Chapter 11 Present Day
CHAPTER 11
PRESENT DAY
July
The whole day vanishes in a vortex of insurance contracts and material documents. I almost ignore the ring of my phone until I see Hassan’s name flashing on the screen. My heart jolts with anticipation as I smooth down my hair and answer the video call.
“I thought I’d video call, instead of text, so I could see your beautiful face,” Hassan says with an impish grin.
I can’t help but answer with a smile of my own. “It’s good to see you.” It is good to see him, and the office. Everything there is bright and fluorescent, and it makes his skin glow.
“So, how are you?” he asks, leaning back against his office chair. “It can’t be easy having to change your schedule all of a sudden.”
“It isn’t.” I find myself telling him about Ciji and my worries about my aunt’s health. He frowns in the right places and nods reassuringly as I speak about struggling to feel helpful.
“That sounds rough,” Hassan says frankly. “And even harder to juggle work with all of that. Sometimes I find my parents don’t realize the sacrifices this career requires. And they’re the ones who wanted me to be a lawyer.”
“Exactly!” I reply. “And Eleanor is constantly emailing me, and her demands are pulling me away from figuring out what my cousin needs. I guess I just don’t know how to navigate it all.”
Hassan taps his chin, pausing as he searches for the right words. I didn’t mean to dump on him, but I’m relieved to confide in someone.
“Eleanor is tough,” Hassan says admiringly. “I still haven’t had a chance to work with her.”
His redirection from my family woes stops the churning in my stomach. Put that away, focus on what matters.
“Neither had I until now. I almost wish I didn’t.” I smirk. “Except, of course, if working with her helps me make partner.”
“I’d do anything to make partner. Almost.” Hassan takes a sip from the mug on his desk. “It’s unreal how similar we are.”
My smile is genuine. “It really is.”
“Listen, I know you’re busy now and it’s fast, but do you think you’d like to meet my parents when you’re back from the cottage?” When I don’t answer right away, he rushes to add, “No pressure at all. It’s just, being at mosque the other day made me think. And I really feel like this could be something, you know?”
It is fast, but it’s how things are done. I can’t mess this up. A relationship with Hassan will give me everything that I want.
“I think so too,” I say slowly. “Okay, I’m in.”
After I hang up, I creep over to the calendar Shehla Auntie hung in the kitchen. Ciji has her first tutoring session after school. She’d probably benefit from dinner and a snack. While I’m not a cook, I love to bake. Cooking is sputtery—oil flying in the air, onions needing chopping, flavours fusing together with an artistic spirit I don’t have. Baking, on the other hand, follows rules, and if there’s anything I understand, it’s structure. There’s one recipe I turn to often and I try to not examine why it seems to comfort me so much.
Like all good Indian mothers, Shehla has kept the kitchen well-stocked. Vanilla, flour, eggs, sugar, graham cracker crumbs, chocolate chips and marshmallows. S’more cookies.
Maybe Ciji will take something from them too. Aside from diabetes. My phone pings.
From: [email protected]
I need you to review one of the due diligence memos Henry is drafting imminently. I’ve cc-ed him to this email. Henry, send your draft ASAP.
Eleanor
I sigh, turning back to my recipe. After I melt the butter, I prop my phone against the wall on the counter. The rich cream of vanilla permeates the air with the molasses of the graham crackers, and some of the unease I’m feeling dissipates. Maybe I should call Mel. Clear the air and then get her take on my situation with Hassan. When she answers my video call, her curly hair is tied back in a ponytail and her eyes are tired. In the background, there are sirens and the rush of busy streets.
“Hey,” I say. “I just wanted to check in, see how you are?”
“Just parked and going to pick up mom and Shehla Auntie.” She pauses. “What are you doing?”
“Making cookies to bribe Ciji to study,” I say, stirring the batter.
She scoffs but doesn’t say anything further. I focus on the meld of melted butter, sugar and eggs.
“I heard you mentioned Hassan to mom. She’s started planning your wedding already.”
