Chapter 16 This Is Hazardous
Sixteen. This is hazardous
Tamara
Our walk is cut short when a bunch of kids wearing Patrick’s Team India jersey come running up to us for photos and autographs.
He’s caught off guard, but drops to his knees to talk to them.
In broken Tamil mixed with a healthy dose of Malayalam—which really shouldn’t be sexy—he answers their questions and laughs at their jokes. I step to the side and watch.
Patrick says hockey isn’t appreciated like cricket is, but in the short time he’s been here, people have recognised him.
They stop to talk and take selfies. They care.
It might not be as much as other sports, but people know who he is and they’re excited someone who came home with a bronze medal is hanging out with them.
When they finally disperse and others start to pay attention, he insists we get off the promenade.
I cling to him as we wade through the parked cars and oncoming vehicles to get to the other side where the food trucks are set up.
He doesn’t speak until he’s able to adjust his cap to cover his face and even then, it’s pointless.
A man like Patrick can’t hide in plain sight, no matter what disguise he tries to use.
But I let him believe he’s fine, otherwise we’ll be rushing home and he won’t get to eat at one of my favourite trucks.
“The Momotarian1?”
“Cute, right?”
He chuckles as we stand in queue and I pull up the menu on my phone.
I’ve been here so many times, I know their offerings by heart and the staff know me pretty well too.
On either side of the truck they’ve set up plastic stools and high tables for customers.
Their truck is much bigger than most of the ones that come by Elliot’s Beach, so they make the most of the space with seating.
It’s one of the reasons they’re always crowded.
The other is their Fomo Momo Sauce. It’s insanely spicy and despite my every effort to find out what they put in it, they keep it a secret.
When it’s our turn, the staff cheer. “Miss Chandy! Long time.”
I laugh. “Work’s been hectic and life has been…crazy.”
“You have a date?” one of them asks, gesturing to Patrick.
“New roommate,” I offer and they shake his hand. “Know what you want?”
Patrick shrugs. “Why don’t you order for the both of us.”
I rattle off my usual order of mixed momos with extra sauce and a plate of chicken momo2 in case he’s very hungry.
I ask for two bottles of lime goli soda3, because we’re gonna need them.
Before I can pay, Patrick has his phone up to the QR code and takes the bill when it’s handed to him.
I huff and pout, but he just leads me to a group of stools.
“This was supposed to be my treat.”
He smiles and sits beside me, the plastic creaking under his size. “You can pay next time.”
“Will you really let me?”
“I might. Since we’re only roommates.”
I roll my eyes and shove him. The man is built like a mountain so he doesn’t even flinch. The corner of his mouth is still tipped up and I frown. “What?”
“This is good. I like this.” At my puzzled expression, he gestures between us. “You and me. Walking by the beach, eating momos. It’s like old times.”
My smile falls at the reminder, but I nod.
This is why I don’t want my head and heart to get involved.
The memories, the feelings are too much to ignore.
We’ve got so much history and while it’s easy to say ‘just tell him what’s going on’, I’m not ready for the fall out.
What if he says he didn’t want me back then, but he does now?
What if the boy I was in love with isn’t the man sitting beside me?
There’s so much neither of us are saying and I’m starting to accept maybe that’s okay.
We can live in this awkward balance for the next six months, then find a way to make it work once the baby arrives.
“Sorry. Shouldn’t have brought it up.”
More importantly, I can’t keep shutting down when he references our past. I shake my head and offer him a small smile. “No, you’re fine. It does feel like old times, it’s a little disconcerting. But I do agree. This is good.”
Baby steps, pun intended.
“Yeah?”
I nod. “Better than me fighting with you, right?”
He chuckles, but the sound is hollow. A young girl hurries over and sets a plate of momos on another stool, then leaves. I glance at Patrick and he looks deep in thought.
“Trick?”
“Yeah, Lo.”
There’s something so comforting about the way he says it. Lo is softer than Lotus or Tamara. It’s a cosy blanket that keeps me safe. I blink back a surprise bout of tears and say, “You okay?”
He nods. “I will be. You feeling better?”
I’m partly to blame for his current mood and I could fix it by tearing down my walls. But this man has so much power over me, I could break. My head jerks in a nod and I use my plastic fork to make holes in the momos so they cool down.
“The calendar on my laptop notified me about the appointment after I ignored it at home and I fell into a hole of research. Bad idea,” I say with a sheepish laugh.
“I read the articles about what could go wrong in the first trimester, what should happen by the time we’re at this stage.
Apparently the baby should be moving soon, but I haven’t felt anything yet.
Then one spiral led to another and I panicked. ”
I don’t tell him I spent a really long time wondering if I’d miscarried again. If I was cursed by the universe never to be a mother. The first time scared and scarred me, so if I lost another baby, I might give up entirely.
“Shit, Tamara. Why would you do that?”
“I wanted to know what we were walking into. Don’t you wanna know?”
“I looked it up too, but I was doing it so you wouldn’t have to.”
“What, why?”
He sighs and does what I did with the fork, then crosses his thick arms over his chest. “You’ve always been the panic-first-ask-questions-later type of person.
I figured that hasn’t changed. So I thought if I read up on what the appointment is going to be about then I could be there for you when you needed me.
You don’t need to add shit to your plate, Lo. Let me carry that.”
“Patrick…that’s not wh—” the young girl comes back with another plate and a small bowl of sauce.
She sets the drinks on a separate stool and smiles before running away.
I pull everything closer so it’s easy for both of us to reach.
“Look, you’re not here to carry things I don’t want to, okay? We’re in this together.”
He shoves an entire momo into his mouth and frowns, using the food as an excuse not to speak.
I roll my eyes and take a bite of mine. In a way, I love that he took the effort to research and understand what to expect.
