Kamiladiddrink, but not very often. And she never drank at her own parties—she preferred to be alert and sober when hosting her friends. She went back to quartering bright cherry tomatoes for the pico de gallo. Kamila accepted thatlow-keyby her standards was a pretty swank party to most, but since she hosted her friends for dinner and a movie every week, the party wasn’t that much exertion for her anymore. She may have sourced a special Kashmiri biryani last night to match the old Kashmiri movie Rohan had picked, but the charcuterie board didn’t have any single-origin dark chocolate on it this time. She hadn’t even put out her special party throw cushions and candles.
“Besides,” she said, dropping the tomatoes in a bowl, “considering you’ve never missed one of my movie parties, I’m surprised you’re complaining.”
“I’m not complaining. But I’d be here even if you served potato chips from a bag.”
Probably true. Rohan loved old Hindi movies more than the average tax lawyer. “Maybe next week we can get you to join in the postmovie sing-along.”
Rohan snorted. “Who taught you to play Bollywood hits on the ukulele anyway?”
“I’m taking lessons over video conference.” She adjusted the tomatoes in the bowl a bit, then clapped her hands together. The tomatoes looked like glimmering rubies with the bright pot lights reflecting on them. “Look at all this color.” She snapped a picture with her phone.
“Ah. Your true motivation. Your precious Instagram.”
“We eat with our eyes first.” She took a short video clip of the spread of food.
“You eat with your camera even before that.” He hopped out of the sight line of the camera. “Hey, leave me out of this. I don’t want to turn up on your tick-tack-toe thing.”
“It’s TikTok. You don’t have to participate in social media, but unless you want to further solidify this boomer rep of yours, at least learn what the platforms are called.”
“Eh. What’s the point if I don’t use them? And unlike everyone else in the world, I don’t need the clicks to know my worth.”
Kamila laughed. “I don’t use social media to tell me my worth. I already know I’m fabulous. That’s why I have a duty to share all this with the world.” She swept her hands over her dress with flourish. “Now, go wait with Dad, old man,” she said, throwing in the nickname to annoy him. “You’re making me nervous. Nerves combined with newly sharpened knives area disaster in the making.”
Kamila knew Rohan’s snarky comments were just teasing, and she usually liked to volley right back. She’d known him literally her whole life, and they both knew exactly which buttons to press without going too far. Still, she wasn’t exactly an experienced cook, and she’d prefer to finish the job without a running commentary.
He snorted. “Fine. If only to spare your flawless skin.” He smirked as he took the tray with his masala chai and Dad’s hibiscus tea to the dining room. Kamila picked up the next vegetable to cut.
As if on cue, disaster chose that moment to strike. The honed steel knife slipped in her hand and sliced her finger instead of the organic sweet potato. No problem. Barely a scrape. As she rustled in the drawer looking for a bandage, several crimson drops of blood spilled onto a bag of rubber bands. She took a breath as she reflexively wrapped her hand in her apron, and cringed as a red stain grew on the pale-blue fabric.
Her beautiful new apron. “Siri, what gets out blood stains?”
“Oh dear, beti, what happened?” Dad rushed to her side while Siri was detailing the wonders of hydrogen peroxide and enzyme soap. He unwrapped the apron from her finger, his gentle touch and concerned expression grounding her. “Oh no. I’ll get the first-aid kit.” He smiled and lovingly patted Kamila’s arm. “Everything is okay, Kamila. Do your breathing. I’ll be right back.”
Dad rewrapped the finger in her now probably ruined apron and disappeared up the stairs. She pressed on the cut to stop the blood as she leaned against the fridge, feeling light-headed. Even after all these years, she couldn’t cope with the sight of her own blood.
She closed her eyes and heard her therapist’s voice in her ears.Breathe.The apron—maybe it could be saved?Count to ten.She had plenty of peroxide from a misguided attempt to go blond a few years back. Actually, this was a much better use for that peroxide. She opened her eyes and focused on a point on the wall.One, two…
Rohan stepped back into the kitchen.
“Don’t say it,” she warned.
“Don’t say what?”
“Any comment at all about my ineptitude in the kitchen.”
Shockingly, his smirk was nowhere to be found. He took her apron-wrapped finger in his hand and applied firm pressure as he looked into her eyes. “You’re shaking, Kam.”
Was she shaking?Three, four…“I don’t like blood.” She shivered, looking down. The room was spinning a bit. Not much, really. She was fine.
“Kamila, breathe deeply. Talk to me. Tell me what you’re doing for the rest of the day.”
Five, six…“I have a meeting with a prospective client, and then I’m taking Darcy to the dog park for a photo shoot.” Her voice was shaky.
“A client meeting in that dress?”
She tried to smile and even tease him back, but her voice was too brittle and her words weren’t working.
“Look at me, Kam.”