“I only mentioned it to her briefly!” My mother’s absurd behaviour distracts me, and my hands shake as I measure baking powder. “She should be focusing on planning your wedding. You know, when you and Norah, a long-term committed couple, are ready.”
That gets a brief smile out of her, but it fades. “You know she’ll never plan my wedding. I’m not sure if she even wants me to get married.”
“Mel, her opinion doesn’t matter.” I try to soothe her as I watch the sprinkles of flour thread through the metal sieve. My gut knots. I’m constantly trying to keep the peace, but it seems impossible to make both my sister and my mother happy.
Her laughter has edges. “You act like her opinion is everything.”
“What do you mean?”
She shakes her head, curls flopping over her forehead. “Never mind. Are you feeling okay about Wes being there?”
“Shit,” I say, accidentally spilling flour over the brim of the glass bowl. To avoid her gaze, I turn away, grabbing a paper towel. Why does talking about Wes make me feel exposed?
“Well?”
I busy myself, wiping the counter carefully. “It’s been fine, cordial and polite. You were right. We’re adults now, living our separate lives.”
She doesn’t need to know about the dock, about how he looked at me the way he did when we were kids. The way being near him makes me want to breathe life into thoughts I’d buried deep down.
Mel lifts an eyebrow. “If you say it, I believe it. Chat later, I’m getting into an elevator now.”
“Love you,” I say. I don’t know if she hears me.
The front door snaps open and Ciji strides in followed by Wes. I wave hello, which Wes answers with an uneven grin that doesn’t hide the apprehension lurking in his eyes. Noticing my inquisition, he mouths, “It’s my first day.”
“Hey, Ciji,” I say, wiping the sheen of sweat from my forehead. I try to keep my tone pleasant, the way I would speak to a difficult client. My level voice says it all: I mean no harm, but I’m capable so don’t cross me.
“Lia.” She purses her pink lips. Is that lip gloss she’s wearing? To a tutoring session? Before I can ask, she turns away from me, draping an arm on Wes’s shoulder. “Wesley and I will be at the dining table hanging out.”
Wes immediately stiffens, backing away.
“Hanging out? I thought you were getting math tutoring,” I say, playing innocent. “Isn’t that why we’re here this summer?”
Ciji all but bares her teeth at me and hisses, “Leave me alone, Lia.”
“Listen,” I reply. “I know you’re stressed about your mom, but please take your tutoring seriously.”
“Whatever,” she says. “I’m going to grab my stuff.”
I watch her stalk up the stairs, my back curving in. Why can’t it be easier? A hand grips my shoulder as Wes leans to whisper in my ear. “I see the two of you are still in battle?”
The feel of his breath on my neck makes me shiver. I step away. “I don’t know how to manage her attitude. Are you going to be able to deal with her?”
“I hope so.” His voice is ragged. “Like, if I can’t do this, then I have no business accepting the Toronto job. Maybe it’s safer to take the sub position until I’m more comfortable.”
I’m about to push him on this—tutoring Ciji isn’t a test, and if he can manage the personalities in business, he can handle a fifteen-year-old—but she re-emerges from her room dressed in a scrappy white camisole that outlines the contours of a black bra. The war has only just started. Now there’s blood in the water.
“It’s so warm in here,” Ciji complains, fanning herself as she sits down at the kitchen table.
“I put cookies in the oven,” I say. “I thought you’d like some fuel while you learn.”
“Well, it’s so freaking hot.” Ciji pulls at the straps of her camisole so that they hang off her shoulders. “Wesley, I’m ready to work on my math homework now.”
Wes’s eyes widen, frozen at the onslaught. I choke back a laugh. This is so incredibly inappropriate. She knows it too, glancing back at me briefly as if hoping I’m paying attention to her show.
“Won’t you be uncomfortable in that?” Wes suggests delicately.
There is no air conditioning in the cottage, but it’s not so warm that I feel the uncontrollable urge to strip. I channel the bluntness I’ve learned from my work. “Maybe you should just change your shirt, Ciji, I can see your bra.”
“I’m comfortable,” she replies.
“I’m not,” Wes mutters, but Ciji ignores him, victory glinting in her amber eyes.
