Chapter Two The Meet-Not-Cute
The next night Jenn joins Mom and me for dinner because after, Jenn’s going to help Mom paint a whole bunch of pots for custom centerpieces for a wedding.
We’re at our small dining table, which is squeezed between our kitchen and living room.
Zuri, my small black cat, is sleeping on the chair next to mine.
While we’re eating, Jenn and I tell Mom about the fortune I found in the velvet jacket.
“I’m going to wear this every day,” I say, holding the locket around my neck. “I know this means I’ll find someone new.”
Mom nods with a faint smile, then takes a bite of food.
She’s not romantic like me, so she probably doesn’t believe in fortunes.
Mom made chickpea bowls for dinner—basically, whatever’s in the fridge, plus a can of chickpeas, chaat masala, and yogurt.
This time it’s chickpeas, zucchini, kale, and shredded carrots.
Mom’s honestly not the best cook, probably because she doesn’t actually enjoy cooking.
We’re both vegetarians though, so what Mom’s food lacks in variety, she more than makes up for in veggies and canned beans.
Most of the time I love the fact that my mother is the furthest thing from a stereotypical South Asian mother.
My other desi friends are super jealous that she lets me do my own thing, as long as I do okay in school and stay out of trouble.
She’s fine with me studying digital arts in an arts college next year and didn’t do the whole you must study science or math thing.
She didn’t have an issue when I came out as pansexual and doesn’t care who I date as long as I’m treated well.
She didn’t even flinch when she found out I’m not a virgin—just asked me if I was being safe, which, of course, I was.
We even look alike; we both have medium brown skin, curly black hair, and the perfect lip shape for red lipstick.
People always think we’re sisters, not mother and daughter, but that’s probably because Mom, in her favorite denim overalls and T-shirts, doesn’t look very motherly.
Mom’s a bit… different. She’s the kind of person others like to call a “free spirit,” and they don’t mean it in a good way.
She was a wild child when she was young—she’s told me so many stories of her and Jenn sneaking out of their homes to go to all-night raves or hanging out in coffee shop parking lots when she was supposed to be at school.
She even almost flunked out of high school and went to a community college for floral design instead of going to university, disappointing her traditional Indian parents.
She married my dad when she was only twenty-two, even though Jenn told me that their friends back in high school had a poll of which one of them was the least likely to ever get married, and Mom won by a landslide.
My dad is, like, eleven years older than my mom, and they knew each other for only six months before their wedding.
I really don’t know why they got married because they’re so different.
They weren’t like… cold or anything to each other when I was young, but Dad never snuck kisses or bought Mom presents, and Mom never made him special dinners or planned date nights.
They never even vacationed together. I don’t like to think about it too much because ew , they’re my parents, but I was born seven months after their wedding, so they probably had to get married because Mom was pregnant, and they both have traditional Muslim parents.
I’m not sure they ever actually loved each other.
Mom’s been single since the divorce, but that’s because she’s always busy with some new hobby or project.
She repaints our living room about every eight months.
She built a huge deck behind our apartment.
She’s gotten into knitting, sewing, and even learned to play the guitar recently.
She’s always doing new things in her flower shop, too.
She’s very good at her job—her floral designs are gorgeous .
She’s busy, but I have no idea whether she’s happy .
She doesn’t talk about herself to me much.
“Only Sana would find a fortune in a jacket,” Jenn says, laughing.
“Gorgeous piece. I wanted to keep it for the store instead of donating it.” Jenn’s phone buzzes, and she checks the text.
“Mrs. Kotch again. She’s reminded me three times to put the rising cost of butter on the agenda for the BOA meeting. ”
I chuckle. The Love Street BOA is great, but I’m pretty sure they have no control over dairy pricing.
Mom shakes her head. “This is why I don’t want to be on the BOA board. Constantly getting complaints for things you don’t have the power to fix.” Mom pauses. “I think people need to accept that we can’t control everything on this street.”
I look at Mom. I can’t read her expression—I don’t know if she’s talking about her store or about something else. Either way, I don’t like that negative talk. Like, why bother even trying if you don’t think you can’t control anything?
