Chapter 4
chapter 4
“Why am I here again?” Dev asked as he followed his mother and aunt into the bazaar early Friday morning. Two trips to the bazaar in one week were, in his opinion, two trips too many, and yet he dutifully joined them at the front counter, where Gia surveilled the shop with a critical edge in her eye. Out of his periphery, he noticed Aashi averting her gaze, and his pulse immediately picked up.
“Does a mother need a reason to spend time with her son?” Gia complained.
“Yes.”
“For God’s sake, Devdas, I’ll never understand your strange sense of humor. And do you have to dress like you’re on your way to clean out the garage?”
Glancing down at his T-shirt and basketball shorts, Dev bit back a rude retort. His mother had waylaid him on his way to the gym, insisting he come to the store instead. “Would you prefer I hide in the back?”
Gia ignored his sarcastic offer and exchanged a quick glance with her sister. Even though Dev had witnessed their telepathic communications before, something shifted in his gut. “Aashi and I are going upstairs now,” Gia said in a robotic voice. “You stay here.”
Dev threw his aunt a questioning glance, but she had already made a beeline for the beaded curtain separating the bazaar from a hallway leading upstairs. “Don’t worry about how you look,” she called over her shoulder. “Just be yourself.”
How he looked? Baffled, Dev turned to his mother and gestured at the empty room behind them. “What do you want me to do?”
“Just mind the store,” she said impatiently, as if the world were suffering from a shortage of brown Jesus keychains and a mad rush was about to start. “And try to look professional and charming,” she added after giving his clothes a defeated look. Like her sister, she bolted after that particularly unhelpful piece of advice.
Dev glowered at her departing back and leaned against the counter. He didn’t understand his mother’s motivations at the best of times, but this was downright weird. He could hear her furious whispers to Aashi as they made their way up the narrow wooden stairs to the apartment above the store, where he and his brothers had spent many hours of their childhood while their mother worked below. The studio apartment hadn’t been used for years.
He was still staring at the beaded curtain, lost in thought, when the entrance opened. Dev turned to find Naomi walking in, an oversized black sketchbook tucked under her arm. She was wearing a stiff-looking blazer again, but underneath she had opted for a soft pink sweater that brought out the rosiness in her cheeks.
Not that he noticed. It was just that she was so…Bright. Bright curious eyes, a lit-up smile. Even her annoyance sparked. The way she was bounding over to him now was a ray of sunshine bouncing off ocean waves.
He hated the beach, especially on a sunny day. Too crowded.
“Greetings,” she said with a cheerful little wave.
Hyperaware that he looked ready to embark on a thorough garage spring cleaning, Dev scowled. “What are you doing here?”
“Today’s my day to present my idea for the store,” Naomi replied, gesturing toward the book under her arm. When she realized Dev was staring at her white-knuckled grip around the book’s edges, she let out a nervous chuckle. “Are you helping Gia decide which direction to take?”
Dev scratched the back of his neck. Was that why his mother had dragged him here?
Naomi didn’t give him a chance to answer as she continued, her voice pitching a notch higher than before. “I know I’m ridiculously early, but I didn’t want to take any chances today.”
Before Dev could ask what she meant, the entrance swung open again. Both Naomi and Dev turned to see a young woman decked in a bright pink salwar kameez step inside and eye the bazaar curiously. When she spotted Dev at the counter, she straightened the sequined dupatta around her neck before gliding in their direction.
“Dev?” the girl asked. Her voice was as airy and gauzy as the fabric swirling around her legs when she came to a stop before them.
“Uh…yeah?”
“I’m Larisa,” she said, sticking her hand out with a wide smile. As if on autopilot, Dev reached out and shook it, earning him a narrowed glance from Naomi. “Veera Auntie told me I could find you here.”
Dev’s eyes widened, and he dropped her hand. Unable to stop himself, he aimed a hard glance at the ceiling above them, where his mother and aunt were likely lying on the floor, ears pressed to the hardwood.
