at all. Especially not after we spent yesterday painting in between kissing, reloading my bookcase, and then kissing some more, and then eating Chinese takeout at my kitchen island before snuggling on my couch watching Pee Wee’s Big Adventure , which he thought was ridiculous. Another convert, I’d say.
I stuff my laptop into my backpack, fill up a knockoff Stanley cup with water, put on jeans and a T-shirt, and then walk across the breezeway to Chance’s. He opens the door before I knock. His eyes immediately drop to my unicorn slippers.
“You’re lucky I’m not in pajamas,” I say.
“I’m still in mine.”
He looks casual in plaid pajama bottoms and a fitted white shirt, understated, but exceptionally flattering, as usual.
“Take your pick,” he says, referring to the couch or the kitchen table. I opt for the table because the teleworking form I signed said something about having a private, dedicated place to work.
Chance and I both live alone in one-bedroom apartments. That’s as private as it gets, but I don’t have the fancy chair, desk, and monitor spread that Chance has going on over there. All three monitors are hooked up to his work laptop, each displaying a different app. BrainyJ is not one of them.
“How’s it going over there,” I say to Chance after I’ve settled in.
“Epically.”
“Heng is on track to finish his module on time. I know because he’s been updating my kanban board.”
Chance swivels around. “I told you. I don’t miss deadlines. In fact, I’m ahead of schedule.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“I don’t want to blow your mind.”
All he has to do is kiss me and my mind is officially blown, but I don’t tell him that because he has his coding hat on. No need to puff up his ego any more by telling him his kisses make me feel like I’m floating in warm pudding while sipping southern sweet tea.
Morning , I type into my group chat with Morgan and Kayla.
Are you two in your jammies? Morgan asks.
Just my feet , I reply.
Overachiever, Kayla says.
I fill them in about my VPN situation. They both send me googly-eyed emojis when I tell them I’m at Chance’s. They know Chance and me kissed at Chai World. They don’t know that we logged a dozen or more kisses over the weekend. And they’re not about to find out because these texts are stored on JetAero’s servers for five years.
After wrapping up my conversation with the girls, I open BrainyJ. Chance and I work quietly until lunchtime when he walks over and pokes my arm.
“I’m hungry,” he says.
“Be my guest as long as it’s not fish.”
“I can’t eat fish in my own apartment?”
I flash him a toothy smile. “From eight to five, this is your office.”
“I don’t remember signing on for that.”
“You did, along with promising your workspace doesn’t contain asbestos or lead.”
“I didn’t read the fine print.”
I turn back to my laptop and resume typing. He pokes me again.
“Are coworkers allowed to kiss while teleworking?”
“Sure,” I answer. “They can kiss their pets.”
He bends over and plants his lips on the top of my head.
“I don’t know whether to be flattered or offended.”
“Let’s go get lunch.” His lips travel to my ear, and then to my neck.
I can’t work under these conditions. He interrupts my sigh with a kiss. It’s very persuasive.
I shut my laptop. My eyes catch his center monitor as I follow him out the door.
“You’re not mucking with my design document, are you?” I ask. Because why else would he have my design document open? And there’s no denying that Chance likes to muck.
“I’m just updating a few things,” he says hurriedly. “Come on, I’m starving.” He places his hand on my back and presses me forward. I spin away and redirect my steps to his computer. He beats me there and minimizes the screen.
“What are you doing?” I squint at him suspiciously.
“I promise, it’s nothing. I’m almost done. I’ll show you later today.”
I cross my arms and flick my eyes from Chance to the computer and then back again. My stomach growls.
“Did you hear that?” I ask.
“Yes. Let’s go.”
I tagalong while he drives to the Qdoba that’s only five minutes away. We both order loaded nachos to go. In less than fifteen minutes, we’re back at his apartment. He takes a seat across from me at the table. I reopen my laptop and get to work.
“How rude,” he says.
“I’m behind because someone insisted I go to Chai World.”
“You don’t regret it,” he says with a confident grin.
“I regret parts of it,” I say with a challenging grin.
We hold each other’s gaze.
“Fine, I’ll leave you alone.” He grabs his nacho bowl and slides out of the chair.
“You can still sit there,” I say while pounding furiously on my keyboard. It’s hard to eat cheesy nachos while typing, but I’m managing.
We both munch loudly on corn chips for the next several minutes, and then we fall into a productive silence. I try to stay focused on my code, not letting my mind wander to my design document that Chance is making “a few” changes to.
When three o’clock rolls around, my phone rings. It’s my sister, Willa. She always texts before calling.
I answer the phone, worried. “What’s up?”
“Molly’s test results came back.”
“Oh no. What is it?”
“Nothing too bad. The spot came back as cancerous.”