“Think positively, Mom,” I say. “I know the BOA will be able to help. Cara and I are going to the meeting with Jenn to help brainstorm.”
“I thought you were going to your father’s for the weekend?”
I shake my head. Dad wanted me to, but I told him I had to be at this meeting because I don’t want to spend the night at his house.
“Just having Sunday brunch with them all. Noureen picked some trendy pan-Asian place.” Them all is Dad, his wife, Noureen, and Noureen’s daughter, Sarina.
Noureen is really into brunching, and Dad does whatever Noureen wants.
Sarina is a year older than me and in university, and I have no idea whether she enjoys brunching as much as her mother, but she does always show up.
Mom doesn’t say anything but glances at Jenn, who’s also silent. I wonder if they’re taking their own advice… If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all. I honestly don’t have a lot of nice things to say about Noureen, either.
“Anyway, you should come to the meeting, Mom,” I say while dousing my bowl with more hot sauce.
“Maybe we can plan a cross-promotion or something to get sales up, like what you did with the bakery last year.” That was super fun—Mom and Mrs. Kotch gave out coupons for each other’s shops with any purchase.
“I noticed less walk-ins at the flower shop last time I worked there.”
Mom shrugs and refills her water glass from the vintage pitcher on the table.
Most of our dishes are from thrift stores.
Noureen thinks we’re cheap for always buying things used, but it’s good for the planet and has a ton of personality.
I love all our vintage glassware—in the evenings, when the setting sun comes through our front window, all the multicolored glasses and vases shine like gems. It’s magical.
Mom tugs at the loose strands of black hair falling out of her messy bun.
She’s getting more gray strands in her curls.
“ You don’t need to worry about the shop’s sales, Sana.
We’re fine. My wedding business is doing great.
I just met with a new bride… I love doing Indian weddings. They want a fully floral mandap.”
Mom starts telling us about the bride’s ideas for the mandap—the wedding canopy that is used in Hindu weddings. Mom does so many weddings that she’s an expert on all the different wedding cultural practices in the city.
After dinner, Jenn and Mom set up the clay pots and paint on the table.
I offer to help them, but Mom tells me to work on my homework instead.
I sit on the sofa with my history books to work on an essay due on Monday.
It’s a good thing I prefer working with background noise, because Mom and Jenn soon start arguing about what shade of pink to paint the pots.
“Sana,” Mom suddenly calls out. “Can you pop down to the cooler in the shop and grab me a pink ranunculus stem? We’re going to need to color match it.”
“Sure,” I say. I save my work and head downstairs.
The door to Morgan Ashton Flowers is right next to the door to our apartment.
The space is painted bright white, with pale wood floors and a warm wood counter.
I always find it funny that Mom keeps the store so serene even though our apartment is full of bright colors.
I open the flower cooler in the back room and grab a pink ranunculus from a bucket, then head back to the apartment.
But as soon as I open the apartment door, I hear Jenn say, “I think you should tell Sana about this.”
“Not now. She doesn’t need to know yet,” Mom says.
What are they talking about? They must not have heard me open the door. I know I shouldn’t eavesdrop, but Mom’s clearly not going to tell me this. Which isn’t a surprise—Mom never tells me anything serious.
“This affects her too.”
“Sana’s just a kid, Jenn. I don’t need to worry her yet.”
“She’s a hell of a lot smarter and more grown-up than we were at her age,” Jenn says.
They’re both silent for a bit. I wonder if I should go upstairs… but then I’ll never find out what Mom’s keeping from me.
Finally, Jenn says something. “Are you going to accept the offer?”
“I don’t know,” Mom says.
“You may not have a choice. I heard that Rossi’s wants to take over the vacant space next to it to open a floral and garden department.”
Ugh. Rossi’s is the chain gourmet store that opened nearby. If they start selling flowers, it would suck for Mom’s business.
“That shouldn’t affect me,” Mom says. “My wedding and event business is keeping me afloat. No one goes to a chain grocery store for their wedding flowers.”
“It would affect your walk-ins. They’re already down,” Jenn says.
Mom sighs loudly. “Yeah. If interest rates were lower, I wouldn’t need to rely on walk-ins.”