“If you’re free, I thought you might like to get a cup of coffee?” Larisa asked, all sugary and sweet despite Dev staring at her as if she had sprouted an extra set of teeth.
“With you?” he blurted out.
Beside them, Naomi let out a strangled cough, and a slow flush climbed his neck. Professional and charming, he was not.
Larisa threw her head back and laughed gaily. “Of course with me, silly!”
Dev threw a panicked look in Naomi’s direction. Whatever she read on his face had her taking a small step forward in Larisa’s direction.
“Hi, I’m Naomi Kelly,” she said to her, also sticking her hand out for a handshake, which Larisa ignored. “I love your outfit.”
“Are you…” Larisa tilted her head in Dev’s direction, traces of her sunny smile fading incrementally. “Are you here to see Dev?”
“Not—”
“Yes.” Dev interrupted. When Larisa’s eyes narrowed, he nodded frantically.
“Is this the first time you’ve met?” she asked.
Naomi shook her head. “Uh, no, we’ve met before, but…”
“Sometimes once is all it takes,” Dev said, scraping together what he hoped was a fond smile in Naomi’s direction. Her eyebrows furrowed in response.
“We don’t really know each other, though,” she finished.
“But feelings can change,” Dev added.
To his ears, his voice sounded hollow and wooden, but understanding dawned on Larisa’s face followed by an uncertain frown. “Veera Auntie didn’t mention that.”
Naomi’s brow wrinkled. “Who is—”
“Sorry,” Dev said. Awkwardly, he leaned across the counter and placed a rigid hand on Naomi’s forearm. Although she stiffened under his touch, she didn’t pull away. “She did take me by surprise, but…” Dev trailed off and tried to adopt a manly version of smitten.
He’d never felt so foolish in his life. “But I’m really happy to see Naomi again.”
Naomi frowned. “You…are?”
“Of course,” Dev said through gritted teeth. He softened his tone for Larisa. “I’m sorry, but looks like my morning is spoken for.”
Larisa’s lips twisted to one side. “All right, I see how it is,” she said in a clipped tone. In a whirl of pink, she turned on her heel and stalked out.
Once she had vacated the store, Naomi stared incredulously at Dev’s hand still resting on her forearm until he let go. “What was that about? Who was that?”
“She was no one impor—” Dev coughed when he realized he had described Naomi in exactly the same way when they’d met.
“Dev?” Naomi prodded when he didn’t continue.
Dev scrubbed a hand over his face. Even though matchmaking was not an uncommon occurrence in the community, admitting the truth made his teeth hurt. “My mom hired a matchmaker for me.”
“To…to find you a girlfriend?”
With a snort, Dev shook his head. “To find me a wife.” When Naomi gaped at him, he couldn’t tamp down his impatience. “C’mon, you know how brown parents get when their kids reach a certain age.” Once a person’s education was complete, marriage in the Desi community was as natural a next step in life as a baby’s first laugh.
“Of course,” Naomi replied quickly. “But you don’t want an arranged marriage?”
Dev curbed his tongue before a rude retort could slip past his lips. He remembered that Naomi had grown up in a small town; maybe they did things differently in the boonies. Maybe, without a large population of South Asians gossiping around her, she hadn’t grown up with the hot, bitter tang of cultural expectations breathing down her neck.
Still, she hadn’t passed judgment on him, or mocked him for being single enough to warrant the need for matchmaking, and for that, at least, he owed her an explanation. “It’s not necessarily an arranged marriage,” he replied, aware that he was paraphrasing his aunt. “More like a family-led dating service.”
“Wow. I didn’t even know this kind of thing happened in North America.” Naomi shook her head. “Let alone that there are matchmakers in Kelowna!”
“Yeah, well, we want to keep our population afloat.”
“I’m guessing your mom didn’t check with you before arranging for Larisa to come here? I can’t believe she’d do that.”
Dev wished he could agree, but Gia Mukherjee had been steamrolling his life since birth.
She, along with his father, had forced him into piano lessons, out of soccer so he could concentrate on his grades, and, when he had received his CPA designation, to accept a job in a firm that happened to be owned by one of his father’s patients.