The word “cancerous” adds several pounds to my chest.
“They removed more tissue around it to make sure they got it all, and we found three more new spots that they removed.”
I fall back in my chair. “So did they get it all?”
“They said they did.”
Like they got “all” my mom’s breast cancer, and then it came back a year later in her brain. I’m familiar with empty promises from doctors. During my mom’s illness, Willa and I were offered many, but the disease took her anyway.
“Do you believe that?” I ask.
“Well…”
She doesn’t.
“I’m going to keep a close eye on her and get her into the vet if I notice any more spots.”
“Okay.”
“I didn’t want to text you the news, because…you know. It’s Molly.”
And Molly is like a sister, the only family we have left.
“Thanks.”
We hang up and I set my phone face down on the table.
Cancer.
The word drills into me, all the implications, the uncertainties, the heartache. Molly is just a dog. Just. The dog my mom gave us for Christmas while she was still alive, that she worked extra hours to save up for. The dog Willa and I took turns snuggling with the day my mom died because, for some reason, she brought us more comfort than human arms could.
I bury my face in my hands before the tears come, trying not to attract Chance’s attention. I just need a short cry. That’s all. This too shall pass.
Chance’s hand rests on my shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
I peek up at him. The concern on his face makes me cry harder. He crouches beside me and grabs my hand.
“It’s nothing,” I say between sniffs.
He pulls me into his arms and guides me to the couch. We sit, my body tight against his.
“It’s really nothing.”
“It doesn’t look like nothing.”
“My dog has cancer, but they think they got it all.”
Hearing myself repeat the false promise dredges up more tears. I cover my face again. Chance circles his arms around me and pulls me to his chest.
“My mom and dad are both gone,” I say to his T-shirt. “My dad had a heart attack a couple of years ago and my mom had breast cancer that went to her brain. After the first surgery, they told us they got it all.” I let my tears fall onto his shirt. “They lied.”
Chance pulls me tighter and my muscles finally relax. “It’s just me and my sister now. And Molly. When Molly is gone, it’s just us.” I tuck my knees up to my chest, still leaning heavily on Chance. He strokes my hair as the final two tears roll down my cheeks. What I hope are the final tears. “When both of your parents are gone, sometimes you feel like you don’t belong anywhere.”
Chance ducks to meet my eyes. He gently lifts my chin. “You belong here.”
Not gonna cry. Not gonna cry. My chant mostly works. One small tear erupts, balances on my lower lashes, and then drops to my cheek. Chance brushes it away with his thumb.
“I don’t know what it’s like to lose a parent,” he says, “but I understand feeling like you don’t know where home is. Most of the time, I feel like I’m straddling two worlds and I’m not sure I belong in either of them. I’m not your typical California boy, but I didn’t quite fit in with my peers in India either.”
I look up at him. “Really?”
He shrugs and then nods. “Sorry. This isn’t about me.”
“It can be,” I say with a sniff. “I’m happy to change the subject.”
Chance rubs his thumb along my shoulder. “I guess we’re two misfits.”
I scoot away and turn to him. “I want to know more. Tell me about your culture.”
He rests his elbow on his bent knee and anchors his chin in the cleft between his thumb and forefinger. “Well, the guys wear these things called boardshorts at the beach. Not everyone surfs, though. And most of the blonde girls didn’t come that way naturally.”
I nudge his side. “I mean, tell me about India.”
He leans over, steals a kiss. “You really wanna know?”
“Of course.”
He kisses me again, this time slowly. We fall against the couch, no endgame in sight. Several minutes later, he finishes our conversation. “How about I show you?”
Chance takes me to Desi Groceries, a small Indian grocery store in a strip mall across from Northwoods Mall. The wood shelving is full of familiar items like legumes and flour, but they have unfamiliar names. One large section is devoted to whole spices. Another contains prepackaged meals, sauces, and jarred vegetables.
“What are we making?” I ask.
“Bisi Bele Bhath,” Chance says. “It’s a common dish where I’m from. It translates to hot lentils rice. I don’t want to buy all the spices so…” He snatches a Bisi Bele Bhath spice mix from the shelf.
I follow him as he adds more items to his basket including lentils and rice as well as some vegetables: carrots, frozen peas, a tomato, and an onion. He also grabs a package of rotis, made fresh every morning, according to the sign.
After he pays, we head back to his apartment. He stops in front of his door, sets down the bags, folds his hands and tilts his head forward. “Namaste.”
“Hi,” I say back. Because I’m a dork.
“You repeat it back to me.”
“Okay.” I fold my hands and repeat his greeting.
When we enter his apartment, he says, “It’s customary to remove our shoes.”
We both slide off our sandals and then head to the kitchen where he unloads the ingredients and pulls out two pots. He starts rice in one, and then he grabs a pressure cooker from the bottom cabinet and places it on the back burner.
