Chapter Two
Unlike most desi families, her parents started their parties exactly on time—in this case, at noon—which was why Sameera had to park the next street over and pick her way through double-parked cars in front of her parents’ two-story home on a quiet cul-de-sac.
The white clapboard Colonial was set back from the street, and her parents had decorated for Eid with twinkly green and red fairy lights around the windows.
Their neighbors must have wondered why the Malik family had put up Christmas lights, not realizing the second Eid festival fell in December this year, too.
A cheery wood cutout spray-painted gold greeted Sameera: Eid Mubarak!
She knocked and waited. After a few minutes, she knocked again, then decided to try the door. It was unlocked, and she made a note to talk to her little brother, Esa, who routinely forgot to flip the dead bolt.
Inside, the party had already begun, and delicious smells emanated from the kitchen, her favorite room in the house. Sameera had skipped breakfast and lunch in her hurry to finish a brief before leaving for the party, and her stomach rumbled.
“Salams, Mom. The door was unlocked again. I brought macarons. Did you make samosas . . .” She trailed off.
A stranger was in her kitchen. Correction: not a stranger.
Tom Cooke stood sentry before her mother’s Wolf range, wearing Tahsin’s favorite pink apron, the one her sister Nadiya and Sameera had bought her as a joke years ago: Desis do it better.
“Do what?” Tahsin had asked upon unwrapping her gift, whereupon both Sameera and Nadiya had descended into uncontrollable giggles.
It looked good on Tom, Sameera thought wildly. The apron emphasized his slim waist and broad shoulders, though it did nothing to explain his presence. Tom half waved, looking a little self-conscious.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. Was she dreaming? It was embarrassing how many times her work-addled mind had drifted toward Tom Cooke in the days since they had met, usually as she tried to fall asleep. Despite Bee’s needling, she had yet to follow him online; she had some pride.
“Learning how to make authentic samosas,” Tom said. “You look pretty in that outfit. I have something similar at home. A gift from my buddy when his cousin got married. Though I think I was only included in the wedding party because they wanted a discount on catering.” He grinned at her.
She was officially hallucinating; that was the only explanation. She discreetly pinched herself. Ow!
“Are you okay? I brought you some cranberry ginger ale in case you needed a pick-me-up.” Tom twinkled at her, and she wanted to yell at him to stop being so charming and explain why he had moved from her guilty daydreams and straight into her mother’s kitchen.
Then a thought stopped her cold: This was Tahsin’s doing.
She didn’t know how or why, but Tom’s presence here today had her mother’s machinations written all over it.
“What did my mother tell you? Did she talk to you about Hunter?” Sameera demanded, and his eyes widened.
Tahsin bustled into the kitchen. “You’re late, beta,” she said.
Her mother was a diminutive woman, just like Sameera, standing barely five foot two, but unlike her daughter, she didn’t try to hide the fact by wearing heels.
She was dressed in a bright-turquoise salwar kameez with red embroidery around the neck and sleeves, paired with a discreet gold necklace and matching earrings embedded with semiprecious gemstones.
Her makeup had been applied with a light touch, highlighting her smooth brown skin, and her hair was tied up in its habitual bun.
“It’s your fault for starting your parties on time,” Sameera said, hugging her mother and inhaling Tahsin’s signature scent, a mixture of Clinique Happy and garam masala. “It’s unnatural.”
“Everyone knows our rule: ‘Come early, come hungry,’” Tahsin said, smiling at her daughter.
“Tom beat you here. How lucky for us that he had a last-minute cancellation and agreed to help with catering. Though I assumed you would drive down together.” The look Tahsin threw Tom made the back of Sameera’s neck prickle.
Surely she didn’t believe they were actually an item?
“The pleasure is all mine,” Tom said. “I’ve already learned so much. Your mom is an amazing cook, Sameera.”
Sameera reached for the samosas beside the stove. The explosion of flavors and heat as she crunched into the flaky pastry made her moan a little. “Perfect as usual, Mom,” she said.
“Tom made that batch,” Tahsin said with a fond smile. “He’s a quick study. For a gora,” she added before disappearing into the dining room with a stack of napkins.
“Let me guess: ‘Gora’ means ‘white guy,’” Tom said.
“You never answered my question. Why are you here?” she countered.
“I needed your mom’s samosa recipe.” Off her skeptical glance, Tom shrugged. “Tahsin called me a few days ago and asked me to cater her Eid party.”
