Once on my bus, and with shaking hands, I posted the picture on my Instagram. I didn’t add a caption, though. Mostly because I didn’t know what to say.
Also? I wasn’t exactly sure what I was doing. But this, whatever it was, was happening.
10
Lemon Is the Answer
When I got home, my sister and her boyfriend, Rowan, were watching TV in our living room. Which was where they spent most Friday nights.
“Oh good, you’re here. You got a delivery. Also, it’s your turn to empty the dishwasher,” Tahira said as soon as she saw me.
I frowned at my sister, then smiled at her boyfriend. “Hiya, Rowan. How’s garden school? Did you play in the sandbox this week?” He was studying landscape architecture at University of Toronto, several steps up fromgarden school, but he knew I was teasing him.
He snorted. “How was your first week of grade twelve?”
“Horrendous,” I said, sitting on the armchair in the living room. “I can’twaitto be out of high school. Please tell me that postsecondary is better than this.”
He laughed. “Not necessarily better. I will say that it’s so much work that the drama kind of fades away.”
“That sounds amazing.”
Tahira shrugged. “There’s still plenty of drama in fashion school. Besides, Rowan, you wouldn’t know drama if it was right in front of your eyes.” She kissed his cheek so he’d know she loved him anyway.
After my messy breakup, one would think being around such a perfect couple would be irritating. But I loved Rowan for Tahira. He was thoughtful, smart, and absolutely adored Tahira. Rowan was Black, and looked more like a fashion student like Tahira than a landscape architect student. He always wore super-stylish, botanical-themed clothes (he was a bit of a nature nut), and paired with my sister’s tall gorgeousness, they were almost nauseatingly perfect together.
“Do you know when dinner is?” I asked.
“Mom’s working late. We’re supposed to put a pizza in the oven if we’re hungry.” She handed me a very full green plastic bag. “This was dropped off for you, and I’m dying to know what’s in it. It smells like ...cumin.”
I took it, curious, and sniffed. Itdidsmell like an Indian spice store. “Who dropped it off?”
“Devin,” Tahira said.
I dropped the bag on the floor. “Seriously? He camehere?”
She nodded. “I didn’t see him—Rowan answered the door. Too bad, too, because I would have loved to give him a kick in the balls.”
I looked at Rowan. “What did he say?”
“Nothing,” Rowan answered. “He handed me the bag and told me to give it to you. I gave him a death glare if it helps.”
“It does, thank you.” I gingerly picked the bag back up. The scent of spices and incense was strong.
“You think it’s biological warfare?” Tahira asked.
“His mother bought me stuff in India. Ugh. I can’t believe he still brought it over. I specifically told him we shouldn’t have any contact with each other.”
“I can’t believe his mother bought you stuff at all,” Tahira said. “Glad Mom’s not here, though. Then we’d have to hear how generous and thoughtful Preeti Kapadia is.”
I didn’t doubt that. I opened the bag.
Inside was a bright yellow and purple lehenga choli with the costume jewelry to match. I pulled the two pieces of the formal outfiton my lap. It was quite beautiful. The choli—the top—was sleeveless, cropped at the waist, and backless. It was covered in silver embroidery. The lehenga, the skirt piece, was long and flowy, also with rich embroidery. At the bottom of the bag, there was a small souvenir purse with an elephant on it, and several packs of Indian chocolate cookies. I had always loved those cookies, but the lehenga choli was a thing of beauty.
Tahira whistled low. “That’s exquisite,” she said, running her fingers over the embroidery.
I had never been one to wear fancy Indian clothes, even though I’d always loved looking at them. Tahira had the height and the figure to pull something like this off, not me. But seeing this beautiful outfit now brought a memory to the surface. A while ago, maybe a year back, Devin’s parents and my parents, and Devin and I, of course, had all gone to one of those Indian buffet places on Gerrard Street together. While our parents were talking over chai, Devin and I escaped. We ended up at the sari shop next door, and he asked me if I would want to get married in Indian clothes. I was sixteen; I hadn’t really thought about it much. But we went around the store, pretending to pick out wedding clothes. This lehenga looked a bit like the red bridal ones we looked at that day, except less ornate. And a much nicer color.
“It’s gorgeous,” Tahira said. “It’s like the lehenga I wore to prom.” Surprising everyone, my sister had designed and worn Indian clothes to her prom instead of a western dress. But she’d worn the lehenga with combat boots and simple western jewelry.
