7.
February 15th, 2020
“You know, I’ve always wondered where the name Gallan came from,” Zaira said as she continued to sauté oil and cumin seeds in a pan. “The tabloids have never spoken about it. I mean, you’re an American – clearly– but your name is kinda English. So, what’s the story?”
I arched a brow. “Clarify your need for emphasizing the word ‘clearly’.” I handed her some chopped green chilies, which she added into the pan, resulting in a loudwhooshto sound from it.
She clicked her tongue, and then added a couple of curry leaves and a spoonful of chili sauce into the pan. “I didn’t mean to emphasize it. It just happened.”
I chuckled and shook my head. “Okay…” I began piecing some potatoes. “To answer your question: my mom is Greek, and so is the name Gallan. She came to L.A. years ago from Athens to start her own bakery, and that’s when she met my dad. He was her property dealer.
Mom picked the name Gallan for me right after I was born, and I absolutely love it. The tabloids don’t talk about it because I don’t like mentioning my parents,orMom’s origin to them. Her and Dad aren’t made for the spotlight, so I don’t pressure them to stand under one.”
“Ah…” Zaira nodded. “That makes complete sense.” She sorted some coriander leaves, which I thankfully had in my fridge, in a small bowl. “But…” she turned to me suddenly, “you don’t have an accent. Like,atall. How’s that even possible?”
I smiled. “Well, over the years, Mom tried teaching Greek to me, but I refused –profusely.” I chuckled at the old memories of the two of us arguing about me behaving ‘too Americanly’. “She gave up after a while, because she knew I was stubborn – just like my dad. And honestly, I was,and still am, very thankful to her for it.”
Zaira snickered. “Do you guys visit Athens?”
I grinned. “Oh yeah; every year. We celebrate Mom’s birthday there. It makes her feel at home. My family trips are not public knowledge, as you already know that–”
“Your parents prefer to stay away from the spotlight; you told me,” Zaira said with a smile.
“Yeah.” I smiled back at her.
“Must be nice to just…escape the limelight for a few days. I can only imagine how hectic being so popular must be for you.”
I shuddered in response, which made her laugh, and my damn heart swan-dived in my chest upon watching her face light up so beautifully.
After we’d cleaned the kitchen, she’d suggested on cookingaloosabjhi, an Indian dish, for us. It was an overall quick and simple recipe, and sounded pretty delicious for me to say no to. I had some pop tarts that we were going to use as dessert, and because Zaira didn’t drink alcohol, I’d decided to stick with diet Coke as our late-night dinner beverage.
She hadn’t pushed me to talk to her about the confession I’d made, which was something I was grateful for. I knew she wanted to discuss it, though; I could see it in her body language. But I wasn’t sure if I wanted to talk about it. Not yet, at least.
It had shocked me how easily I’d told her what I felt about her. I’d been struggling for days to talk to her, and with Shane looming over me like eminent death, I had no other option but to ignore her. I could’ve contacted her via email or social media, yes, but where was the authenticity in that? The digital communication method was great, and I truly appreciated it, but not when it came to expressing my feelings for the very first time to a woman I liked.
“So, what’syourstory?” I asked, and gestured for her to step aside so I could take over the cooking. “You’reclearlynot an American.”
She rolled her eyes at my use of the word ‘clearly’, but I saw her lips curving upwards anyway.
“Well, my parents and I moved here from India when I was pretty young,” she said. “They’re both professors at a university, and…” She shrugged. “And nothing.” She giggled, which made me smile. “There’s nothing interesting about me. I’m not an A-list Hollywood star or anything. I’m just a girl who works hard, makes mistakes, learns from them, and lives every day as it comes.” She then looked up at me. “There; that’s my story.”
“I love it,” I told her. “I love your story. It’s genuine and grounding. It’shuman.”
Her eyes sparkled against the kitchen lights. “Yeah? You don’t find it boring?”
My hands were itching to touch those soft cheeks of hers.
“No, not one bit. I think I like yours more than I like mine.”
She blushed and looked away.
She was an Indian…
My hardening-by-every-passing-second dick really appreciated that fact. Like,really.
“So, no siblings?” I asked.
She glanced at me again, most definitely surprised by how I’d changed the vibe between us so quickly. “No,” she said. “I’m an only child.”