I’m about to throw my hands up in defeat when I see my dad’s old fan tucked in the corner of the living room, unplugged and forgotten. Wes follows my gaze and grabs the fan, placing it on the table.
“I’m super warm too,” he says. “I’m just going to set this up over here.”
His fiddling manages to hit Ciji with a direct stream of air and they start working through algebra problems. Five minutes later, Ciji has goosebumps and is curled into herself on the seat.
The oven beeps. “The tag on this shirt is itchy,” Ciji announces, pushing back from the table. She stomps upstairs, refusing to make eye contact with me as she strides by. “I have to get my tablet anyway. I’ll be right back, Wesley.”
While Ciji changes, I ease the tray of cookies onto the table in front of Wes. “You did great managing her,” I tell Wes. “You’re a natural.”
“Maybe,” he murmurs, cheeks tinting. “Thanks for the backup.” He tilts his head, and even though he’s looked at me like this a thousand times, his unfettered gaze makes me feel exposed. His broad, open smile soaks straight into my chest, thick and languorous like maple syrup. I smile back, equally big, his happiness becoming mine, the way it always has.
The surprise of my impulse hits me, how easy it is for the old me to slip out, a dead friendship too easily resurrected. I need to clarify, re-establish boundaries, but he reaches for a cookie.
“They’re still hot.” I tug nervously on my hair. The heat has done a number on it and my wiry strands have escaped the bind of my hairspray.
He shrugs, blowing on the cookie, but his eyes are geared on me. “They seem fine to me. Have you had one yet?”
“Just some dough.” I shake my head, sitting down across from him. “Okay, a lot of dough. Sometimes I eat just the dough. Is that weird? It tastes the best right out of the refrigerator.” I slam my mouth shut to stop the rambling.
His laughter catches as he takes a gigantic bite. But even while he’s working through a mouthful of cookie, I can’t meet his eyes, so I lean forward, grabbing one. He’s right. The cookies are warm but not hot, and the chocolate melts onto my fingers. Still, even with cookies in front of me, I can’t help but pause at the whiff of cotton and pine.
Like he feels the same pull, he leans forward, gaze dipping to me moistening my lips. “It tastes pretty good baked too,” he says in a rich voice that rumbles from his body to mine.
My stomach whooshes and his lips quirk up in an answering smile. “Cut it out,” I say.
“Cut what out?” he asks, innocently. He gives me a smile that would be cocky, if not for the tentative glimpse he sends my way. Wes with the confidence of an adult man. My fingers shake as his gaze turns pensive.
I’m stripped bare under his inspection. But I don’t back away. I’m greedy for this, for someone to really look at me and know me. For Wes to look at me and know me. The want is an out-of-control forest fire, wanting to burn more and more until everything good is scorched dust. Even though I should know better now.
He leans further across the table, close enough that if I reached out, I could curve my fingers around the back of his neck and…
“Oh cool, cookies,” Ciji says, sliding back into her seat, a thin cotton cardigan covering her wispy T-shirt and her tablet in hand.
I lunge back as if I’ve been burned.
“Great, I hope you like them,” I tell Ciji, taking a bite of my cookie.
“Don’t take it as a compliment, I would have been just as happy with store-bought.”
I swallow down the hurt of her dismissal as Ciji flips her hair back. Karma strikes when a strand pokes her in the eye. She flicks it again and a chunk sticks to her lip gloss. As she sputters, I let out an uncontrollable snort. Wes’s laughter echoes, and finally Ciji can’t help but join us.
A rush of victory courses in me, but when Wes meets my eyes with a triumphant grin, I look away.
After Ciji finishes her tutoring, Wes excuses himself, leaving with a zip-lock filled with cookies for his mother. Once he’s gone, Ciji loiters, taking her time to tidy up her study books and tablet, shifting and organizing the papers methodically. Maybe being near me is better than being alone, even if she doesn’t like me.
“Can you help me make dinner?” I ask, wandering to the fridge to pull out a carton of eggs.
Ciji looks at me out of the corner of her eye. “Uh, no?”