Next up are the vegetables. He begins cutting the onion, his fingers extended, perfectly positioned to be sliced. I squeeze my eyes shut and replace the image of his diced fingertips with butterflies sucking nectar from zinnias.
Chance stops chopping. “Intrusive thoughts?”
I open one eye and nod. “Can I show you a safer way?”
He steps back and hands me the knife. I demonstrate proper form. “Fold your fingers under, like this. That way the knife bumps against your knuckles rather than declawing you.”
He rubs his knuckles. “Do you want to finish chopping?”
“Sure.”
As I dice the vegetables, he drops raw peanuts into the rice and then covers the pot with a lid. The vegetables go into the second pot to simmer while the lentils spend several minutes in the pressure cooker until they become liquid.
“I’ll take care of the rest,” he says. “You can go play Call of Duty.”
“No thanks. I think I’ll log in and get more work done.”
“I figured.”
It doesn’t take long for me to get lost in code. As I type away, the spicy aroma from the kitchen intensifies, making me feel more and more at home.
I’m knee-deep in unit testing when Chance comes up beside me. “No coding allowed while we’re eating.”
I do a double take. Chance changed into a collarless, long-sleeved ivory shirt that ends mid-thigh. Silver, geometrically patterned embroidery adorns the front panels, which are buttoned to his waist, the uppermost button left undone. Underneath he’s wearing loose pants of the same fabric. His feet are bare.
“I changed,” he says after I’ve stared for far too long.
“Um. Wow. You look good in that color.”
“Santa’s Beard?”
“Yeah.”
He fingers the thin sleeve. “My dadi made me pack this. I told her I’d never have a reason to wear it.”
I grin at him. “She was wrong.”
He offers his hand. I grab it and let him pull me to my feet. The momentum brings us face-to-face. He reaches behind my neck, threads his fingers through my hair, leans in for a kiss. His lips are familiar, but our connection is charged, each kiss more intense than the last.
With his face inches away, he looks at me and smiles. “The food is ready.”
I let him plate up our dishes and bring them to the table. He brings two bowls full of Bisi Bele Bhath, two plates stacked with rotis, and spoons.
“No traditional Indian drink?” I ask.
“Nope. I can offer you water, Coke Zero, or water.”
“I’ll take water,” I say, not wanting to mix unfamiliar spices with cola flavoring.
After bringing me my drink, he sits across from me, and we dig in.
“It’s not as good as my dadi makes. She grinds her spices.”
The flavors, taken alone, are familiar, but the mixture is new, layered, unique.
“I thought you only knew how to cook salmon,” I tease.
“Salmon is easier.”
“You never treat yourself with this?”
“Did you see how long it took? How many pans are dirty now?”
“I got lost in my code. Sorry.”
“Do you ever fix traditional Indiana dishes?”
My mouth is full of water. I struggle not to sputter it all over him, manage to swallow through my laughter without choking. “I’m trying really hard to think of a traditional Indiana dish.”
“Pizza?”
“That’s Italian.”
“Burgers?”
“I think we borrowed that too.” While trying to come up with something, I prop my elbow on the table and twirl my hair. “Have you ever had a pork tenderloin sandwich?”
“Nope.”
I grab my phone, pull up a picture, and show him a breaded pork tenderloin that’s bigger than a plate.
“That’s a whole lot of fried meat on a tiny little bun.”
I shrug. “Only in Indiana. Also, they serve all kinds of fried things at the state fair. Deep fried corn on a stick. Fried Oreos. Fried Twinkies. Nutellaphant Ears.”
“We have to go there.”
“Are there any festivals in Bengaluru where they try to kill you with food?”
“Bengaluru has many jaatres. At Namma Jaatre food stalls sell idlis, ragi mudde, Goli Baje, which are fried. But nothing like fried Oreos, I suspect.”
“What’s Namma Jaatre?”
“It’s a two-day folk festival celebrating the history of Karnataka with crafts and dancers and puppet shows. Dadi always took my sister and me. That’s where Tivri met her husband, Erish. It was love at first sight.” He breaks off a piece of roti and dips it into his bowl.
It all makes sense. “You think they’re soulmates.”
Chance gives me a pointed look. “I don’t think. I know. When they met, Tivri felt a zing and knew he was the one.”
Been there, done that. Didn’t win a prize. “You can’t always trust that little voice.” Because sometimes it lies. I leave out that last part to protect his innocence.
“Why not?” he asks, innocently.
“Sometimes it’s just mutual physical attraction.”
“Which is important in a marriage.”
Chance’s sharp tone and furrowed brow mean he’s very serious about this. I don’t back peddle. “But there has to be more than physical attraction. There has to be trust, respect, commitment.”
