Chapter 22
Karan
“Who wants to help me with lunch?”
Auntie Anjali hasn’t stripped out of her snow suit yet, and she’s already thinking about food. I can’t help but smile. Though my situation with Rachel is precarious at best, being surrounded by the known comforts of my family is a relief.
“I will.” Rachel’s voice hits me straight in the sternum.
Since I took over helping the twins out of their suits, Rachel is already out of hers, now dragging her wet outdoor clothes towards the fire stove to hang them to dry.
I look up, but her back is to me while she hangs her stuff. I wish I could see what was going on inside that pretty head of hers.
Her volunteering to help Anjali with dinner has got to be a good sign, right? Since I’ve stepped foot in this cabin, all I’ve noticed was how disconnected Rachel seems, floating around like a ghost.
Disengaged.
As if she’s got one foot out the door already.
Does this signal a change, or is she volunteering simply to be polite?
I know Rachel. The last thing she wants is to be a burden to others. She’ll always find a way to be as helpful as possible and uplift the people around her. It’s the same reason she’s invited Océane to live with us.
“Wonderful!” Auntie Anjali squeals before turning to me. “You’re helping, too.”
“What?” Air leaves my chest, and I freeze in an awkward position, all bent over from trying to remove my boot.
“We’re making Aloo Wadiyan for eleven people. And we don’t have any rotis, so we need to make those, too.” Anjali smirks at me. “And I know for a fact that you make better rotis than Rachel.”
“It’s not lack of effort,” Rachel calls out.
She’s still by the fire stove, now hanging our sons’ snow clothes.
“They’re made with love, but they’re ugly.” The words come out of my mouth before I’ve had time to think them through.
I love to joke around with Rachel. It’s part of our love language.
At least, it used to be. I’m not sure joking around right now is the best move.
But my heart leaps in my throat when Rachel bursts out laughing. A tingle of warmth spreads across my body in the most comforting way. It’s been too long since I’ve heard her laugh like this.
I missed that sound.
For a moment, our eyes meet. I lose myself in the green forest of her irises. In that short moment, I can read so much from her expression, but I don’t know if I can trust my judgement. Trust what I’m detecting.
A glimmer of a chance.
Her gaze falls when Corey comes up to her with a leg hug attack. I take that opportunity to turn to Anjali.
“Fine, Auntie. I’ll save the family from the scourge of Rachel’s rotis.”
Anjali claps her hands happily. “Good! Get going then.”
Mom is already distracting the twins with what seems to be a card game, so we should be able to cook unbothered.
Anjali turns to Rachel, who’s now making her way towards her, having freed herself from the leg hug. “Can you start on the onions and potatoes while I crush the wadi?”
Rachel nods in a small, shy motion. She’s no longer laughing, but a tiny, shy smile remains on her lips.
I pick a spot on the counter and start grabbing everything I need to make the roti—whole wheat flour, a large mixing bowl, a measuring cup of water, and a rolling pin—while Rachel starts scavenging the fridge and pantry for her ingredients.
Though she’s far away, the skin of my body prickles, longing to have her near me.
I almost sigh with relief when Rachel places herself next to me.
We’re far apart enough that I’ve got enough space to make my dough, and she’s got enough space to place Aunt Jocelyne’s huge wooden cutting board.
But, given my size, our elbows brush when she reaches to grab the chef’s knife hanging on the magnetic blade holder.
Is it my imagination, or did she shiver at our contact?
Both of us get to work while Anjali preps the wadi and grates ginger and garlic. It’s anything but a calm moment.
Around us, the cacophony of the cabin is in full force—the roaring of the fire within the wood stove, Aisha’s phone blaring as she lounges on the old couch scrolling through videos, the twins at the table laughing with Mom, Dad and Suresh deep in conversation about the merits of coffee versus tea, and Jocelyne asking Ajay about his recent trip to Chennai to visit his grandparents on his father’s side.
It’s a full house for sure.
For the first time, the thought crosses my mind that maybe Rachel didn’t want this. With everything that’s been going on with us, maybe throwing us into the pandemonium that is my family wasn’t a great idea for Christmas this year.
I watch her out of the corner of my eye. Her knife skills are impeccable, the potatoes and onions neatly diced. No surprise. Rachel somehow excels at everything she touches. Everything except roti, it seems. I’d say it’s unfair, but I love her so much that I don’t care.
Suddenly, she looks up from the cutting board, catching me looking at her.
“You’re staring.” A ghost of a grin threatens to spread on her plush lips.
“Can you blame me?” I try to keep my tone light, but my heart is pounding in my chest.
This is the closest we’ve been to a real connection in what feels like months. Even closer than the imperceptible nod she gave me earlier this morning.
Rachel rolls her eyes, but it’s playful. I can tell the difference.
“Mom!” Aisha shouts, waving her phone in the air from the couch. “Nani wants to talk to you.”
“Why’d she call you, then, Beta?” Anjali leans her fist against her ample hips.
“Because you didn’t pick up, duh.”
“I’m busy working some magic here!”
Despite her argument, my aunt wipes her hands on a towel and strides over to speak to her mother—my grandmother—on Aisha’s phone.
