Chapter 8
As Rohit slid the red-and-white Tim Hortons coffee cup across the desk to Rich, he could have mouthed his boss’s next words along with him.
“Rohit, son, you’re a godsend.”
Rohit grinned to himself as he took his seat on the other side of the large cherrywood desk.
It blew his mind that a millionaire like Rich would consider a simple double-double from Tim’s, of all places, an indulgence, but his boss expressed his appreciation in this exact way every morning.
It didn’t matter that the drink cost two dollars and was charged to Rich’s company card, or that Rohit brought him the exact same thing every day for their twenty-minute “strategy meeting” to start the day.
Rich was just that kind of guy. Humble but very set in his ways.
This time together was usually spent shooting the breeze, but Rohit didn’t mind.
Rich seemed to relish the opportunity to contemplate his life in Canada with Rohit, reminiscing about his experiences as an immigrant and how he had gotten to where he was now.
He did most of the talking, repeated many of the same stories.
Any time Rich’s mind wandered to his first-time navigating ice-crusted streets, mistaking orange dish soap for juice, and the wonder of riding a gondola between snowcapped mountains, his voice thickened with sentimentality despite having immigrated over thirty years ago.
For Rohit, the twenty-minute touchpoint was a gentle reminder of a life he’d left behind that, he was slightly ashamed to admit, he only felt connected to through video chat these days.
His parents’ family room, although sometimes fuzzy depending on the strength of their Wi-Fi that day, triggered nostalgia, but the world outside their walls was beginning to blur for Rohit.
“Did you ever visit Vagator Beach in Goa?” Rich was asking, his face taking on a faraway look.
When Rohit shook his head, Rich launched into his story about his favorite family vacation as a child, oblivious to Rohit’s eyes dropping to his hands, which were clasped tightly in his lap.
Rohit came from more modest beginnings. His family was part of the struggling middle class, and while his parents had scraped together enough to send him to a credible private school as a child, there hadn’t been vacations much farther than a relative’s house in a nearby town.
Unlike his boss, whenever Rohit thought about home, his thoughts revolved around money.
His entire life revolved around keeping the roof from caving in on his family, and only when he achieved a fraction of what Rich had done for himself in Canada could he break free of those shrinking walls and carve his own path.
If that day ever came, of course.
“How’s your family?” Rich asked, as if he had read Rohit’s mind.
“They’re great, sir,” Rohit said, trying to remember the last time he’d spoken to them.
Had it been Saturday? Thursday? The calls had been so frequent when he’d first moved to Canada seven years ago as an eager twenty-three-year-old undergraduate student.
Even then, Rohit had known he wouldn’t return to India, making it easier each year to burrow deeper into his newfound identity as an aspiring South Asian Canadian.
As homesickness shed, so had the need to see his father’s cheerful, quiet face and take comfort from his mother’s recount of day-to-day activities that seemed impossibly far away.
“And you’ve been able to keep up?” Rich asked.
Rohit knew what Rich was really asking, and he slouched a little in his seat.
He wasn’t ashamed of his family’s financial situation, and his boss—who, as the eldest son and dubbed the “American Success” by his family—was all too familiar with the burdens placed upon the younger man’s shoulders.
But to Rich, caring for one’s family was a point of pride.
For Rohit, it felt like something else. Something heavier that made him want to hunch forward and scrub his hands over his face.
He could never admit to Rich that since his mother’s accident—when the responsibility of providing for his family had shifted from a shared endeavor to resting mostly on his shoulders—what had felt like pride and love now felt, at times, like a burden.
One that came with consequences he had failed to anticipate when he’d jumped to the task of helping his family. It wasn’t just sending a hefty portion of his paycheck at the end of every month, but knowing that his future was mapped out by his family’s needs.
Prior to everything back home falling apart, Rohit had wanted to pursue a second degree in architecture after his MBA.
It hadn’t seemed that fanciful at the time, not for a young guy who’d moved out for the first time into a world much less conservative and traditional than the one he’d left behind.
Before he’d known the weight of financial obligation, he had been pleasantly overwhelmed with the idea of staying in Canada to study architecture, or maybe even venturing elsewhere, like London or Singapore.