The strain of dealing with Ciji pulses at my temples. It would be easier to let her be. But I can’t. She can’t spend the rest of the summer alone in her room. My phone buzzes in my pocket, interrupting my thoughts. Another email from work. I can’t deal with everything right now.
“Come on, Ciji. It won’t take long. I could use the help.”
She bares her teeth at me. “I. Don’t. Want. To.”
I’ve tried being understanding, but speaking to her is like pounding my head against a concrete wall. I snap, “Ciji. I am not asking what you want to do. I am telling you that you’re going to help me make dinner and sit here with me and eat it. Otherwise, you won’t get dinner.”
She huffs, picking her stuff off the table and thumping it with a scowl onto the antique storage bench by the door. “Fine.”
Ciji whips the eggs and I chop the tomatoes, peppers and onions. Trying to break the tense air, I ask, “How are you liking being up here?”
She grunts in response.
“It must be a change from Toronto.” I grab plates to take to the table. “I used to love coming up here in the summer.”
Ciji grimaces but says nothing.
Desperate, I continue, “It must be nice to meet new people?” If I had blinked, I would have missed her barely perceptible flinch.
“Do you like the bay? I used to love spending time out there,” I say, turning the stove on.
“Everything sucks up here,” Ciji says, mixing the vegetables in with the eggs. “Especially you,” I think I hear her mutter under her breath.
We’re silent as I cook the omelettes and plate them. Instead of watching her aggressively salt and pepper her meal, I head to the table with mine. Deep, calming breaths, I tell myself, holding back my frustration. She wants to get a rise out of me.
Ciji pulls a chair out at the end opposite to me. We sit, only the sound of our chewing breaking the silence. I barely taste what I’m eating. Where do I go from here?
Ciji is done with her meal and preparing to bolt when my phone rings. “It’s my mom,” I tell her. “Your mom is probably with her.”
When I answer, a giant blob appears in the middle of the screen. “Mom,” I say, exasperated. “Your finger is covering the camera.”
Ciji laughs, an unfamiliar ricochet of bells. “Oh my god, just like my mom. Smartphone challenged.” For a second, the fortress that’s her face melts, and I feel like I’m seeing my baby cousin again.
Mel grabs the phone, tilting it so that we can finally see them, her mom and mine both greeting us before Shehla takes the phone.
Shehla’s usually rounded cheeks look like deflated balloons, but she manages to put on a cheerful smile. “Ciji, beta. You know, I’m not too bad with the iPhone now, huh? Not after you taught me.”
“You’re totally amazing at your phone, Mom. It’s not like we spent three hours watching tutorials online,” Ciji deadpans. We settle into the sofa, sinking deep in the worn cradle, arm to arm. “I tripled the speed on some of them, it was sooo boring,” Ciji whispers to me.
“Tutorials? Where do we find that?” my mother inquires.
“Mom, I’ve already sent you countless videos. You forget immediately,” I retort.
Ciji stifles laughter. Hope sprouts inside me. We’re finally connecting.
“What was that?” Shehla asks. When we shake our heads at her, she continues. “How are you doing, baby, did school go okay?”
Ciji’s eyes dart towards me. “Yeah, it was fine. So was tutoring.”
“Good,” Shehla says. “Not causing any problems for your cousin, uh?”
Shehla directs her gaze at me, and I can feel the tension vibrating from Ciji. For a moment I consider complaining. But we’re finally bonding, and I get the sense that there’s still a ways to go before the war is over. Besides, I don’t want Shehla to worry. “No problems,” I say. Ciji exhales audibly.
My sister leans into the camera view, eyebrows darting up skeptically, but she doesn’t push further. “Anyway, while it’s good to see you two, we have updates,” she says.
“Is everything okay?” I pull myself up from the sofa, leaning forward. Updates are never good. Doctors pulling you aside to whisper in your ear. Parents sitting you down at the table after dinner, telling you bad news after you eat so as to not ruin the meal. The burn of hot rice and curry coming up your throat, and the water that can’t wash down the bile of worry and defeat.