“Bengali mothers tend to be controlling,” he said.
“I wouldn’t know.” Naomi’s mother’s parenting style had been the polar opposite: free-spirited and noninvasive to the point of being not present.
“Count yourself lucky.”
Naomi lips lifted into a rueful half-hearted smile. It was tempting to admit that she shared Dev’s heritage—in this moment, the revelation would likely bond them together, and Naomi’s natural inclination was always to endear herself to others, to try to blend into whatever situation came her way.
But there was no way Dev could know, especially after she’d hidden the truth from Gia as well. Because they’d have questions about her family, her ancestry, her upbringing, and these were answers Naomi didn’t know. And would likely never know thanks to her mother’s refusal to discuss spaces that harbored such negative memories.
And though she tried to fight the feeling, Naomi was ashamed of herself for not knowing these vital parts of her, parts that made a person whole. People loved origin stories, but in this, Naomi had little to share, and the little she had was so dark and mysterious—even to her—that she preferred to keep it close. Hidden.
Instead, Naomi fidgeted with her sketchbook and diverted the conversation: “Your mom thought you’d respond well to an ambush?”
“She’s never been too concerned about how her sons might react to these kinds of things.”
“Yeah, but someone like you, especially.”
“What do you mean?”
“C’mon, Dev…You’re kind of…”
Dev schooled a neutral expression on his face as he waited for what was surely coming next. Cold . Blunt . People repellent . He’d heard it all before.
“Reserved,” Naomi finished gently.
“I know how I am,” he muttered. He might be the dependable, responsible son in the Mukherjee household, but it had been pointed out to him, many times over, that he was not sociable like his older brother, Neel, or laid-back like the youngest, Dhan. He was the awkward middle child, serious and reserved. Like his father.
No matter how hard Dev tried, he couldn’t escape genetics. The few times he opened his mouth and heard his father’s words come out made his skin crawl, his stomach dip and twist. No matter how much he bit back his criticism, how carefully he tried to honor his mother’s expectations, and how consistent he was in putting his family’s needs first, some things he couldn’t change.
It stung a little, though, to know that Naomi had written him off in the same way.
“So, what will you tell your mom?” Naomi asked.
“About what?”
“Larisa will probably tell the matchmaker what happened.” A faint blush splashed across Naomi’s cheek. “You made it look like we’re a match. It’s going to get back to your mother.”
“She’s going to be pissed, but she’ll know we’re not dating.”
“Because she’s considering me to revive the store?”
“No.” Dev shook his head. “My entire life, my mom has made it clear that I would end up with a traditional Desi woman. Hopefully Bengali, too.”
Naomi’s face hardened. “What makes you think I’m not a ‘traditional Desi woman’?”
Dev thought back to their conversation about arranged marriage, one of the oldest South Asian customs. The level of pressure he was experiencing from his family seemed completely foreign to her. “Are you?” he asked.
“Well, no,” she admitted before notching her chin higher. “So, what? You’ve only dated South Asians because of that? It’s not weird to you to choose a life partner for yourself within your mother’s parameters?”
Dev sighed. This was the most annoying cultural factoid to explain; he’d never encountered a white person who got it. But finding common ground with Naomi, at least when it came to his particular cultural roots, wasn’t easy, either. Despite the shared color of their skin, it was like they were from two different planets.
“Where did you say your family came from again?” he asked.
“I…I don’t see what that has to do with your dating history.”
“I’ll get to that. I think my mom said you’re West Indian?” Dev studied Naomi’s almond-shaped eyes and high cheekbones before lingering on her full lips. All the West Indians he’d known tended to come from more open-minded families that had learned to bend and sway with the cultures they immigrated into as opposed to resisting them with all their might.
“I’m Indian,” Naomi replied flatly.
“From…?”
“India.”
“Which part?”
“The north,” Naomi replied. In a tone that brooked no further argument, she added, “Does it matter?”
