He, of course, had known her mother. He’d grown up with her, just like she’d grown up with his mother. But he didn’t reallyknowMom. Most people saw the stylish woman with the impeccable house who threw lavish parties. Most didn’t see the criticisms, the comparisons, the complete disappointment in anything her youngest daughter did. Kamila was mostly over the verbal abuse she’d endured from her mother, thanks to years of therapy, great friends, a loving father, and of course, Darcy. But even healed wounds left scars.
He had to know some of what her mother was really like, though, right? How could he not? His brother was literally married to her sister. He’d seen slivers of her mother’s passive aggression when they were kids. He’d been present when Mom led the others in a rousing round of “let’s talk about everything wrong with Kamila.” But he didn’t know about the last fight she’d had with her mother.
He was still watching her, sympathy in his eyes. Kamila’s breath hitched…His stare was so intense. Maybe hedidknow. Mom could have told his parents. Expressed her shame over her harpy of a daughter’s loose morals. Apologized for Kamila throwing herself at someone as upstanding as Rohan Nasser.
His stare bored into her, and for a moment it felt like he was going to touch her. A huge part of her wanted to touchhim—to rub his arm reassuringly. Tell him it was fine. That he shouldn’t worry—she was okay. Not traumatized. Not hurting anymore. Just the fun, quirky Kamila who he never underestimated.
Finally, he tilted his head. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. He turned back to the dough and started rolling another ball. “I knew your mother was rough on you back then. But I…I didn’t know how to support you.”
“Rohan, you were a kid. There was nothing you could have done.” She grabbed her own ball of dough and rolled it out into a warped amoeba shape. “I’m okay. I’ve accepted my mother wasn’t good at being a mom, and it wasn’t my fault. That one statement is worth thousands of dollars of therapy, by the way. Anyway, I had your mom and Rashida Aunty. They were great. Dad was always there for me, too. He protected me from so much…” Dad shouldn’t have had to, though. Trying to keep Kamila safe had taken such a toll on him.
Rohan touched her arm for a second. “I know I’m hard on you, too, Kam. Maybe I’m too critical. Tell me if I go too far, okay?”
Kamila nodded, biting her lip. She didn’t want things to change between them. That was the whole point of keeping Jana away from him. “I like how things are with us.” She smiled. “I can take it, old man. Anything you throw at me. That’s why we’re great friends.”
He chuckled as he filled his perfectly rolled circle with filling and pleated the edges, creating something so much nicer than her wet-tissue momos. “My mom only insisted my brother and I learn to cook so we’d find better wives. She claimed her mother taught her to make round rotlis to snag a husband, and it was her duty to do the same for us, even if we were boys. I think it was really because she was afraid she’d be making our rotlis for the rest of our lives.”
Kamila watched as his strong, firm arms rolled another perfect circle of dough. She’d never seen a man roll rotlis before. Rohan and Zayan’s mother had clearly been on to something. She made a mental note to ask her sister if her husband’s rotli-rolling skills had anything to do with their relationship.
“Did Lisa appreciate your cooking skills?” Kamila couldn’t believe she asked that. He rarely talked about his marriage, and she never asked him about it. She didn’t even know why they’d split. Rohan had a wall—a boundary he didn’t cross with Kamila. As close as they had become lately, and as much as Kamila detailed her sex life to him all the time, he didn’t talk about his own relationships. He wasn’t a kiss-and-tell kind of guy.
“Lisa didn’t care. I don’t mean that in a bad way.” He shrugged. “I didn’t really cook much when we were together. We rarely ate at home. I think that was the main problem in our marriage.”
“What? You divorced because you didn’t cook?”
He didn’t look at Kamila but kept making momos as he spoke. “No, not the cooking, specifically—more the not spending time at home. We met at work. We worked together. She was at the office even longer hours than I was, and then we would meet somewhere for dinner. Almost every night.”
“Sounds like you spent too much time together.” Kamila would never set up a friend with someone they worked with. Couples needed space.
“Ah, yes and no. We were together all the time, but we were never alone. Work isn’t living, you know? We weren’t reallytogether. I don’t remember ever feeling like I wanted or needed to spend every waking moment with her. I thought that was because we saw so much of each other, so there was no urgency to be alone.” He sighed. “I’m never getting involved with a colleague again. It distorts the relationship. That’s one of the reasons why I left the law firm and finally started full-time at HNS—I’d hoped not working together would fix us. But…we weren’t really suited. That became clear when we stopped seeing so much of each other.”
So that was why they’d split. Kamila had resented Lisa after their separation because she assumed Lisa had hurt Rohan in more ways than just taking his cat. But it sounded like it wasn’t one of them hurting the other, but two people at the wrong place and time, caught up in what they thought they were supposed to do.
Kamila wanted to know more—had heeverfelt that urgency to spend time alone with Lisa? Before things went stale? But that felt like prying.
But she was still curious. “Have you ever felt that for anyone at all?”
“What?”
“That urgency. Desperation,craving…to be alone with someone. Not just for sex.”
“Have you?”
She snorted. “Always a lawyer. Answering a question with a question. No, I’ve never felt that. I’m not sure I’m capable. Which is fine for me. I’m happy with casual, remember?”
He looked at her, lip upturned. “I think you’re capable, Kam. Maybe you’re not ready yet.”
She laughed. “Oh? And how would you know that?”
“I’m older and wiser. I know.”
She laughed as she pinched the seal on another momo. She was getting the hang of this, but Rohan’s were still better. She couldn’t believe Lisa didn’t care that he could cook. Watching him was mesmerizing, even in the polka-dot apron. Sweater and shirtsleeves rolled up (because, even if no suit, he had a dress shirt under the sweater). Biceps flexing as he worked the rolling pin. Large hands surprisingly delicate while pleating the tops of the perfect dumplings. And dear lord, those forearms. She wasn’t sure she’d seen them before—well, not in a long time, at least. Strong. Solid. Those capable forearms made momo-making seem effortless, but the bare hint of sheen at his hairline proved he was putting effort into this.
Would anyone else have done this for her? Roll up his sleeves and make dozens of dumplings only an hour before a party? Yes, probably. Ernesto would have done it. Definitely Asha. Even Dad would have tried his hands at momo-making, if he were home. Not Tim, but Jerome might do it.
It wasn’t really all that special that Rohan was doing this for her. But itfeltlike it was. This felt precious.
“Okay, old man, show me how you’re doing those pleats. Clearly, you’re the momo expert in the room, and I want to absorb some of that brilliance.”