Shehla turns towards my mother and then clears her throat. “We wanted to let you know that there was a cancellation spot tomorrow for the surgery and they’re slotting me in.”
That seems quick, but I’m not a doctor. “Well, that’s good, right?” I ask.
“Isn’t that fast?” Ciji’s nails dig into her palms. “I thought it usually takes a couple weeks? I’ve been looking at some forums and most people said it takes awhile.”
“Forums? What is that?” Shehla asks. “Anyway, don’t worry about researching this, beta, we have it handled over here. It’s routine.”
“They happened to have room in their calendar,” Mel interrupts. “You know, summer vacation scheduling changes and all that.”
Ciji’s still tense with disbelief. “Okay, well, is there anything I can do to help? Should I talk to Dad?”
“Everything is fine, beta,” Shehla says. “All I need you to do is study hard. And no, please don’t mention it to your father. Not right now.”
“Sure,” Ciji says. “Was there anything else you wanted to talk about?”
“No, beta,” Shehla says. “Focus on school. You have a quiz this week, right?” I envy how Shehla can deliver the message, a gentle yet firm nudge.
“Yeah. I guess I’ll go study now. See you later, Mom.” Ciji rises, walking away with purpose, but as soon as she’s out of view, I hear her race up the stairs.
Once she does, Shehla’s forced smile fades. “Lia, we wanted to let you know that the tumour is bigger than expected. They want it out now.”
Bigger than expected .
The weight of those words sinks in, tying a rock to my stomach. “You don’t want Ciji to know?” I murmur.
“She needs to focus on school right now,” my mother interjects. “We will get more information and then go from there.” My mother sounds different, more confident. Shehla looks towards her for reassurance, the way a little sister does to an older one.
I realize I’m doing the same, trying to catch Mel’s gaze on the screen, but we’re not quite linking up.
“So, let’s talk about something else. Any other news from you? Work? Dating?” my mother asks.
Mel rolls her eyes at my mother. “She’s up in the cottage. How is she supposed to be dating?”
“She’s seeing a nice lawyer. They don’t need to date for long. In fact, not being in person is better. Better to use your words and validate alignment in values and then move forward with the families meeting.” My mother sniffs.
“And look how well that turned out for Shehla Auntie,” Mel snaps, then immediately backtracks as Shehla’s mouth purses. “Sorry, Auntie.”
“I’m going to use the restroom,” Shehla says, stepping out of view.
“I just think that Lia deserves more than dating someone just because you’ll approve of them, Mom,” Mel says. “She needs to explore who’s out there. Find someone she actually loves.”
My mother’s neck tenses. “You think Lia should take advice from you?”
“At least I’m in a loving relationship with someone who respects me,” Mel shoots back.
I bite my lip. My immediate response is to say something to soothe them, but I can’t seem to find the words.
“At least Lia knows what kind of person we would accept into the family. She understands her responsibilities,” my mother replies.
Their voices climb higher, the heat from their argument radiating through the screen.
“Mom, leave Mel alone,” I say, their fury making my heart hurt. “Mel, stop riling up Mom.” I can’t get their attention, so I disconnect.
Besides, I should check in on Ciji. Even if she doesn’t have the full picture, the uncertainty is probably churning in her gut. When I get upstairs, her door is ajar. She’s wearing over-the-ear headphones and doesn’t turn around when I knock, so I enter the room.
“Hey,” I say, approaching her. Keys clatter from her furious typing into a group chat on her laptop, and she doesn’t notice me at first. Her isolation hits me like a log. Her friends are all back down in Toronto, and she’s up here with a cousin she barely knows.
“Lia?” Ciji pulls off her silver headphones, finally noticing me. She quickly minimizes her chat screen, revealing the Canadian Cancer Society’s breast cancer web page. “What do you want?”
I force my voice level. “I just wanted to check in on you. Everything okay?”
Ciji frowns, letting her long hair fall like a curtain over her expression. “Of course not. Why are they rushing my mom’s surgery?”