Dev shrugged. He supposed it didn’t. He had known that different ethnic groups valued their own unique beliefs and traditions, but in his experience, there were usually common threads weaving first-generation children together. From the expectant arch of Naomi’s eyebrow as she waited for him to answer her original question, her family must have operated under very different rules.
“I’ve dated non-Desi girls before,” he said, holding up his hand when Naomi looked triumphant. “But I’ve never brought one home to meet my family.” Dev didn’t add that he’d never brought home a girlfriend before, in fear of the conclusions his parents would undoubtedly jump to in their dramatic way. It was why he had avoided dating someone from his community; had rumors begun to circulate, his mother would have booked their wedding venue before their third date. “Since my older brother married a South Indian two years ago, he kind of set a bar for the rest of us. Marrying outside the general culture would crush my mom.”
The consequences of committing himself to the wrong person had been dangled in front of him his entire life. He was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. “Either you obey your parents and marry someone from their preapproved list, or you end up with an outsider and risk cutting yourself—and your new family—off.”
By the end of Dev’s explanation, the light in Naomi’s expressive eyes had dimmed. It wasn’t pity, the typical response from even the most open-minded friends, but something deeper, bowed, and stormy that came from somewhere inside her. At least they both understood this facet of the culture in the same way.
“I guess, eventually, you have no choice but to marry someone in the community, then,” Naomi said.
Dev scoffed. “Or not.”
“But you just said—”
“I know.” Dev ran a hand through his hair. His feelings about his future weren’t something he liked to voice out loud, especially not to a near stranger he had used to save his ass earlier. In fact, the spontaneous act alone was so out of character that he should probably shut his mouth immediately.
But there was something about the openness in Naomi’s face, the lack of judgment in her inquisitive honey-brown eyes that made him want to confide in her. The urge to lean into the feeling was unfamiliar but surprisingly pleasant and reassuring, too. She deserved the truth; after all, she hadn’t blown his cover in front of Larisa.
“If marrying my mom’s choice of bride or being disowned for choosing my own life partner are my options, then I’m not getting married.” There. He’d said it and the ghosts of his marriage-minded ancestors hadn’t swooped down to rattle his bones.
“Ever?”
“Ever.”
He expected ridicule. The dismissal that he was immature and foolish, as was often his parents’ response to the few times he’d tried to go against the grain. After a career fair in junior high, Dev had contemplated the idea of becoming an elementary school teacher only to have his father dismiss him as unambitious and lazy.
You’ll have a family to provide for and a community to give back to , his dad had said. Start thinking like an adult, Devdas .
But Naomi cocked her head to the side and studied him carefully. “But you don’t know that they’ll disown you. Maybe your mom can learn to accept the person you choose?”
His stubborn, self-righteous mother? No way in hell. “Is it worth the risk?”
With a bitter laugh, Naomi shrugged. “I guess not. So, what are you going to tell your mom about Larisa?”
As if on some demonic cue, Gia’s voice sounded gaily from behind them. “I thought I heard voices!” she said, sailing through the beaded curtains with Aashi close behind. “Dev, won’t you introduce me to your friend—” Gia stopped short when she saw Naomi. “Oh. It’s you.” She craned her neck in search of her future daughter-in-law. “Did anyone else come in the store today?”
A lifetime of lectures stilled Dev from airing their dirty laundry in public, but he was powerless against the edge in his voice. “Why? Were you expecting someone?”
Aashi coughed while Gia avoided answering by rifling through a small basket containing an assortment of expired chanachur, a popular South Asian snack.
The front door of the bazaar swung open again, and Dev steeled himself for a second attack even though every nerve ending advised him to run away. Deterring hopeful-looking brides-to-be was exhausting.
But the woman who walked in was the polar opposite of Larisa. She was tall and willowy, looking downright lethal in a perfectly tailored pantsuit. Everything about her was sharp, from the determined look in her eyes to the blunt cut of her chin-length hair. She looked like the kind of woman who would eat him for breakfast in one razor-toothed bite.
But the real shocker was Naomi, who, just shy of the newcomer stepping into earshot, breathed, “Cynthia.”