But I don’t want him to be anxious on my behalf.
Nothing good comes of both of us being total wrecks when we go into the appointment.
“Together doesn’t mean you have to look at the hard shit, baby.”
“But why should you?”
He huffs and eats another momo and this time I laugh. He’s obviously using the chewing time to think about his response. The corner of his mouth twitches and I shake my head.
“I’m glad you want to protect me, Patrick. But you can’t do it all the time.”
He doesn’t look pleased. “It wasn’t that bad, really. I don’t think I realised everything we had to consider when it comes to having a baby.”
I’m not surprised he’s brushing past all of this as smoothly as possible. But I let him. Shoving an entire momo into my mouth, I take a page out of his book and use the time to calm down.
“It’s weird, right?” I say press my thumb into the mouth of the goli soda bottle to break the marble seal. “In movies and books, they get knocked up and look great for nine months. Once they have the baby, their lives go back to normal. Nobody ever tells you about the scary things.”
His responding smile is tinged in sadness. “Maybe we should reframe it. Not think of it as scary or bad or hard shit. It’s routine and normal, standard operating procedure.”
I watch him, then ask, “Do they make you give speeches before big games?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“They really should reconsider. That was terrible.”
“Brat.” He laughs and throws a napkin at me, instantly breaking the tension.
“Now try this,” I say and push the sauce towards him. To prove it’s not poison, I dip my momo in the Fomo Momo Sauce and pop the whole thing into my mouth. The spice hits every tastebud and coats my entire mouth with fire, but it’s so good, I don’t even care.
He follows suit and swears loudly, getting everyone’s attention. “Fuck. What is that?” He chugs most of his goli soda and puffs out air like it’ll help. “Lo, this is hazardous. What the fuck?”
I grin and swish some of my drink around my mouth and shrug. “Your baby likes the spice hit, what can I say?”
“My baby would not jump into a teaspoon of that sauce. How are you even holding it together?”
My eyes water and I dab at the corners. Despite how desperately I crave spicy food, my mouth still hasn’t adjusted to the different levels of heat.
“It is spicy. But it’s not so bad.”
He shakes his head. “For the record, I will not be making you any spicy food. Green and red chillies will be present in your meals, but this? Nope. Not in my kitchen.”
“Excuse me. Your kitchen?”
“Since I’m the only one cooking, it’s mine.” I stick my tongue out and he grins, eyes flickering with heat. “Speaking of which, have you been craving anything else recently?”
He’s only ever asked what I don’t want to eat, never what I’m craving. Truth is, I want anything Patrick makes. He’s such a good cook and every single day is something new.
“Spicy food, obviously. Nothing else really. You’re feeding us very well, Trick.”
“There’s gotta be something I haven’t done yet.”
“I mean…I love French Toast, but if even a taste of egg hits my tongue, I will explode.”
He chuckles and eats another momo, this time without the sauce. “Keep going, Lo. Gimme a challenge.”
“Oooh, how about momos or dumplings. Sushi!”
“No sushi. I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to eat raw fish.”
I pout. “Fine. Then homemade dumplings?”
He examines the remaining few momos and shrugs. “I’m sure I could make it happen.”
Rubbing my lips together to hide my smile fails because I’m so fascinated by this man.
He’s not just a handsome big Viking; he’s a guy who cares a lot about everyone else.
I wonder how many other men are going out of their way to cook for their partners after discovering he accidentally knocked her up.
We’re not partners, remember? Roommates.
“How are you still single, Trick?”
The question catches us both by surprise and he freezes with the momo halfway up to his mouth.
I pick at the label on my goli soda bottle as he eats the final piece.
Is it totally ridiculous to assume I’m the reason?
I don’t want that to be the truth. Then it means he spent the last twenty years waiting for me and it’s too much for one person to handle.
“Actually, I don’t want to know.”
He chuckles. “I have a type. And everyone I’ve met along the way has one or two things I like. Not everything.” Then his eyes meet mine and my insides melt into a puddle.
Sorry, baby, your father tried to ruin me while I was fully clothed.
I clear my throat, aware of the blush covering every inch of my body. “But you did date, right?”
“Here and there, sure. Nothing serious.” I nod and finish my drink, then he adds, “Partly because most people don’t know how to have a serious conversation about mental health.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve lived with high functioning depression for a good portion of my adult life. It’s…debilitating in relationships.”
My brain puts high functioning depression at the top of my list of things to research tomorrow. “Only when it’s with the wrong people.”
“Haven’t met the right one yet,” he says softly and my heart plummets.
He mumbles something about getting more napkins and walks to the truck.
I watch him go, wondering how long he’s lived with his depression.
While it’s not a competition, my trauma doesn’t seem as bad as his.
I chew on the inside of my cheek as he talks to the guys in the truck.
Would he want to tell me more about his depression?
Would he lean on me when something happens?
I wonder if he’ll want to show me his scars and accept mine the way they are.
Tears prick the corner of my eyes when he returns, dazzling smile in place.
“Anything else you wanna do?”
I shrug. “How do you feel about the Fruit Shop?”
“Sure.”
He loops the knapsack over his shoulder and takes my hand, linking our fingers.
We walk down the busy street, checking out the other trucks.
When we reach the shop, he opens the door and nudges me inside.
Known as the Fruit Shop on Greams Road4, it’s a juice and milkshake joint that’s been around for years.
The menu has never changed, the tables are always sticky and likely not entirely hygienic.
As long as I don’t watch them make my drink, I manage fine.
We place our order and sit in comfortable silence to watch the traffic go by. A lot of heavy stuff has come up today and I have tons of questions. I want to dig a little deeper under his skin to get to the bottom of this version of Patrick Joseph.
Not yet, though.