“You can’t call her Tahsin,” Sameera said, appalled. “She’s a Brown aunty. It’s Tahsin Aunty, or Mrs. Malik. How did she get your number?”
“I’m online. That’s how people book me,” Tom said, watching her carefully. “Are you okay? I can leave if my presence is making you uncomfortable.”
“No, it’s fine. I’m fine. I’m just a little thrown, that’s all.
” Sameera passed a hand over her head, where a dull headache was starting.
She could really use a coffee—or better yet, a gallon of chai, the extra-sweet kind her mother made.
“My parents . . . my mom has a tendency to jump to conclusions and interfere in my life.”
“I think Mrs. Malik just needed a caterer,” Tom said calmly.
“Or maybe she thought I was hiding another boyfriend from the family and wanted to check you out,” Sameera countered. “For instance,” she added weakly.
Tom’s eyebrows were at his hairline now; she should probably stop talking.
“Never mind. Pretend I didn’t say anything,” Sameera said, blushing bright red. “These samosas really are amazing.” She reached for two more and stuffed them in her mouth, more to stop herself from speaking further. Bee was going to laugh so hard when she shared this story with her later.
“I tried out a few different fillings,” Tom said, watching her eat with appreciation. “There’s Hakka chili chicken, Korean barbecue, and jalapeno paneer.” He pointed to three trays.
Esa, dressed in a brown salwar with embroidery around the starched collar, wandered into the kitchen and nodded at his older sister.
As usual, Sameera greeted him with a forced heartiness that made her inwardly cringe.
“Hey, kiddo, nice suit,” she said too loudly.
“Are you hungry? There are samosas. And, um, macarons.”
Esa only stared at her, and she tried to fight against a wave of guilt.
Esa was fifteen years old now, a sophomore in high school, and only a few years older than she had been when he was born.
She remembered how five-year-old Esa had cried for days when she left for college, his excitement whenever she came home to visit, how eager he had been for her attention, how he used to talk to her nonstop.
Then she had stopped coming home, and when she finally saw him again, after three years of tense silence, she barely recognized her baby brother—the carefree twelve-year-old boy he had been the last time they’d met replaced by an intense teenager who towered over her, a coolness in his eyes, as if he didn’t quite trust her not to disappear on him again.
“I ate already,” Esa said now. He turned to Tom and was about to nod politely when he did a double take. “Cooke with Tom!” her brother said in a different voice. “I follow you!”
The men dapped, Esa nearly levitating with excitement, while Sameera looked on enviously.
“I’ve got a channel on YouTube, too, but only have, like, fifty subscribers. How did you grow your audience? What’s the ‘secret sauce’ to going viral?” Esa grinned at his joke.
“I didn’t know you had a YouTube channel,” Sameera said. “What is it? I want to subscribe, too.”
“You wouldn’t like it. It’s fun,” Esa said, not even looking at her.
Tom threw her a sympathetic glance before answering Esa. “Honestly, I got lucky. A few of my chef friends shared my stuff, and the audience grew steadily.” He glanced over at Sameera. “Your sister is the real superstar. She’s a cool lawyer.”
Esa barely glanced at his sister. “How often do you do paid partnerships? Are you going to retire from catering and create content full-time? You have to tell me what Andy Shaikh is really like.”
“Andy is an acquired taste, but I consider him my brother,” Tom said with a smile. “I’ve known the guy since undergrad. We were roommates at Georgia Tech.”
“Say wallahi,” Esa said, eyes shining with excitement.
“It’s true. I knew Andy before he became the Andy Shaikh. Though, unlike him, I never finished college. I dropped out during my third year,” Tom said.
Esa held out his hand for a high five, which Tom returned reluctantly. “Not sure I’d recommend that path,” he added. “My dad cut me off. Didn’t talk to me for a whole year.”
Esa looked from Sameera to Tom. “You two have so much in common. Though Sameera was the one who cut us off.”
“It wasn’t like that,” Sameera said, embarrassed.
Her brother shrugged. “That’s what it felt like to me.”
There was an awkward beat of silence, and Tom cleared his throat. “I’ve got a bit of time. If you like, we can film a video together now,” he offered Esa, and her little brother’s eyes lit up.
“Really? That would be awesome! Afterward, can you introduce me to Andy?”
“Not a chance,” Tom said, laughing.
Within minutes they were ready: Tom propped his phone up using a few books, and Esa’s oversize ring light provided flattering illumination. She watched, bemused, as Tom and Esa immediately started to riff, joking and teasing, and then Tom pulled her into the conversation.