He had been disgustingly idealistic, excited to take on the world and find his place in it.
Studying the points of intersection where art and engineering met technology and sustainability…
It would’ve been worth the countless hours spent laboring over a drafting table, fingers blackened by graphite.
But he had let go of those dreams a long time ago.
“I’m doing fine,” Rohit replied even as a tight little pinch took up residence between his shoulder blades. “I mean, I’m taking care of them.”
Rich shot him a long look. “You know, you can come to me if you need help.”
“No.” Rohit’s voice was firm; it wasn’t the first time his boss had put that idea forward. “I’m fine. We’re fine.”
“Well, the offer is always there.”
Rohit opened his mouth to answer, but this was always the hardest part of his relationship with Rich.
He had no idea where to find the right words to express his gratitude, how he didn’t take this opportunity for granted.
How Rich had, unwittingly, saved him and his family.
Rohit owed his boss more than fetching his coffee every morning could ever repay.
He was saved from mumbling something inane by a firm knock at Rich’s door.
“Ah, yes,” Rich said, with a wink that Rohit couldn’t begin to decipher. “Come in.”
The door swung open to reveal Cynthia, severe in a flattering black suit like she was on her way to a celebrity’s funeral.
She was by far the most formally dressed person at the office, not that Rohit would ever complain.
In the last year, he had developed a deep appreciation for powerful women who dominated every room they walked into wearing perfectly tailored pants with pleats so sharp they could cut glass.
Well, one powerful woman, anyway.
As usual, nothing escaped Cynthia’s quick, amber eyes. Not the heavy and expensive furniture or her father, relaxed in his cushy executive chair, ankle crossed over his knee. It was only when her shrewd gaze landed on Rohit that a hint of uneasiness flickered over her face.
It was barely a nanosecond before Cynthia’s cool, confident mask was back in place, but Rohit never missed these moments.
The sharpening of her gaze, the slight downturn of her full lips.
Even her body appeared to tighten, resorting to a tension that existed between wariness and suspicion, yet always primed for a fight.
But for once, it didn’t feel like deep-seated hostility…Well, not entirely . There was something else there, too: enflamed but not enraged. Dark but not murderous.
If he had to put a word to it, Rohit would say she looked bothered .
Her gaze narrowed onto the coffee cups on her father’s desk, but she didn’t look surprised.
It was Cynthia, after all. She always knew all the goings-on at Kumar Construction, sometimes before they happened.
Rohit never was able to figure out how, since she didn’t seem to have any in-house alliances or gossip networks that he’d observed.
“My assistant said you wanted to see me?” she said in greeting.
“Have a seat,” Rich replied, gesturing to the empty seat next to Rohit.
Cynthia’s body moved to obey, but the set of her jaw told Rohit that was the last place she wanted to sit. Then again, she’d spoken with him yesterday outside the business center by her own free will without clawing his eyes out, and for that reason alone, Rohit aimed a tentative smile her way.
“Good morning, Cynthia,” he said.
She didn’t spare him a second glance. “Rohit.”
He didn’t know if it was her barely suppressed desire to flip him off at every opportunity or that by the simple act of producing carbon dioxide, he was able to grate on her nerves, but whenever he was around her, Rohit felt like a younger version of himself.
Carefree, a little obnoxious, and receiving a light rush of pleasure from getting a reaction out of her.
It was a heady enough combination that prompted him to add in a sly voice, “?‘Make anyone cry today?’?”
Cynthia’s shot him a long, sidelong glance, her face impassive. “Sadly, no. But it’s only eight thirty.” Rohit’s heart leaped, backflipped, and somersaulted but before he could respond, Rich spoke.
“I’m sure you’re wondering why I called both of you in here today,” he said.
Cynthia made a noise in the back of her throat that sounded like a strangled duh and Rohit had to swallow the chuckle rising in his throat.
It was nice leaving his overloaded adult self behind occasionally.
Besides, every uncharacteristic emotion Cynthia failed to rein in, as brief as it might be, felt like a gift.
Like he’d earned something, discovered something new just for himself.