“Tivri and Erish have those things.”
“They’re lucky, then.”
Chance’s expression softens a little. He leans back, keeps his eyes fixed on mine while taking a swig of Coke. He finishes it with an “Ahhh” and then he sets down his can, leans forward, and rests his forearms against the edge of the table. “I should tell you something.”
No idea where this is going. Not sure I want to know. He’s married? Surely not.
“There’s a woman back in India.”
I’m an idiot. A total idiot. Just because a guy hasn’t kissed a bunch of girls doesn’t mean he’s not a player. “Oh,” I manage and then take a sip of water to wash it down.
“Her name is Navya. My family has been speaking with her family. They want to arrange a marriage.”
“Oh,” I say with a heavier inflection.
“I’m not in love with Navya.”
“But you’re physically attracted.”
One side of his mouth curls up. “No. I don’t want an arranged marriage. I want a love match.”
I sink in my seat. Now I really don’t know where this is going.
“My dad gave me a year to find the one.”
“Oh,” I say again, like Ah ha! but less cartoonish. “Farmers Only.”
“Zoosk. Christian Mingle. Yeah. I decided to take a scientific approach.”
Laughter bursts from my mouth before I can stop it.
“Are you laughing at me?” A part of him is laughing at himself, I can tell.
“I’m not laughing at all,” I say behind my hand which is covering my laughter.
“In theory, it should work,” he says. “Go on enough dates, narrow down the dating pool. I had limited time and limited resources. There’s only one me.”
“How did you keep it all straight?”
Chance hunches, raises his hand to his temple, a feeble attempt to hide. “I kept a spreadsheet.”
“You what?!”
“I kept a spreadsheet and ranked each date.”
“This has to be the most unromantic thing I’ve ever heard.”
He relaxes a little and laughs. “In hindsight, maybe.”
“Wait a minute.” I grab my butter knife and point it at him. “You ranked our first date.”
A sheepish look erases his humor.
“You did! What did I get? How did I rank?”
“I shouldn’t have told you this.”
“Tell me Jyoti– Chance.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Chance,” I warn.
“We had a bad first date. I was wrong about everything. My scientific method was flawed.”
I set down my knife, lean back. A strong pout tugs on my lips.
“I’m deleting the spreadsheet. No one sees it but me. It was for me and only me. And since then, I’ve learned that sometimes love takes time.”
I’d lean back farther if I could. Instead, I grab the edge of the table with both hands to brace myself. I’m like one of those jittery rabbits in our backyard when I was growing up. If Chance moves a muscle, I might skitter away in panic.
Chance is eyeing me cautiously. Does he even know what he just said?
He reaches across the table, inviting me to hold his hand. He knows. How can a guy who just had his first kiss know anything about love?
The longer I stay quiet and still, the more fidgety he becomes. “C’mere. I want to show you something,” he says.
It better not be that spreadsheet. I don’t want anything to do with it anymore. In fact, I might like to go home.
“I think I–”
“Danni.”
I melt. Every. Single. Time. It’s actually kind of annoying.
Who am I kidding? It’s amazing.
I grab his hand, and he leads me over to his SpaceX control center. He lets me have his gaming chair and he pulls another chair over.
“I was going to show you this tomorrow,” he says. But…” He pulls up Visual Studio Code.
We’re coding now? After he used the L-word?
“I hope you don’t mind, but I made some changes to the architecture.” He expands his folders so I can see his files.
My eyes scan the folder structure, and I quickly surmise that we have different definitions for the word “some.” He reduced the view and controller to one object each and added a few utilities and a generic data retrieval layer. Nothing like my design document that I slaved over and emphatically instructed him to follow without any alterations.
“Why are you showing me this?” I snap my jaw shut and grind my molars into dust while waiting for his answer.
“My module is finished. I unit tested everything. I added my architecture to your design document.”
My eyelid twitches. I rub it to settle it down and then grab the armrests. “You did what?”
Worry draws lines on his forehead. Darn right he should be worried. This is my project. My reputation. My design. Not Chance’s opportunity to show me how brilliant he is.
“I—I have to leave,” I stutter.
“Let me talk you through it.”
“No. I already know. You did it to my R&D app. And Zane did the same thing to my Test Sample app. You guys are all the same. Arrogant. Overconfident. Condescending.” My tone could carve an ice sculpture. “You have no respect for anyone else’s ideas. You think your God’s gift to application development.” I spring up from my seat.
“Danni.”
It doesn’t work on me this time. I’m too seething mad. Good to know I have an antidote to Chance’s kryptonite.
“I think you’re going to like it.”
I can barely see my feet through my anger, but I manage to slide on my sandals. And then I hightail it out of Chance’s apartment.