I take a pained breath, readying myself for deflection. It doesn’t feel right to lie to her, but I have to respect Shehla’s wishes. “Ciji, sometimes they have cancellations and they just bump people up.”
“Do you think I’m stupid?” Her eyes glint, a suspicious mix of moisture and anger, as she swivels in her chair towards me. Guilt tugs at my heart. My father was always frank with us about reality, and as awful as the truth was at times, having information gave me some control.
“No. I don’t think you’re stupid at all.” I lean forward to touch her arm slowly, like she’s a skittish animal. “My dad had some health trouble when I was only a little older than you.”
She flinches, pulling away. “Stop acting like you understand what I’m going through. You don’t.”
I do, I want to say. I’ve been in this exact place, a tangle in my gut, the world on my shoulders—but her expression shutters. She doesn’t want to hear me. “Can you just leave me alone, Lia?” she asks, her tone final. I back away as she pulls her headphones back on.
Even though I can usually work through anything, this evening has knocked me off my game. Nothing sinks in, no matter how many times I reread the sentences. I decide to take a quick break. After I make sandwiches for lunch tomorrow—what I wouldn’t give for delivery—I flip through my phone. The work messages have piled up, but nothing I can’t address tomorrow.
Hassan: What are you up to?
Lia: Oh, not much, really. What about you?
Hassan: Just thinking about us and our last date ;)
Lia: Anything about it in particular?
Hassan: I thought that was a pretty epic kiss, can’t stop replaying it
I pause to consider. It would be a lie to say I’ve been replaying it over and over too. But it was a nice kiss, one that promised more, maybe even nicer, kisses.
Lia: Can’t wait for our next date. Sweet dreams
Closing my phone, I try to replay the kiss. Did I lean my head to the left? To the right? Did I feel a zing in my chest that made my toes curl?
I climb back up the stairs. Ciji is quiet, so I continue through to my room. First I sit on the old bed, settling onto the same floral duvet I used when I was a kid. My gaze falls to the white bookshelves lined with all my old books. They’re stacked the way I remember, untouched. I spring from my bed to get a closer look.
Letting my hands fall against the old spines, I remove the tall but slim books I arranged carefully so that no one would see what’s behind. My haul of romance novels. Half of them from Wes’s grandmother’s stash and the others from the secret purchases I made with my allowance. Stories of maids falling in love with viscounts and American socialites with British heirs. Vampires with vampire hunters, witches with their sworn enemies. Happy endings that don’t belong in real life. Back then I was foolish and believed that they could be real. I can’t quite muster up that feeling thinking of Hassan right now. But I comfort myself that it’s been a stressful time. Maybe if I take a break, read a book, I’ll find that feeling again.
I basically stopped reading for over a decade when it became clear happily ever afters were fantasies. Dense law texts and the occasional thrillers were the only exceptions. Books that dealt with big feelings—love, grief, nostalgia—were a hard no. It was too risky to let myself experience those emotions again.
But today I feel like this is what I need. I need to be back in a world where things end well. Where Ciji’s pain doesn’t echo my own from ten years ago. Where maybe this thing with Hassan can be the fresh start I need.
The pastel pink colour of The Viscount Who Loved Me catches my attention, one of the first romances I ever read. I let myself pull it out, savouring the heft of it in my hand. It feels like greeting an old friend.
I turn on the table lamp and switch off the overhead lighting. I rest the book on my pillow as I change into my threadbare pajama bottoms and soft, billowy debate-tournament T-shirt from high school. Old habits pull me to my window to stare at Wes’s. His light is on, and I can see the faint outline of him at his desk. Maybe he’s reading. I suppress the urge to flick my light on and off in goodnight, but knowing he’s there eases some of the worry in my chest.
Instead of letting myself think more about Wes, I tuck myself into my bed and nestle under the covers. Even though I’ve only been here a few days, it feels like home again.
The book falls open to an especially reread scene and I laugh, turning back to the first page. I let myself get sucked into the moments of longing and the heated kisses. I’m swept away into the characters’ story, even if I find myself picturing the wrong guy’s blue eyes.
I fall asleep late into the night, and for once it’s not because of work.