This leaves me alone with Rachel. Well, as alone as we’ll be on this open-plan first floor of the cabin. Still working the dough on the rotis, I search for something to say that won’t ruin the tentative peace we found only a short moment earlier.
“You know,” I start, kneading the dough with more enthusiasm than necessary, “I was thinking…”
Rachel raises an eyebrow, her silence urging me to continue.
“That maybe we could use more getaways like this.” I try to sound casual but hopeful.
“With your family?” Her voice is guarded now.
I’m on thin ice.
“No. Just us.” I swallow hard, then gesture to her and back to me. “More moments like these, I mean. Maybe we should make a habit of leaving town from time to time.”
Her knife pauses mid-slice. The air shifts again, and that familiar disconnect threatens to creep back in.
“I’d like that.” She resumes her chopping, and from her vanished smile, I fear I’m losing more ground. “But it’s not going to happen, is it?”
“What do you mean?”
She halts her chopping again, this time boring her green eyes deep into me. “The last thing I want is for us to plan something nice, and then get disappointed when your boss inevitably calls you in for whatever emergency or fire you need to put out.”
My heart sinks all the way to my feet, but before I can respond, Auntie Anjali comes strolling back.
“Maa wanted to make sure I puree the tomatoes. It’s the way she’s always made it, and she never skips the opportunity to remind me.”
I laugh to myself, but it’s short-lived when I remember what Rachel just told me.
Anjali gestures to the food. “Focus, team. People will be hungry soon.”
Rachel and I exchange a look. I frown, trying to communicate everything I want to tell her in a single glance. After spending nearly half of our lives together, I have to trust that she’ll know what I’m trying to say.
I want to do better. I will do better. Just give me a chance to show you.
As I roll out each roti, I glance at Rachel beside me.
Her hands move quickly yet gracefully, and my heart does little flips with every brush of our elbows.
I’ve missed being this close to her. So much so that I have to actively focus to keep it together and not trigger a hard-on while my entire family chills in the background.
Now that Auntie Anjali has gotten the stove going, the area near the kitchen is starting to warm up, despite the cold trying to seep in from outside. Rachel brushes a strand of hair from her forehead with the back of her hand in an effort to cool down.
The sight triggers a memory from our earlier days. When we met, we both lived in the dorms of John Abbott College on the west end of the island of Montréal. The dorms were small apartments with two bedrooms each, with two people to each bedroom.
My roommate Eric and I, both with new girlfriends, had a deal. If there’s a tie on the bedroom doorknob, you don’t go in. So when Rachel and I had rushed to my bedroom in giggles, only to fall across a tie on the doorknob, we’d decided to cook together instead.
But I can’t overstate how shitty the tiny kitchens in the dorms really were. As was our hand-me-down equipment. Twenty minutes later, the curry I was lovingly teaching Rachel to make was on fire.
“Remember that time we nearly burnt down the dorms in our first year at John Abbott?” I ask Rachel as I start to cook the rotis, my voice hopeful.
Rachel sets down her knife and hands her bowl of chopped veggies to Anjali. “Oh my God. No. I blocked that from my memory.”
A… joke? Is Rachel really joking with me?
“No one was more traumatized than Eric and Tracey,” I add.
“I was pretty traumatized at traumatizing them.” Rachel’s eyes go wide as she speaks. “Imagine if the roles had been reversed. I would have been mortified.”
We’d managed to put out the fire, but not before we triggered the dorm-wide fire alarm, forcing everyone outside… including Eric and Tracey, who were still in the middle of whatever they were doing in the room.
I scoff. Rachel looks at me in surprise.
“The roles would never have been reversed,” I explain. “Those two never touched the kitchen with a ten-foot pole.”
A laugh erupts out of Rachel—a real laugh. Something tight insight of me finally unwinds. That bubbly sound is more soothing, more healing, than any drug. It’s almost distracting enough to make me burn the roti, but I’m of sound enough mind to flip it just in time.
We finish up as Anjali rushes to our side to inspect our progress. She beams at us like a proud parent and nods approval at my perfectly rounded rotis.
“Perfect!” she declares, sweeping the finished rotis into a basket. “Everyone, dinner’s ready!”
A chorus of voices echoes back, and suddenly the cabin is filled with a scramble of feet and a tangle of arms reaching for food. The small dining table is overcrowded with the basket of rotis, the steaming pot of Aloo Wadiyan, and bowls, glasses, and utensils for everyone.
Rachel and I barely make it to our seats before the onslaught begins.
The twins argue over one specific roti—because, of course, they can’t just each decide to grab another one—while Surinder defends his samosa-hating position against Jocelyne’s playful insistence that he’s no brother-in-law of hers.
In the middle of it all, Rachel eats quietly, looking down at her bowl without making eye contact with anyone else. Our knees briefly bump against each other under the table when we both reach for a roti. She freezes, then smiles to herself and keeps eating.
As lunch unfolds, my mind works at a hundred miles an hour. I’ve got to find something… some way to show her how much she means to me.
And I can’t wait until we’re back home.
An idea sparks in my my brain. I’m not sure if it’ll work, but suddenly, I can’t wait to find out.